Foods, Fools and a Dead Psychic by Maria Swan (read a book .TXT) 📗

sudden move toward the desk and Bill Smith fell for it. He leaped in that direction and I rushed toward the front door.

Didn’t make it. He grabbed my hair and yanked so hard, I fell backward, still holding my cell as a lifebuoy. I hit the hard floor and the room began to spin. I heard a crash coming from somewhere. The kitchen? Just then his boot hit my right ribs. I screamed, rolling on the floor anticipating his next kick when suddenly the lights came on.

Someone had opened the front door. Everything changed. Flashing lights. Police sirens? Help must have arrived, I told myself. My phone had gone quiet. So did I. I closed my eyes, the aching from my body so intense I couldn’t breathe and hundreds of stabbing, throbbing pains were shooting into my legs. Things came in waves. The scuffle next to me, someone apprehending Smith, EMTs rushing in and out. Pushing a gurney? No, please, not Kassandra. I wanted to yell, but no sound came, only warm tears washing over my cheeks. Where was she? In the kitchen? I should have gone in there; it was my fault.

Someone was talking to me, in person talking to me, not on my phone. Where was my phone? Ouch, ouch. Hands lifted me off the floor and laid me on something soft. Was I dying? I couldn’t be, I had things to do. Christmas cards to send to Mom. People to say goodbye to... slowly nothing mattered and darkness and silence lulled me away.

“Look at this as your glory day,” Brenda, in all her fond sarcasm, declared. I sat in the hospital bed, my back propped up by so many pillows, I figured one wrong move and I’d suffocate in all that fluffiness. Visitors had been coming and going. Sunny, weepy because she felt partly responsible due to the lack of a security system. Kay, telling me not to worry about my real estate deals because she had my back. Officer Clarke? Oh, Bob to his friends was there, too, proud as a peacock because he was the voice on my phone who, according to his version of the facts, guided me to the front door and to salvation. The one I really wanted to see, didn’t come around.

Eventually I was ready to go home, but first I insisted on Brenda taking me to see Kassandra. I learned she was in the same hospital, but on a different floor, in ICU. Everyone assured me she would pull through with flying colors, and it was only a matter of a day or so and she would be moved to a regular ward. Still, I had to see her with my own eyes.

The afternoon of my release I wore clean clothes Brenda brought from home. A dozen band aids dotted my arms and legs where I’d cut myself on the broken glass while rolling on the floor. Brenda and Bob piloted my wheel chair, per hospital rules, to Kassandra’s room.

The ICU floor seemed so much quieter, all hushed voices, closed doors. Kassandra, the fearless, badass girl, looked so small and defenseless in the hospital bed. The room smelled of sanitizers and cough medicine. The bandages covered her whole head, including her cinnamon mane, and framed her swollen, bruised face. What had Smith done to her? She must have put up a hell of a fight. I couldn’t see her body, but tubes, probably IVs, were visible. And so were Kassandra’s hands. Skinned knuckles and all.

In all that misery, her eyes burned bright. I sensed that Kassandra wanted to talk, but probably couldn’t. Using my feet I pushed the wheel chair as close to the bed as possible and then placed my ear up to Kassandra’s lips.

“Thank you.”

More hiss than words, but what else is needed between best friends? I patted Kassandra’s hand lightly, then bent close to her face again and whispered, “Hey, I owe you one. In all that excitement I got my period.”

A little hiccup under the blankets told me Kassandra was trying to laugh.

We drove home in Brenda’s Honda. Bob had brought my Fiat back to the house that very morning. “Does anyone know what this creep wanted from Kassandra?” I asked.

“The investigation is still ongoing.” Bob spoke as if the future of the world hinged on his words. Mercy.

“This is crazy. Are we sure he killed Miss Fortune? What for?” It dawned on me no one even mentioned his daughter, J.S. Ah!

Brenda was driving and I could see her looking at me in the rear view mirror. “He claims it was all a misunderstanding, an accident.”

“Seriously, Brenda? That’s his defense? Good luck with that.” My voice was shaking with anger. I ran my hands over the stiff bandages covering my torso, hidden by my sweater. “I hope he rots in jail.”

Neither answered me. I sat quietly for the rest of the ride and, once home, I made it clear I was sleeping in my own bed. No babysitting needed, thank you very much. To my surprise no one objected. After Bob helped me out of the SUV and Brenda handed me my belongings the hospital nurses had packed, they watched me walk into my place and slam the door shut. How is that for gratitude? It didn’t ease my conscience finding the refrigerator stocked with food and drinks, fresh linens on the bed and in the bath, and my cell sitting on the charger. Still, I stewed. Why?

My anger left me as quickly as it found me. Fatigue settled in. I lined up the few medications I’d been instructed to take. Then I sat on the bed and turned on the television.

One of the local channels had a special report on Bill Smith and the dead psychic. Seriously? Can’t a girl catch a break? But instead of changing channels I turned up the volume.

The TV reporter stood in front of a construction site. Hmmm, Miss Fortune was found floating in the canal. I heard her say,