This Story Might Save Your Life(95)

Keller makes a note. “He knew very little, it appears. So how did it come about that he came to get you when he did?”

I choose my words carefully, the same words I used last time. I tell her I couldn’t remember anyone’s cell numbers, even Benny’s, so I used another woman’s burner phone to call Luna’s office number, which I found online. Luna then promised she and Benny would come get me. Together.

“What happened then?” Keller asks.

“That’s when I started bleeding. I don’t remember anything else.”

Keller’s gaze circles my face, my bruises, and then settles on my stomach. “You’re lucky your friends arrived when they did.”

“I am,” I agree. So lucky.

She taps her finger softly on the open notebook. “One final question,” she says. “Did Xander know you were pregnant?”

I don’t have to fake the tears that spring to my eyes. “He did not.”

The room swims, but I can just make out Keller’s movements as she gathers her things. Stands. Approaches my bed. She reaches for my hand, squeezes it gently. “Thank you for your cooperation, Joy. I think you’ve given us enough answers for now. You’ve been very brave.”

Baby Face leaves a card on the hospital tray and asks me to phone them if I remember anything else. I nod, then close my eyes and pretend to sleep.



* * *



A NURSE WAKES me for checks, after which I speak with a psychologist, followed by the ob-gyn on rounds. It’s exhausting, all this human interaction after so many days without. By the time Benny returns to visit, I’m worn thin. I focus on his warm eyes, but I can tell he’s nervous.

“Hey.” I take his hand and tell him I’m better today. I’ll be okay.

“It’s not that. I mean, I’m so, so glad to hear it, but…” He pulls up a chair. “Luna called me,” he says quietly. “She told me what you said to the cops, and I guess I’m a little…”

“Confused?”

He nods. “I guess—I guess I’m curious … how much you know.”

“I talked to her too,” I say, making my eyes do more work than my words.

His expression tells me he’s starting to get it. Outside the door, a phone rings. Someone laughs. A high-pitched alarm goes off for several seconds. He rakes a hand through his hair. “So you’re not going to tell them the truth.”

“I am not.” I acknowledge it’s a risk. Those detectives aren’t through with us yet.

Leaning in close, he whispers, “Did she tell you how?”

“She was trying to defend me. I only know it was an accident.” I swallow and glance at the clock, wondering when the next nurse check will be. “I don’t think I want to know the rest. Just, please—I realize it’s a lot to ask, but I need you to go along with it. Everything I said.”

He takes this in. It’s a lot to take in. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”

It’s what I want.

“Okay,” he says again.

We’re silent for a moment.

“Are you … did you…” His eyes search mine. “When you found out about Xander…” He runs a hand over his mouth. “I guess I wanted to ask how you’re doing. With that.”

I hesitate, briefly, and he quickly amends, “It’s okay if you’re not ready to talk about it.”

“No, it’s fine,” I say. “Do you want the long answer or the short answer?”

“I want the answer you’re most comfortable giving.”

It’s such a Benny thing to say. I rack my mushy brain for the right words. I owe him an honest answer. But I haven’t the slightest idea where to start. “To tell you the truth, I’m a long way from being okay.”

He nods somberly.

“How do you feel about it?” I ask.

He’s been holding his tongue for years. I imagine he has no shortage of opinions. But what he says instead, eyes welling with tears, is, “I’m so sorry about the baby.”

I reach out and he takes my hand. Squeezes it. Someday I’ll tell him all my feelings about this. That I’m equal parts relieved and devastated. That I believe my body has both saved and betrayed me. That if I hadn’t miscarried I’m not sure what I would’ve done. And then I’ll remind him about the eggs that remain frozen in an Inland Empire embryology lab.

But that’s a conversation for another time. “Thank you.”

He squeezes my hand again. I’m spent, and the drugs are wearing off to reveal myriad aches and pains. “Please don’t be mad at Luna,” I say when he stands to leave.

“She should’ve said something sooner,” he says quickly, as if this has been perched on his tongue since he arrived. “She should’ve said something. If she hadn’t been so focused on protecting herself you could’ve come home sooner. You almost died.”

“But you understand, don’t you? Why she did that?”

“You may change your mind about this. You may want to tell the cops.”

“I won’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Fine. Maybe you’re right. But until then?”