I placed the purse at Holly’s feet—there was nowhere else to put it—and contemplated my next move. I knew coming to the ER was aggressive, but I couldn’t risk waiting even a few hours. I thought about waking her up. When you’re in the hospital, people wake you up all the time—to take your vitals, give you meds, draw your blood. It wouldn’t be unusual. But I had no idea what they’d given her, if she’d even be coherent.
“Can I help you?” a stern female voice asked. I turned, expecting to see a nurse or candy striper. I was surprised, but not ill-prepared, to see someone much more important.
“You must be Savannah,” I said, being careful that it didn’t come out as a question. I recognized her from her eighth grade graduation photo, which I had found online on my way to the hospital.
“Who are you, what do you want?” Her tone was hostile. Young people are like wild animals, in tune with their instincts, able to sniff out predators. Clearly she sensed I was a threat. And, of course, she was absolutely right.
I answered without hesitation. “My name is Evan, and what I want is to help you.”
Her mouth curled into a snarl, and for a second I thought she might strike me. “You a lawyer?”
I sidestepped the question. I was, of course, but I wasn’t sure I should reveal that. So I answered her question with a question. “Why, do you need a lawyer?”
But my belligerent teenage adversary revealed nothing. “I think you’d better go.”
I looked at her, in her tight jeans and boots, needing braces her mom couldn’t afford. I knew from my Google search that she was fifteen and almost done with tenth grade. Years of public school in tough neighborhoods probably made her marginally street smart, but she had no idea how the world worked. Or so I thought.
“I have important information for your mom,” I said. Which was partially true. I did have information for her mom. But more than that, I needed information from her: How much did she see? What did she remember? And what was she planning to do about it?
The girl crossed her arms in stubborn defiance. “She’s going to want this information,” I pressed. I had to talk to Holly. I wasn’t going to be sent away by a combative teenage girl.
“I have all the information we need.” She waved her iPhone. I must have looked confused because she clarified. “My mom’s car had a dashcam. It recorded the whole thing.”
Her punch took the wind right out of me. I just stood there with my mouth open, too stunned to speak.
If what Savannah was saying was true, then I would need another miracle.
I suddenly regretted that I didn’t pray.
CHAPTER 5
“So do I own the house? Like, is it in my name?” Holly thumbed through the contract on the table in front of her. I understood wanting to know what you were signing, but she was on the receiving end of a $2 million house. What the hell was she so worried about?
I explained that the house was in a trust, that she was the beneficiary and I was the trustee. I explained how this relieved her of having to pay property taxes—the trust would take care of that. I explained how the trust would also provide her an allowance and continue to pay all expenses related to the accident. I don’t know if she was satisfied, or just overwhelmed, but she signed.
I slid one last paper in front of her. As she read it in the dim evening light, I realized my knee was bouncing under the table. I put my hand on it to stop it.
“NDA? What does that stand for?” she asked.
“Nondisclosure agreement.”
She nodded slowly. “That means I don’t tell anybody why you are paying for everything.” I nodded. We had discussed this already. “And Savannah has to sign it, too, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Savannah!!” she shouted, then shook her head. “I’m not used to such a big house. I’ll go get her.”
She pushed her chair back. I noticed how she hesitated before putting weight on that left knee. A wave of shame surged through my body. But we had a deal, there was no going back now.
Alone in her kitchen, I looked around. Worn dish towels hugged the handles of her shiny new appliances. The Caesarstone counters had been buffed until they shone. She had laid place mats around the table in the breakfast nook. They were round with cheerful yellow flowers.
I recalled my childhood kitchen growing up in rural New Hampshire. My mother had bought these rectangular, laminated place mats with paintings of famous European cities on them. I ate every meal gazing upon the Eiffel Tower, the Colosseum, the Basílica de la Sagrada Família. It was the closest to Europe I ever got as a kid. I’m not sure I even knew they were real places. I have no idea where my mom—who, as far as I knew, had never left the state of New Hampshire—bought them, or why. Maybe she wanted to spark my curiosity about the world. Or maybe she just thought they were pretty. I don’t know if it was because of those place mats, but upon getting my degree from Yale I got as far away from New Hampshire as I could, as soon as I could.