“Sure, of course,” she says. “I’m visiting a friend in the city. I can get there in about an hour.”
“I wouldn’t drag you out here if I thought there was someone else who could…” He trails off.
Ella’s head is swirling. She’s exhausted. Still tipsy. Confused. She composes herself. “Can you tell me what this is about?”
Mr. Steadman’s voice catches. “Four girls were attacked at an ice cream shop in Linden. Only one survived. She needs someone who understands, who can—”
“I’m on my way,” Ella says killing the line, knowing she’s uniquely qualified to help this girl.
Knowing what it’s like to be the only one who made it out alive.
CHAPTER 2
The parking lot of the Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital is covered in a spring fog. The lot is nearly empty save for a gathering of police cars. A woman in scrubs paces outside the front doors, talking on a cell phone.
Ella grips the steering wheel even though she’s parked, and looks down at her pale, bare legs. She debates going home to change into something more professional. But Mr. Steadman sounded uncharacteristically rattled. He’s usually a rock.
She takes a look at herself in the visor mirror, thumbs her smeared eye makeup. Climbing out of the car, she decides the fuck-me heels are a bit much. She reaches back for her gym bag, pulls out her sneakers.
The woman in scrubs is still pacing out front. Ella sees her discreetly put a fist to her mouth, suck in a deep breath, followed by a plume of vape mist.
We all have our secrets.
The receptionist inside barely gives her a second look. The woman has probably seen it all working the ER night shift. Ella once dated a med student who’d done an ER residency rotation, and he regaled her with tales of the guy with a Barbie stuck up his ass, the PCP fiend who’d eaten two of his own fingers during a bad trip, the construction worker with a nail deep in his brain yet still conscious and talking. A therapist in nightclub attire probably didn’t make the Top 10 for weird.
The receptionist says something into the phone, then waves Ella inside the treatment area. The door makes a jarring buzz and Ella walks into a large room bathed in fluorescent light, beeping and voices echoing from behind beds surrounded by blue curtains. At the far end, she sees Mr. Steadman talking to a group of white guys. Three uniformed police officers and a stern-looking man with a mustache whose polo shirt is tucked tight into his jeans. He and Mr. Steadman seem to be having a disagreement.
For a split second, Ella feels a flight instinct. A memory slithers into her head, the procession of cops, doctors, and social workers asking the same questions. Did you get a look at him? What do you remember? Did he touch you? She looks at the floor for a moment, trying to collect herself, then catches a glimpse of her bare thighs again and is transported back to the exam room, her legs in stirrups.
Ella had been nonresponsive after the attack. The hospital’s psych team was unsuccessful, and Ella’s parents were at a loss. The school sent over Mr. Steadman. He wasn’t trained in trauma response, he was merely the fill-in for a guidance counselor out on maternity leave. The cool teacher. Young, good-looking. The one the moms fawned over. At the same time, he was capable, no-nonsense, the kind of person who you wanted in charge, which is probably why they later made him the school’s principal.
Mr. Steadman sees her and gives a small wave. He doesn’t react to the muffled screams coming from a curtained room near the huddle of men. A doctor emerges from the room, grimacing. He says something to the group gathered with Mr. Steadman, shaking his head. Mr. Steadman puts a reassuring hand on the doctor’s shoulder, then walks over to Ella.
“Thanks for coming. I’m sorry to interrupt your night,” Steadman says, the only acknowledgment of her getup.
He fills her in. After midnight, the teenage employees of the Dairy Creamery were found murdered in the back room of the ice cream shop. The mother of two of the girls, sisters, got worried when they didn’t return home from their shift and didn’t respond to texts. The mother is sedated now.
“There was a survivor?” Ella knows the answer. It’s why she’s here.
Mr. Steadman nods. “A student at my school. She didn’t work there. We think she was just a customer. Maybe interrupted him.” Mr. Steadman takes a cleansing breath. “I was hoping you could talk to her. The doctors and detectives aren’t getting anywhere. She’s—well, you’ll see. The Union County prosecutor called me, since…”