7

CHAPTER 7

Clara's POV

The doors to the ambulance slam shut, sealing me out.

I’m left standing on the pavement, bare feet numb against concrete, watching red lights flash against the evening. Someone asks me to move back, and another voice tells me to get out of the way.

But I don’t answer.

Rose..

All I can see is Rose’s small body strapped to a stretcher through the rear window. Her leg is immobilized, and her face looks so still and pale.

Soon, the siren blares, and then the ambulance is gone from sight.

I don’t remember how long I stood there.

||

An hour later, I’m sitting in a restaurant I don’t remember choosing.

A waiter asks if I’m ready to order, and I nod without looking at him. When the food arrives, I don’t remember ordering that either.

My phone sits beside my plate, face down. I keep staring at it anyway.

When it finally rings, I sigh.

“Clara.”

I straighten immediately, every muscle going rigid.

“Tell me.” I don’t bother with hello.

There’s a pause on the other end. Not a long one, but enough to scare me.

It’s Marcus, and he sounds exhausted.

“She has a fractured tibia.” He says. “It’s not displaced, which is good. She’ll need surgery only if it doesn’t set properly, but for now we’re looking at a full cast and at least six to eight weeks of recovery.”

“A fractured... leg,” I repeat stupidly.

“Yes.” He exhales softly. “She won’t be walking on it for a while and will need physical therapy afterward.”

My gaze drops to the table. There’s a faint scratch in the wood right in front of me. I trace it with my thumb without realizing I’m doing it.

“And her head?” I ask. “You said—”

“She has a mild concussion.” Marcus cuts in, already anticipating the question. “She lost consciousness briefly after the fall, less than a minute, according to the paramedics. She’s awake now.”

I close my eyes.

“Any bleeding?” I ask. “Any scans?”

“CT came back clean.” He says. “There's no internal bleeding. We’re keeping her overnight for observation, just to be safe.”

I press my fingers into my palm, grounding myself. “Is she... is she scared?”

There’s a long pause.

“She was crying when she came in,” Marcus admits. “Not from the pain at first, but she kept asking for her mother.”

My fingers dig into the edge of the table.

I don’t say anything. I don’t trust my voice.

“Florida.” He adds quietly.

“Of course she did,” I say.

“She’s a kid, Clara,” Marcus says after a moment. “She’s calling for the person she knows as her mother.”

I swallow. Hard.

“Don’t,” I say. “Don’t explain it to me.”

“I’m not blaming her.” He replies immediately. “I wouldn’t. She barely grew up with you.”

That one hurts more than everything.

“She calmed down eventually.” He continues. “Florida stayed with her. Derrick, too.”

“Did Derrick say anything?”

“He refused to let the hospital let you come,” Marcus says. “Said it wasn’t appropriate.”

I let out a short laugh. “He always knows what’s appropriate.”

Silence stretches between us again. When Marcus speaks next, his tone shifts. “I read the articles.”

“..All of them?”

“Yes.”

I don’t respond.

“I shouldn’t be talking to you about this.” He continues. “But I am because we’re friends. Not because I’m her doctor.”

I brace myself.

“They’re painting you as unstable.” He says plainly. “Someone who shouldn’t be around anyone, talk less than a child.”

“I know.”

“And Florida’s feeding it.” He adds. “She’s already asking about discharge statements.”

I close my eyes. “This is my fault. It's all my fucking fault.”

“No.” Marcus interrupts firmly. “This is just an unplanned mess. There’s a difference.”

I don’t argue. I don’t even have the energy to.

“Listen to me.” He says, lowering his voice. “I’m not saying this as a doctor. I’m saying it as someone who knows you.”

I purse my lips.

“If you get your life together...” He continues carefully. “If you stabilize things, you’ll have a better shot at getting Rose back. Not tomorrow, maybe not next week. But eventually.”

I stare at the table. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you’re spiraling.” He says. “And spiraling won’t get you your kid back.”

The words sting because they’re true.

“You don’t fix this by fighting emotionally,” Marcus adds. “You fix it by surviving long enough to be taken seriously again.”

“I shouldn’t have been in that house in the first place, Marcus. I shouldn't even be in this fucking country.

“Maybe.” He says. “But punishing yourself won’t help either.”

Won't it?

“Rose is sleeping now.” He adds.

“Tell her—” I stop myself, and shake my head even though he can’t see it. “Never mind.”

“I will.” He says anyway.

The call ends quietly after we catch up on some other things.

My food has arrived at some point. I leave it untouched with cash on the table, and walk out before anyone can ask if something’s wrong.

Because everything is.

||

I didn’t even realize how far I’d walked.

My feet moved on autopilot, as if someone else was steering my body, and then, without thinking, I stopped in front of a modest brick building I hadn’t meant to find.

I knocked and the door opened before I could even think of ringing the bell again.

Alisha Lawson opened the door.

She’d been the only one in and out of prison who actually believed me. The prison's doctor, and now a friend of mine. She’d also insisted I come visit after I got out.

And now.. here I was.

Alisha's eyes widened the moment she saw me.

“Clara!”

I barely nodded. “Hi..”

She stepped aside, ushering me in with the same warmth I remembered from before.

“It’s been... a long time. Come in. Sit. Sit down.”

The inside smelled of baking bread and lavender. Small potted plants lined the windowsills. It was.. homey. I didn’t even realize how parched I was until Alisha led me to the couch, gesturing for me to sit.

“Clara..” She paused. “You look tired.”

I wanted to tell her everything at once, but I couldn’t.

I let out a humourless laugh instead. “You have no idea.”

She didn’t reply immediately.

“I’ve been following.. some of what’s been happening. All the articles, the headlines. I wanted to make sure you had somewhere safe.”

I sank deeper into the cushions, letting exhaustion press against me. “Safe..” I repeated bitterly. “I don’t even know what that means anymore.”

Alisha leaned back. “I know you, Clara, none of this is your fault.”

“It feels like it is.”

She didn’t argue. Instead, she offered me tea, pouring carefully into a chipped cup.

The television came to life in the corner. A news anchor’s voice rattled across the room, listing the same headlines I didn’t want to hear. [Clara Laurent: Obsessed, Dangerous, Mentally Unstable. A Threat to Her Child]

My hands tightened around the cup.

Alisha's brows furrowed immediately. “Oh, God, I’m sorry.” She reached over, turning off the TV immediately. “You shouldn’t have to see that.”

Before I could answer, a small blur ran from a bedroom down the hall. Alisha scooped the child into her arms, holding him close. The little one buried his face against Alisha's shoulder.

He was about Rose's age.

I blinked, a small smile tugging at my lips. “You... have a kid?”

Alisha's eyes softened as she nodded. “The older ones are in college. This little one’s here with me.”

I studied her more carefully. Alisha had always seemed youthful to me in prison, but now I noticed the fine lines around her eyes and the faint creases on her forehead. Life had been busy for her, even outside those walls. And still, she had managed to be.. reliable, someone I could lean on.

She put the child down gently, letting him toddle off to play nearby. Then, her gaze snapped back to me.

“Clara.. Do you perhaps know Spencer Anthony?”

“Spencer.. Anthony?”

I repeated the name.

How does Alisha know him?

My eyes snapped up to Alisha's, a mix of surprise and curiosity etched on my face. Alisha's expression was calm, but I detected a little curiosity in her eyes.

“He came here looking for you earlier today.”