All the Broken People

by Leah Konen

  I reached the turn for the road that would lead to mine. I was only a couple of miles from home, but the road wound mercilessly and I had to be extra careful in the snow. I could get home, call McKnight, beg him to arrest Sam, to somehow protect me. I blinked again, vision swimming. I realized I was crying.

  I wound along the twisting road, and my phone dinged. It was Vera.

  Damn it Lucy where did you go?

  I watched as she kept typing, glancing quickly back at the road, then down again.

  Your coat’s here but you’re not. I’m sorry. I didn’t really mean it.

  What the hell?

  I shook my head, but before I could look up, I felt it. A shakiness beneath the tires, a rumbling that rocked everything.

  I whipped my head up, but the road was no longer there.

  I was speeding, careening, toward the woods. Toward the trees.

  I slammed on the brakes, and there was an awful sound, an old man choking, and it was like time slowed down, crawling, struggling, dragging, as Vera’s car began to spin.

  FORTY-THREE

  A beeping, persistent, like the sound of Davis’s old alarm, the one I’d always been on him to change.

  My eyes fluttered open, struggling to adjust.

  The beeping continued, as my gaze locked on the ceiling. A grid, squares of drywall set apart with strips of plastic. I turned my head, and pain seared along the back of my neck, all the way down to my tailbone, as I did. The beeping was a monitor. Acid-green numbers. It took me a moment to realize it was my pulse, trudging along.

  My god. What the fuck had happened?

  I grabbed at my arm, where a needle was inserted, an IV drip. My pulse sped up, the beeping insistent. I twisted my neck back again, felt another rush of pain, hot and white.

  The door opened, and a woman in kitten-printed scrubs walked in.

  “Good to see you awake.”

  I swallowed back the pain as I twisted my head around, following her movements. “Where am I?”

  “Kingston Hospital,” she said as she messed with the IV drip. “How are you feeling?”

  I blinked a few times. “My neck,” I said, and she nodded, like I was a kid in kindergarten, sounding out a big word.

  “You’re a lucky woman, you know.”

  The machine beeped even more quickly.

  “Could have gotten hurt much worse. Far worse than you did.” She finished whatever she was doing with the drip and turned on her heel. “Try to take it easy. Doctor will be in shortly.”

  It came back in flashes as I scooted myself up, biting my cheeks as my neck lit on fire. Going to the bar with Vera. Sam there. The way Vera had almost dared me to leave her: Fucking go.

  Then obeying her, abandoning her, Sam following me to the car as I did.

  Then nothing. Nothing past that.

  Only darkness, pervasive and black.

  * * *

  • • •

  They fed me brothy soup and green Jell-O, and the doctor asked me questions, making sure my memory was intact, and explained that I’d been brought in the night before, just after midnight. I was out for nearly eighteen hours, and because I was unconscious for so long, they wanted to keep me for observation another night. She explained that I had no major injuries, besides contusions—a fancy word for bruises—on my collarbone and the back of my neck. She asked me about the other bruises on my neck, the ones that Davis had given me, but when I demurred, she didn’t press it, only told me that for the most part I was okay. Vera’s car, not so much.

  It had veered off the road and into a tree, the front of it completely smashed. The memories of the crash came to me only in flashes. Snowfall and road and then nothing.

  I worried about Dusty, but after a few phone calls made on my behalf, that was cleared up, too. My keys were luckily still in my purse, and Maggie had offered to watch him.

  I spent the night flipping channels, numbing out, the IV drip removed, the Jell-O consumed. I watched the sort of TV I used to watch when I visited my parents over the holidays in college. Bad cable reruns. Say Yes to the Dress. Real Housewives. It was welcome, in its way. Lying in a hospital bed, nothing to do. My shattered phone now had a dead battery, too; they’d promised to dig me up a charger, but I was in no rush to get back to reality.

  I was protected from Sam Alby, from Davis, from McKnight’s accusations, from Vera’s rightful anger, from everyone. Four white walls and my very own room—and nothing to worry about but bad reality TV.

  It was a nice change, after worrying about everything for so long. It was nice, for once, to feel safe.

  * * *

  • • •

  You have a visitor,” the nurse said as she took away my cereal the next morning, a flavorless bran thing that looked far too much like Dusty’s kibble for my liking.

  I could barely manage a nod before I saw his face in the door.

  McKnight raised his eyebrows. “Up for company?”

  My heartbeat quickened. Why had he come to the hospital? Did he finally have what he needed to arrest me? Was this it? Had he not taken what I’d said about Sam Alby seriously at all?

  McKnight didn’t wait for my answer. He took a seat next to my bed. “I wanted to talk to you about what happened the night of your accident. I suppose I wanted to hear from you how everything went down.”

  Went down.

  My heart continued to race, but now for a different reason. Vera and I had had a fight, nothing more. What else had happened, after I left her? What if she hadn’t found a cab after all? What if something horrible—god—why was he here? I hadn’t even considered it, but now the thought slapped at me.

  “Is Vera okay? Is she hurt?”

  “Miss King,” he said, resting his hand on the bed rail. “You can rest assured that Ms. Abernathy is safe, but I still need to hear from you what happened. Fill in a few gaps for me.”

  I didn’t know what he was up to, what was going on, but at the same time, my body was tired, my neck ached. I didn’t have any energy left to fight him. I wasn’t sure it would be good for me if I did.

  “What do you remember about the night of November ninth?” he asked.

  I took a deep breath. That night had been terrible, but I hadn’t done anything to make my situation with McKnight worse—I only had to tell the truth. “Vera came over. I was really shaken up from what had happened the night before, and we were hanging out, having dinner, and then—then she wanted to go out.”

  McKnight nodded. “Go on.”

  I swallowed. “We got in her car and headed to Platform—the bar, you know. I really didn’t want to go, because she’d told me Sam Alby was a regular there, but she said it was the only one open and she was tired of avoiding places due to the rumors. At the bar, she started ordering these extra-tall glasses of wine. I wasn’t drinking much, but she was. It’s like everything had finally gotten to her. She just wanted to forget it all.”

  McKnight nodded.

  “You know this?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “Witnesses have confirmed that Ms. Abernathy was inebriated. Including the woman who agreed to give her a ride home. A Woodstock resident, used to know Mr. Nolan. They were the ones who found the car. Who found you.”

  It hit me like a flash, the messages I’d received from her.

  “Vera found me?”

  “Wrapped around a tree,” he said. “It’s a miracle you came out as unscathed as you did.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  McKnight pressed his palms to his knees. “Just keep going. Please.”

  “Sam Alby was there, and that made me nervous.”

  “Did Mr. Alby threaten you at all?”

  “Not outright, no. But he could tell I was upset, and as I was leaving, he asked me what had me so scared. It freaked me out.”

  “And why were
you upset?”

  I hesitated. How could I possibly explain to him that she’d broken my heart, saying what she had.

  I know that you loved him, Lucy.

  You wanted him to be a bad guy, so you could have him.

  I expected better of you.

  Just like my parents, Vera had seen right through me, seen all the most horrible parts of me. She was supposed to love me, but I had proven myself unlovable yet again.

  “I really wanted to go home, but she was so drunk, she wouldn’t agree to come with me. I just had to get out of there.”

  McKnight tilted his head to the side. “And why did you take Ms. Abernathy’s car? Why not call a cab?”

  “I’d already taken her keys because she was drinking so much . . . I was worried that if I didn’t use her car, she would.”

  “Had you been drinking?” McKnight asked.

  I shook my head vehemently. “I mean, not really. Maybe one or two glasses total over the entire night.”

  “Mr. Alby said that he saw you stumble.”

  Were they listening to him—taking him seriously—still? Maybe McKnight was here to arrest me, and this was just the next step in his plan . . .

  “Miss King.”

  “I wasn’t intoxicated. I swear.”

  McKnight raised his hand. “Your hospital records confirm as much. But I want to know why you left, what had you so riled up that you had to go, right then. Without your coat, even. Or telling Ms. Abernathy you’d gone.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I wasn’t thinking straight. I was scared.”

  “Scared of?”

  I blinked slowly. “Of everything.”

  McKnight made a couple of notes on his notepad, then sat up straighter in his chair. “Miss King, there have been some developments in Mr. Nolan’s case.”

  His words hung in the air as the blood drained from my face.

  I imagined him pulling out his cuffs, arresting me right there. Reading me my Miranda rights while fastening me to this awful metal bed. Never seeing my sweet Dusty again . . .

  When I didn’t say anything, he shifted his weight. “After you left, things escalated. Ms. Abernathy was very concerned. She became quite agitated. At some point, and the details are a little shaky on this, bar witnesses and all, Mr. Alby stepped in, told her, in his own creative language, to calm down. She didn’t take to that, being worried about you and all, and he became . . . well, after saying that Mr. Nolan got what was coming to him, Mr. Alby threw a glass, missing Ms. Abernathy’s head by just a few inches. The bartender called it in, but Ms. Abernathy didn’t wait to file any sort of police report. Once she realized her car was gone, she insisted someone drive her home, which, I suppose, is very, very lucky. When they saw you, they called nine-one-one, and you can thank them for the fact that you’re here, not frozen on the side of the road.”

  I bit my lip, shame washing over me. I’d almost fucked it up, beyond fixing. I could have died.

  “We held Mr. Alby overnight and formally charged him in Mr. Nolan’s murder yesterday morning. His alibi had actually fallen apart a couple of days ago—he said he was at the bar all night, and though several of his friends confirmed his story, the bar receipts did not—and some details came to light, ones from another state, about a violent altercation with his first wife, ones we weren’t aware of before. Not to mention, my team was able to track down the IP address on that text you forwarded to me. It was sent from a computer in Mr. Alby’s house. We’re still waiting on the analysis from that note you provided, but DNA did come back on the notes that had been left in Mr. Nolan and Ms. Abernathy’s mailbox, and we were able to match the saliva on the envelope to Mr. Alby. Altogether, we felt we had enough to get the ball rolling. Mrs. Alby—”

  “Mrs. Alby?”

  McKnight nodded. “Yes, or I suppose Ms. Moon, since she uses her maiden name for her business. Anyway, she confirmed that she had a copy of the key to your place—Mr. Alby could have easily gotten access. It’s circumstantial, but it’s a start. We’re still looking for the murder weapon. I believe his motive is obvious.”

  I stared at him, jaw agape, my heartbeat slowing. I could hardly believe it.

  This was it. They’d actually gotten their heads out of their asses and done their jobs.

  McKnight raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I just didn’t think you were taking anything I said seriously.”

  “Don’t look so shocked, Miss King. I told you from the very beginning I was. I might not be a big-city detective, but I’m no hack, either. There were reasons we held out on arresting you. We had other irons in the fire, always.”

  A silence hung between us, broken only by shuffling in the hallway, the clatter of rolling carts—hospital sounds.

  He stood. “Your DNA came back this morning on that set of underwear, by the way. Is there anything, anything at all, that you feel the need to tell me? About the day Mr. Nolan went missing—about your relationship with him? Or about your ex, who you say broke into your house? The truth is for the good of all of us, Miss King.”

  McKnight stared, and for a second, I swore he thought he’d finally cracked me, that, perhaps, coming so close to death had opened me right up. But he was wrong about the truth—it wasn’t for the good of all of us, not in the slightest. The only people who believed that were motherfucking choirboys.

  I held his gaze. “I’ve already told you everything I know.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Vera was in the waiting room when they released me that day, wearing a black sweater and black leggings, hair secured away from her face haphazardly. She pulled me into a hug. “Thank god,” she said. “Let’s get you home.”

  We rode in John’s truck, her beautiful Mercedes smashed beyond repair. “I’m sorry about your car,” I said as she took the exit for the highway that went to Woodstock. “I know you loved it.”

  “Stop, Lucy,” she said. “It’s only a goddamn car. I’m just glad”—her voice broke—“I’m glad you’re okay. After your parents’ accident—god—I can’t bear to think what would have happened if I hadn’t found you.” She sped up, the truck’s engine revving beneath the weight of her foot. “I’m the one who should be apologizing, anyway. I was drunk, I was being stupid, lashing out at you even though you didn’t deserve it; I’m embarrassed at everything that happened that night. I should have agreed to go home when you wanted to. I was in shock from what you said about John. I’d never heard that, and I wasn’t in a place to take it in. I still don’t believe that about him, but in the moment, hearing you say it, knowing that even a part of you believed it when you’ve been the only one through all of this who seemed to care about us, it was too awful. I like to act like I don’t care about what anyone thinks, but I do, especially you. If things had been worse, I don’t know how I’d have been able to live with myself.”

  “They weren’t, though,” I said.

  Vera’s voice cracked again. “You’re all I have left, Lucy.”

  “You too,” I said. And I meant it.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Back at my house, Vera got me settled, made sure the heat was on, the milk in my fridge was still good, before leaving me alone. I went straight to bed, though I knew I needed to get Dusty, but I hardly had the energy to move; I was exhausted from two nights in a hospital, from the accident, from the pain still searing my neck.

  My phone was finally charging properly—the hospital chargers had been shit—and I allowed myself one check before attempting to sleep. On Instagram, I found Davis’s page. There it was, another photo. Him in Brooklyn. He’d posted one yesterday—as well as the day before—after more than two months of silence on the platform.

  He’s finally given up, I told myself again. You’re okay.

  Still, I slept fitfully. Between dreams I couldn’t quite re
member but that were unsettling all the same, my mind turned to the photos of John, the note he’d left me, the scarf of my mother’s. Why had Sam taken them, and what did he plan to do with them? Could he do anything, now that he’d been arrested? Was I, for once, actually safe?

  Around two, a knock on the door jostled me out of sleep. Through the window, I saw Maggie, and at her feet—

  “Dusty,” I called as I whipped the door open.

  He bounded toward me, his leash trailing against the floor, jumping onto my knees and covering my face with kisses. He was so warm, so fuzzy, he reminded me that not everything in the world was bad. I scooped him into my arms and stood. “Thank you so much for taking care of him. You want to come in?”

  Maggie nodded. “Only if you don’t mind.”

  I made her tea as Dusty circled my feet, begging for more scratches. When it was done, I set the cups on the coffee table, and Dusty hopped into my lap.

  “Was he good, I hope?”

  She smiled crookedly. “He’s a quick learner,” she said. “And I’ve always been good with dogs.”

  “I’m sure.”

  I sipped my tea the liquid warm, bolstering.

  “Are you in pain?” Maggie asked. “My daughter—she was actually in a bad accident a few years ago.”

  “Oh god,” I said. “Really? And after your husband, too. I’m so sorry.”

  Maggie shook her head. “I didn’t mean it like that. She’s okay now. It just took a lot of rehabilitation and physical therapy to manage the pain. She lives in L.A. with her husband. She’s your age, actually, or maybe a little older. I don’t see her as much as I’d like, but who does, when we all live so far apart?”

  I smiled. “I’m glad you have her. And my pain isn’t too bad,” I said. “It’s manageable, at least. I have a prescription for some hard-core painkillers if I really need them, but I’m trying to hold off.”