The Thriller Collection

by S W Vaughn

  My throat wrenches shut. I can’t believe I’m looking at him, breathing on his own. Alive. It’s the moment I never dared to dream of — and I still don’t know what to say.

  I take a tentative step toward him, and he shifts slightly. “I already choked down breakfast,” he says without opening his eyes, in a voice that sounds like sandpaper and nails scratching on wood. He tries to smile. “It’s not bath time, is it?”

  “Brad,” I whisper. “Oh, my God …”

  His eyes snap open. They’re slightly bloodshot, but still the same brilliant green I remember as they focus on me and widen in surprise. “Celine?” he rasps.

  I nod like crazy and stumble the rest of the way to the bedside, barely noticing the tears that start to slip down my face. I can’t bring myself to touch him, or even to look at him directly, so I stare at the shapes of his legs under the sheet. “I’m so sorry,” I say in trembling tones. “So sorry.”

  Something warm and dry caresses my arm, and I realize it’s him. He slides a palm down my forearm, takes my hand in his and squeezes gently. “Why are you sorry?” he says. “It was my own damned stupid fault.”

  A single sob wrenches from my throat, and I clap my free hand over my mouth. I won’t break down in front of him, not here. He’s probably had more than enough people crying over him.

  “Please, sit down,” Brad says. I finally look at his face, and he’s smiling. “Unless you’re not staying? I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t. I know you called the other day, and my mother …” A dark cloud passes over his expression.

  “I’d like to stay. If you don’t mind,” I say.

  “Of course I don’t. That’s why I asked you to sit.”

  The teasing note in his awful, strained voice sounds like the old Brad, and I almost start bawling again. But I hold it back and take a seat in the big stuffed chair next to the bed. “I hardly know what to say,” I admit softly. “Everything I can think of sounds so trite.”

  “Just don’t tell me what a miracle I am, and we’re good,” he says. “So … what have you been up to for the past five years? I’ve just been lying around.”

  I gasp in a thick, wet breath, and my eyes sting with tears.

  “I’m sorry. That was a bad joke.” Brad reaches through the bars of the bed rail, and I take his hand when it falls short. “I’m trying to laugh my way through this, you know? Five years. Jesus.” His eyes close briefly. “They say laughter is the best medicine.”

  “And how’s that working out for you?” I say dryly.

  He actually laughs, deep and genuine, and I can’t help laughing with him. “Not so great,” he says. “I happen to think morphine is the best medicine. I’ve got this happy button, see?” He lifts a white cord near his other hand with a plastic bulge in the middle, sporting a single blue button. “Every time I press this, I get really happy.”

  I smirk. “You must be pressing the shit out of that button when your mother is around, then.”

  He whoops in a breath and wheezes it out. “Oh, God, that hurts,” he gasps with a smile on his face, waving a hand when my face falls in dismay. “Hurts so good, I mean. I think this is the first time I’ve really laughed since I woke up.”

  At least I can smile knowing I’ve made him happy for a minute. “I’m glad you can still laugh,” I say.

  “Celine.” He stares at me, shakes his head slightly. “This is just so … bizarre. I mean, to me, the last time I saw you was a week ago. I actually woke up and wondered why you weren’t here, if you were really so mad at me that you wouldn’t come to see me in the hospital. I remembered knowing I was going to crash, that it was going to be really bad, and then …” A shuddering breath leaves him. “Five years,” he whispers. “God, I was so stupid.”

  “No, you weren’t. It was an accident,” I say firmly. “You can’t blame yourself for that.”

  “Can’t I?” He scowls furiously at the ceiling. “I was drunk, Celine. Very, very drunk. My blood alcohol level tested at almost three times the legal limit when they brought me in after the crash. The only reason I’m not recovering in prison right now is that no one else was involved, and the DA figured that sixteen broken bones and five years in a coma was punishment enough. Plus, my folks probably paid him off.”

  I’m too shocked to respond. Three times the legal limit? He had one, maybe two glasses of wine that night.

  “I know I didn’t drink much there,” he says, as if he’s reading my mind. “But when I left, I hit the liquor store. And then …” He trails off and winces. “Let’s just say I compounded the huge mistake I made when I left you in the first place.”

  Mistake? “You mean … you would’ve come back to me?”

  “Yes. God, yes,” he breathes. “It’s all I’ve wanted since the minute I woke up. To go back to that night, apologize for making such an ass of myself. And beg you to forgive me.”

  “Oh, Brad. I —”

  “Get away from my son, you little slut!”

  The drillbit shriek of Willa Dowling’s voice floods the room, and Brad and I both jump like a couple of kids caught making out in the back of a car. I shoot to my feet and let go of his hand, cringing from his mother’s advance.

  “Mother, stop it!” Brad cries hoarsely. “I told you, it wasn’t Celine’s fault. She had nothing to do with the accident.”

  Willa freezes in the center of the room, panting like a bull. Her green eyes, much paler than her son’s, are bulging marbles that show far too much white. Her face is patched with hectic, ruddy spots beneath her makeup, and her dark gray-streaked hair sticks out in flyaways from a hastily-formed bun.

  “I don’t care. I want her out of this room.” Spittle flies from her lips as she speaks.

  “It’s my room, Mother. And I want her to stay.”

  “No, it’s okay. I’ll go,” I say quickly, reaching down to take Brad’s hand one more time. “But I’ll come back and visit you again, if that’s okay with you.”

  It takes a lot for me to say that while Willa’s glare burns a hole in my back, and I’m almost proud of myself. Okay, it’s not exactly standing up to her. But it’s a start.

  “I’d like that,” Brad says. “Hold on, though. I want to …” His whole body tenses, and he starts to sit up.

  “Bradford! You need your rest,” his mother quavers. “You shouldn’t move around —”

  “Mother, will you please stop talking for one lousy minute,” he growls with concentrated effort. “I love you, but you’re making me nuts here.”

  The real miracle is that Willa actually shuts up.

  “Do you want some help?” I say tentatively.

  He shakes his head, grimacing as he grabs the bed rail. “I have to practice doing this myself,” he says through clenched teeth — not angry, but determined. “I refuse to stay in this bed one minute longer than I have to.”

  Though I’ve never been in a coma for five years, I completely understand that.

  Finally he’s sitting up fully, panting a little. He pauses for a minute, and then lowers the bed rail and eases his legs over the side, so he’s facing me.

  He opens his arms, and a tremulous smile lifts his lips. “Can I have a hug?” he says.

  It’s almost impossible to resist falling into his arms immediately. But he’s so frail, so weakened, that I’m afraid I’ll knock him back down. I take it easy, stepping up close and wrapping my own arms tenderly around his chest.

  His breath hitches as he enfolds me with surprising strength. “I promise I won’t break,” he murmurs. “Celine, just …”

  I take the hint and squeeze, pressing against his body. He’s still so firm, so solid and real and alive. A shiver runs down my spine, and I draw back just enough to kiss his dry cheek. “I forgave you five years ago, the minute you walked out,” I whisper.

  He stares at me. “Really?”

  “Really,” I say, and plant another kiss on his forehead. “I’ll see you again, soon.”

  His wondrous smile bolsters me as I
turn and walk past Willa-zilla, who’s still glaring daggers at me. I step from the room and into the hallway, feeling lighter than I have in days. And I make it about ten steps down the corridor before I freeze in horror.

  Did that actually happen? Or did I just imagine it?

  Oh, God, I can’t remember.

  Did I really ignore Willa’s screaming demands and stay, and watch Brad not only defend me, but go through all that effort just to hug me? Or did I lock up when she started screaming and stand there imagining everything that came after, before I bolted from the room without another word?

  It feels like it really happened, that things actually went well despite Willa’s interruption, but I just can’t be sure. And I can’t bring myself to go back into that room to find out.

  My cheeks burns with shame, and I rush back down the corridors toward the elevators, shielding myself with a hand as I pass the nurse’s station. If Teryn is still there, I can’t face her. The elevator takes about a million years to arrive on the floor, and I stumble inside and push the button for the parking garage level, shoving myself into a corner as far from the two other passengers in the elevator as possible.

  Somehow I blunder to my car and get in. My eyes are already streaming when I shut the door behind me, and within seconds I’m weeping with my forehead pressed to the steering wheel and my hands over my face. I can’t deal with this. I don’t know how to deal with this.

  The next time I come to see Brad — which I’m determined to do, in spite of the disaster this has become — I’ll have to go through this all over again.

  I’m not sure how long it’s been when I finally calm down and trail off into hitching, uneven breaths. I rummage around in my console for a napkin to wipe my face, and then blow my nose and crumple the napkin into a cup holder. I’ll wait a few more minutes before I try to drive, since I’m still shaking.

  Just then, my phone chimes.

  I almost don’t want to look. But I pull the phone from my pocket and unlock the screen to find I have a new text. For some reason I’m not shocked to see the message from the mystery number, bold as brass at the end of the thread.

  How dare you speak to him? You don’t deserve him!

  Instinctively, I decide that it must be Willa sending the texts. But I think about it for a moment and realize that’s not necessarily true. It could be Willa. But it could also be literally any of Brad’s dozens of exes, from high school or college.

  The only thing I know for sure is that whoever it is, they’re watching me somehow. They’re watching me very closely.

  And they won’t stay back and watch forever.

  Chapter 14

  It takes me longer than I want to calm down after the latest text. I don’t reply this time, because I can’t bear even one more cutting or frightening remark. Finally I get myself together, start the car and drive out of the parking garage, heading for the grocery store in my neighborhood. I just want to pick up a few essentials and go home. Maybe I’ll even take a nap before it’s time to get Alyssa from school.

  I’m zoned out on the drive to the store, and weighed down while I park and trudge inside to grab a cart. Once I get through the automatic doors and into the big, cool produce section, I shake myself and take a few deep breaths to shed the remaining stress. Nothing’s wrong with me. Not one thing. I’m just a happy suburban mom on a perfectly normal day, with a dead boyfriend who’s come back to life and an unknown crazy person who may or may not be threatening me.

  Everything is just fine.

  I head slowly into the rows of colorful produce, thinking about a nice salad. I’ll make spaghetti for dinner tonight, one of Alyssa’s favorites, with a salad and some garlic bread. But I won’t settle for a bag of pre-mixed salad. I’ll make it fresh, with two kinds of lettuce and lots of crunchy vegetables. Alyssa loves helping me make salad.

  I’ve got iceberg and romaine lettuce and a bag of carrots in my cart, and I’m picking through the loose green peppers when from the corner of my eye I notice someone pushing a cart toward me. They’re coming deliberately, like they mean to talk to me.

  Though I don’t make eye contact, I know who it is before she speaks.

  “Hi, Celine,” Hannah says as she stops in front of the cucumbers. “I’m so glad you shop here. I was wondering if this was a good store.”

  I almost tell her that I only shop here because it’s close to my house, and there’s another store a lot closer to hers. But I grit my teeth into a smile instead and look over at her. “It’s not bad,” I say. “They have good sales here, sometimes.”

  Hannah starts to say something, but then changes her mind. Probably something along the lines of not having to worry about things being on sale. Instead she says, “Did you get your real estate license fixed?”

  “No, not yet.” Even as I answer, I wonder why I’m encouraging this conversation. “It’s all a big bureaucracy, you know? Once something gets screwed up, it takes forever to fix.”

  Hannah nods in sympathy, as if someone who pays four hundred thousand dollars in cash for a house so they don’t have to bother with ‘mortgage stuff’ could understand the struggles of dealing with bureaucracy. “Do you handle your license online, like the DMV?” she says. “That’s probably the reason there’s a still problem. Everything is electronic these days, and it’s so easy for things to get botched up.”

  “Mm-hm.” I’m barely listening as I slip two green peppers in a plastic bag and wish she’d go away. I’ve got a pity party waiting for me at home, and she’s not invited. “I guess that’s the way it goes.”

  “Yes, it’s really insane,” she says, foiling my attempts to shake her as I move toward the fancy dressings, and she follows me like a lost puppy. “You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to manipulate electronic data, or to access other people’s information. I mean, take my app. I barely know anything about programming, but it can pull data from anyone’s Facebook page and use it, or even post on their page.”

  I stop, and my hands clench around the bar of the shopping cart. “What was that, about posting on people’s Facebook?”

  “My app can do that,” she says, looking at me strangely. “And I’m not good at programming or anything. All I did was watch a few online tutorials, and presto, I’m an app developer. Are you okay, Celine?”

  I’m not sure I am. I never tried to figure out how that post about checking in at Juniper State Park got on my page. At the time, I was too terrified of the detectives to think straight. But now I’m wondering whether someone posted it deliberately. And the only reason I can think for anyone to do that is ridiculous, straight out of a movie.

  They’re trying to frame me for Rosalie’s murder.

  “I’m fine,” I say out loud, banishing the thought even as my mind tries to somehow connect it with the threatening texts. If I let myself start thinking crazy like that, I’ll never stop. “Listen, I’m still going to try and make it to your party.”

  I say that hoping Hannah will be satisfied and go elsewhere to continue her shopping, which she hasn’t even started yet, judging by her empty cart. But it only makes her more eager to talk. “It’s going to be fun,” she assures me. “I’m having it catered, and I’m thinking about hiring a deejay. Or a live band. Which do you think is better? Oh, and bring a bathing suit, because the pool will be open.”

  “That sounds great,” I mutter weakly, wondering if she actually expects me to answer the deejay-live band conundrum. “I’d go with the deejay,” I add, in case she does.

  “Really? Hmm, maybe you’re right. At least that way the music is guaranteed to be decent,” she says. “What kind of music do you like?”

  Okay. I really don’t want to be BFFs with this woman. “All kinds,” I say as dismissively as I can manage, angling my cart for an escape. “But you should use whatever kind of music you want. It’s your party.”

  See you later is on the tip of my tongue as I start away from her, but she drags her cart around and starts talking again. “I think
your job is really interesting,” she says. “How do you become a real estate agent? Is it hard?”

  I’m not sure if she’s mocking me or trying to flatter me. Either way, this is not a conversation I want to have. “It’s not that hard,” I say. “If you really want to know, you can ask Maxine Hughes. She’s always happy to hear from people who want to be agents.”

  “Maybe I’ll do that,” she says, and I’m inwardly relieved. Generally, people ask about your career to be polite — and even if they say they want to do the same thing, they never follow through. “Well, I’d better run. The movers are coming soon with another load, and if I’m not there to direct them, it’ll be a disaster. See you later, Celine.”

  “Bye, Hannah.”

  At least I didn’t have to extricate myself from that. If Hannah’s really going to shop here often, I might consider looking for another grocery store to frequent.

  I grab the rest of what I need quickly, looking down aisles before I enter them to make sure I don’t bump into Hannah again, and then check out and head home. The visit with Brad this morning already seems like a distant memory that I don’t have to dwell on. Though I know I can’t dismiss him from my life again, I feel better convincing myself that there’s no need to deal with all the complications that surround him right this minute.

  After I get to the house and put the groceries away, I decide to take a nice, long bath instead of a nap. That’s something I haven’t done in quite a while. I head to my bedroom, strip and put on a soft robe, and I’m hunting through my closet for comfortable clothes when my phone rings from the bed where I tossed it.

  For some reason I think it’s Hannah. I escaped her, and she’s still bothering me. But the name on the screen is Maxine Hughes.