Sara K. Parker - Dying To Remember

Her heart was beating erratically, her hands tingling and numbing, dropping away involuntarily from the arm that was holding her. She tried again to scream, but nothing happened. The house was spinning. Or was she? Nausea roiled in her gut. Panic swirled in her mind. She needed to escape.

But first, she needed to sleep.

TWO

Roman slowed as he turned into his old neighborhood. Eastport was an eclectic waterfront community with low crime. Cars lined the curbs of narrow streets where kids often played outside until after dark, though likely not tonight with this brutal cold.

Just minutes after Ella had run off, she’d texted him a vague apology, promising to call in the morning.

He didn’t know what to think about Ella’s story, but he knew one thing: she needed help. It was too late for her to rescind. Roman was going to help her whether she wanted him to or not. And he didn’t plan to wait until she called in the morning.

After quickly locking up the building, he’d headed straight across the city, stopping only to fill his gas tank. He hoped he was right to assume Ella was staying at her mom’s. He’d grown up only two blocks from the Camdens, but hadn’t visited the area since his parents had moved a few years back.

Still, he easily recognized the home and parked at the curb. Stepping out into the night, he walked up the cracked driveway toward the house.

Gray-white puffs of air seeped out from underneath the garage door, a car idling inside.

Was Ella planning to head out somewhere? He stood still in the driveway for a moment, his breath swirling in the biting winter air as he waited to see whether the garage door would slide open or the car would turn off. When neither happened, he walked up the porch steps to the front door.

He knocked, noting the peeling paint and tattered silk-floral welcome sign. Looked like Julia Camden could use a little help with the old place. Maybe Roman could swing by sometime and offer a hand, fix up a few things to welcome Ella’s mom home after she recovered. If she recovered. From what he’d heard, the prognosis wasn’t good.

Roman rang the bell and knocked again, stepping back to scan the house. The shades were drawn in all the windows and, aside from the dim porch light, all was dark. A whisper of unease crept up his neck. He pounded on the door, loudly this time.

“Ella?” he called. “It’s Roman.”

Still nothing. He jiggled the knob. Locked.

Someone was in the garage with the car idling. And less than an hour ago, Ella had been sitting in his office telling him everyone thought she’d tried to commit suicide...

He needed to get into the house. He ran to the garage, grabbed the latch and tried to pull the door up. Locked. He banged on it, the old metal rattling. The car kept idling, the house still and silent.

Roman raced around the side of the house and let himself into the backyard through the gate. Finding the side door to the garage, he tried the handle. It didn’t budge. He yanked his wallet out of his back pocket and pried out a credit card, his hands numb from cold and moving too slowly. Pressing his shoulder against the old wood door, he worked the credit card into the groove while jiggling the knob. The lock mechanism slid free, but a dead bolt held the door in place.

The door was solid and heavy, and would take time to kick in. He’d try the back door to the house first. He darted around the corner and tried the same method there. This time the trick worked. The knob turned, the dead bolt not secured. Roman rushed into the house, flipping on lights as he went.

“Ella?” he called, moving quickly through the kitchen. His shoe crunched something on the floor, but he didn’t see anything. He ran down the hall toward the garage, throwing the door open and flipping on the light.

He saw her immediately, slumped low in the front seat of a navy BMW.

No!

He ran to the driver’s side, yanking the door latch—knowing it would be locked. “Ella!” he yelled, banging on the window. She was unresponsive, reclined in the driver’s seat with the car still running.

They think I did it.

Did what?

Shot myself.

Roman rushed over to the toolbox and rifled around for a hammer. Grabbing it, he ran to the back-passenger door and cracked the window in one strike. Reaching through broken glass, he unlocked the car.

How long had she been in there? Even after locking up Shield and stopping for gas, he couldn’t have lost more than fifteen minutes. He chanted a prayer that he wasn’t too late. That, instead, he’d arrived just in time. But when he pulled the door open and reached in for Ella, she was lifeless, her eyes closed, her skin pale.

Just like he’d found his sister in her dorm room more than six years ago, murdered. But, no. Brooklyn had been cold to the touch, her skin bluish. Ella was still warm, though she didn’t appear to be breathing. And lying in her open palm was a syringe.

Ella, a drug user? Roman couldn’t rectify the thought in his mind, but if she’d overdosed on something, she didn’t have much time. He reached over her and shut off the car, pocketing the keys before pulling Ella easily into his arms and rushing her into the house and away from the carbon monoxide.

In the living room, he set Ella on the couch and yanked out his cell phone, dialing 9-1-1.

“Nine-one-one. Where is your emergency?”

Roman placed a hand near Ella’s mouth, felt warm air. Still breathing, but too slow. He quickly rattled off the address. “I need an ambulance.”

He continued to answer the woman’s scripted questions even as he scanned Ella’s form on the couch, looking for any other signs of injury. Nothing. His gaze caught on the right side of her head. Her hair parted unnaturally there, revealing a red scar that would take a long time to heal.

Roman sank to his knees, his hands coming up to hold hers. Had she done this to herself? He found it hard to believe, especially after what she’d told him earlier. But it had been years since he’d seen her. People changed. His heart tore at the memory of the girl he used to know. She’d been a dreamer, always looking ahead to her next goal. Always brushing off failure when it came. But then Brooklyn died, Ella’s best friend since childhood and roommate in college.

At first, they had shared their grief. But one night, with one string of poorly chosen words, their relationship had shattered. He’d said things he hadn’t meant. He’d been careless with his words. He’d hurt Ella, practically blaming her for his sister’s death. Roman had always been ashamed, truth be told.

Ella had gone into a deep depression and the move to Colorado had seemed like her chance to break free from the darkness. What had happened to her since they’d last seen each other? Had she sunk into an even deeper depression? Started abusing drugs she would readily have available to her as a veterinarian? He turned each arm over, looking for track marks, but her skin was smooth and pale, marked only by a light spattering of freckles.

Had someone been following her as she’d suspected? Someone who wanted to make her murder look like a suicide? That seemed like a stretch. But if Ella was merely suicidal, why come to Roman for help?

The ambulance sounded in the distance and Roman unlocked the front door, leaving it open a crack. Then he remembered the syringe in the car. The doctors may need it to find out what Ella had injected herself with.

He hurried back to the garage and plucked the empty syringe from the car, then returned to the living room. A heavy sadness settled on his shoulders at the realization that the Ella he used to know might be gone forever. He crouched down again, placing a hand along her cheek. He’d missed her for years and now that she was back, she wasn’t really back at all.