Sara Shepard - Crushed

Aria fumbled for a napkin to wipe her eyes. “I’m really happy.” She lifted her wrist. “And this is so beautiful.” And just like that, a weight was lifted off her shoulders.

“You’re welcome.” Noel squeezed her waist and lowered his voice. “What do you say we get some real alone time now? No bars, no people, no crying—just you and me, happy ?”

Aria smiled slowly. “That sounds wonderful,” she said in almost a whisper.

But she knew it would be difficult, too. She would tell Noel everything tonight, she decided. About A. About Real Ali. About the painting. Even about Tabitha. No more sneaking around. She needed him as an ally, not someone she feared. All of this would be out in the open, and they’d fight A together.

The volume in the bar rose. More people filled the seats next to them. It was far too noisy in here—and too public in the ballroom. Aria drained her glass and stood, suddenly hitting on the very place where they could talk about everything without anyone hearing. “Come on,” she said, offering her hand to pull Noel off the stool. “Let’s go to the graveyard.”

Mike pulled the Montgomerys’ old Subaru into the parking lot at the Bill Beach. Hanna had told him to drive fast, and they’d gotten here from Philly in nine minutes and forty-three seconds, which was probably some kind of record. Hanna was pretty sure he’d done a hundred miles per hour up the expressway.

Mike circled the lot once, then again. Every space was full. “Something will open up,” Hanna said, gripping the door handle. “Let me off at the front door and meet me inside.”

Mike twisted his mouth like he didn’t like that idea much, but Hanna was already out the door before he could protest.

As she crossed the parking lot, her phone beeped a few times, but she ignored it. She couldn’t waste any time right now. She had to get to Graham.

The receptionists beamed at her gown, heels, and makeup, but Hanna swished past them without a word. After scribbling her name at the front desk, she took a sharp left and took off down Graham’s hallway. TVs flickered in the overstuffed rooms. Visitors sat placidly on couches. But at the end of the hall, where Graham was, nurses flooded his space.

Kyla was sitting up in bed just outside Graham’s partitioned-off space. She waved when she saw Hanna. “What’s going on?”

Hanna shrugged, then ducked inside Graham’s area. She gasped. Graham’s breathing tube was gone. He writhed back and forth, his eyelids fluttering. His dry lips mouthed a word. “Graham?” a nurse shouted into his face.

“Graham?” Hanna leaned over the bed, too. “Are you awake?”

A nurse glared at her. “Who are you?”

Hanna blinked.

“It’s okay,” Kelly said behind them, trundling into the curtained-off space with a tray of needles and medication. “Hanna’s a volunteer.” She looked at the other nurses. “I can handle this for a minute. You guys check on his parents. They said they were on their way.”

The nurses disappeared. Kelly touched Graham’s forehead, then looked at his monitors. “He woke up about a half hour ago,” she told Hanna. “We lowered his dose of pain meds to see if he’d talk, but he still seems out of it.”

“Kelly?” someone shouted behind the curtain. “Mrs. Johnson in one-seventeen is having a seizure. We need you on it.”

Kelly’s eyes darted back and forth. “What a night,” she muttered. She placed a hand on Hanna’s shoulder. “Watch him for a sec, okay?”

Hanna blinked. “And do what?”

“Just don’t touch him. I’ll be right back.” Then Kelly vanished down the hall. Hanna turned back to Graham, who was still writhing. His fingers curled and uncurled. He pawed at the IV tubes in his hands and made unidentifiable grunting sounds.

“Graham?” she said softly. “Can you hear me?”

Graham’s eyelids fluttered. A scratchy whisper of a word came out. “Y-y-y . . . ,” he struggled to say.

Hanna’s heart thudded fast, then she picked up one of his hands. “Squeeze one for yes, two for no, okay? You were in an explosion on a cruise. Do you remember that?”

Graham squeezed once.

A bell pinged in the hallway. Hanna froze, watching white nurse shoes pass under the curtain. “It was in the boiler room of the ship,” she goaded. “You were talking to Aria. Do you remember Aria?”

Again, Graham squeezed once.

“Good. You were trying to tell her something. Was it that someone was watching her?”

Graham’s lips pressed together. He closed his eyes tight and winced in pain. “Y-y-y . . .”

Hanna’s heart pounded. “Did you see her face?”

Graham struggled with a syllable, his lips gummy. “N . . .”

“No? You didn’t?”

He shook his head, as if this wasn’t right. Suddenly, Hanna hit on something. “Was it a him , not a her?”

Graham squeezed her hand once.

Hanna felt light-headed. She took a deep breath and continued. “Do you know his name?”

Graham opened one eye all the way. His iris was bloodshot. His teeth pressed together, his tongue wedged between them. He tried for a syllable, and then collapsed, exhausted, on the pillow.

“ Please ,” Hanna pressed. “Please, tell me his name.”

Graham tried again. “N-n . . .” He scrunched his eyes shut, looking frustrated. “N-n-n!”

Hanna leaned closer. “N . . . what ? Noel?”

A woozy look crossed Graham’s face. He made the N sound again. His jaw started to tremble. “N-n-n,” he kept saying. “N-n-n!”

“Squeeze if it’s Noel, Graham! Squeeze once if it’s Noel!” Hannah urged.

But suddenly, his neck arched back unnaturally. His eyes rolled to the back of his head. His limbs started to tremble, his feet kicking wildly. The machines started to wail.

Hanna backed up, terrified. Had she done this? Had she pushed too hard?

The beeping continued. Graham’s body shook with spasms. “Oh my God,” Hanna whispered. She stepped out from behind the curtain and looked down the hall. It was empty, not a nurse to be seen. “ Shit ,” she mumbled under her breath. Now Graham’s machines were making horrible buzzing sounds.

“I just saw someone go that way,” Kyla’s voice called behind Hanna. She shakily pointed to the left. Hanna nodded at her, then dashed down the hall. But that nurse’s station was empty, too. After checking three more corridors, she finally spotted a woman in pink scrubs tending to a patient near an exit door. “Help!” she shouted. “A patient’s machines are freaking out!”

The nurse came running. Hanna led the way, her high heels clacking awkwardly on the slippery floor. She rounded the corner to Graham’s room. The sounds of the machines carried all the way down the hall.

The nurse pushed past her and yanked open the partition. Her mouth hung open. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “He’s coding.” She spun around and yelled for more help.

Hanna poked her head inside, expecting Graham’s spasms to be even bigger and scarier than when she’d left. But his body lay limp on the bed. His head was twisted strangely to the right, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. The bandage over his eye had fallen, revealing blistered, pink skin. All of the IV tubes were out of his hands, and blood spurted everywhere. And on the machines was a single flat line. There were question marks where the blood pressure and pulse levels should have been.

More nurses appeared. Instantly, they began CPR and stopped the bleeding. A second team appeared with a crash cart, and a doctor ripped Graham’s gown off to expose his bare, blistered chest. Voltage snapped through the paddles, and when they shocked him, his body arched off the bed. Hanna screamed. Graham slumped back onto the mattress, but the monitors remained unchanged.