In the distance, I could hear the sirens as they made their way in our direction.
"It's going to be okay," I told her, holding her a little tighter because it seemed like she was starting to fall apart.
Within a few more minutes, the paramedics were checking out Holly while a cop was pulling me to the side for questioning.
Not being in Navesink Bank, I didn't know the guy, had no idea if he knew who I was, what crew I ran with.
"And the cook heard nothing," he repeated, looking over his notes.
"He thought she 'wandered off'," I repeated, snorting. "It can get loud sometimes in there. With the jukebox and talking. But she had to have been screaming."
"And no one was here when you arrived."
"No."
"They couldn't have been waiting that long. She was beaten pretty good, but it couldn't have lasted that long."
And even though she'd gotten knocked out, she wouldn't have been out for more than ten minutes. The movies and TV always got that wrong. No one was out for hours after a blow to the head. It was usually only a couple seconds to a couple of minutes.
That said, time seemed to slow down when you were waiting on service. Five minutes looking for a server felt like a lifetime. I could see why they tossed money on the table and left. Same for people who were waiting to place an order. And who knew how long she was out there before she was attacked.
"Don't see how she could even get the bags up into the dumpster," the cop said, mostly to himself. "She's so small."
She was.
I'd hauled shit up into dumpsters before. It wasn't bad for someone my height and my size, but someone like her would have struggled. Which could have added to the time she was out back before an attacker happened upon her.
Maybe that was it.
Maybe a frustrated customer came looking for her, found her, and took an opportunity.
But why?
Just to beat her?
He hadn't taken her money.
He hadn't raped her.
Who just walked up to random women, and beat the shit out of them?
None of this made any sense.
"No, wait," Holly cried out as the paramedics started wheeling her away on the stretcher. "Wait," she cried out again.
"What's wrong?" I asked, moving away from the cop and to her side.
"I need my purse," she said, looking up at me with one big, frantic eye.
"It's okay. I'll get it. I'll bring it to the hospital for you," I added. "Okay?"
"You don't have to come to—"
"Is that okay?" I cut her off.
To that, I got a tight nod as the tears started to flow again.
"We have to get going," the paramedic said when I reached out to give her shoulder a gentle squeeze.
"We can finish this at the hospital," the cop said, giving me a nod after I asked if I could bring Holly her purse.
With that, I climbed in my truck, dialing up Fallon.
"Are they killing each other?" he asked, sounding amused.
"What? No. Look, I need you to pick the girls up later. Call them and tell them to call you to pick them up."
"What's wrong?" Fallon asked, hearing the urgency in my tone.
"Nothing. Something came up. Call them."
"Malc, if something is up—"
"Call them," I demanded as I followed several cars behind the ambulance.
"I will. But if something is—"
I didn't let him finish.
I didn't have time to explain.
I had to get an injured woman her purse. I had to talk to the cops. And then I needed to figure out who the fuck did this to her. Because they weren't going to fucking get away with it.
I didn't know the woman. Not really. Maybe, rationally, I shouldn't have been having such a strong reaction over what had happened to her.
But if you were able to detach yourself from something as horrible as an innocent woman being beaten within an inch of her life just a couple yards from the workplace that should have been a safe haven for her, well, then you and I were different kinds of creatures. We had different sorts of moral compasses.
When a woman, even a stranger, cried in pain while you held her, waiting for the ambulance, you better fucking care. When you were there to witness the panic and relief move through her at the idea of being raped, you better fucking care.
And I did.
At the emergency room, though, all I was met with was protocols. I wasn't her family. I didn't get to go back and see her, sit with her, so she didn't have to be fucking alone.
They did take her purse to her, though, and I prayed she was able to call someone to come sit with her, hold her hand, tell her everything was going to be okay.
But an hour passed.
Then two.
And no one who walked in the doors went back into her room.
"Excuse me," I said to the nurse who'd been sending me pitying eyes as I paced and forced myself to sit down only to jump up and pace again since I first came in.
"Yes?"
"Can I please see her?"
To that, she pressed her lips together.
"You know, we could make exceptions for a boyfriend," she said, giving me raised brows, asking me to play along.
Right.
Okay.
Well, if that was the only way.
"Can I please see my girlfriend?" I asked, watching as she shot me a pleased smile before inviting me back.
"Holly, honey, your boyfriend would like to sit with you while you wait for testing," the nurse said as she opened the door.
"I don't have... oh," Holly said, looking over at me with a bloodshot eye, making my heart sink at the idea that she'd needed to sit in an emergency room bed and cry by herself. "Okay," she said, giving the nurse a nod as I moved inside.
"She told me it was the only way I could see you," I told her, tucking my hands into my pockets as I moved a couple feet into the space.
"You didn't have to stay. You've done enough for me."
"I wanted to," I told her.
"But your friends..."
"Have another ride home. You don't have anyone to come and be with you?" I asked, looking over to see her phone next to her on the bed.
"I, ah, I have a brother. But he can't come. It's okay. I'm okay."
"You're not," I corrected. "You don't have to pretend to be."
"If I stop pretending to be, I am going to fall apart," she admitted, her gaze dropping to the linoleum floor.
"So fall apart," I said, shrugging.
"No. I can't. I have to finish my testing. Then I need to get home. And... and then I need to get back to work tomorrow."
"You can't go back when you've been beaten like this."
"I don't have a choice," she admitted, back to studying the floor.
It was easy, at times, to forget how privileged I'd been. My parents had never struggled for money. And neither had I. Sure, I'd worked some crappy jobs in high school because my father told me it would build character. But I never needed that money. Then once I joined up with the club, money got even easier.
I'd never had to worry.
Many, if not most, people did.
Holly did.
I couldn't imagine working for two-something an hour plus unreliable tips gave you the kind of security that allowed you to take a few days off to heal after a brutal attack.