“Ma’am?” I say to the dispatcher. “I’m with her.”
“All right, sir, is she conscious? Is she breathing?”
“Breathing, yeah. But she’s not conscious.”
“All right, is she bleeding? Any signs of visible injuries?”
“She’s got a cut on her eyebrow, and—” I kneel down beside her on the tile “—yes, she’s bleeding.”
“All right, I’ve dispatched an ambulance. They should be there within four minutes, but I’d like you to put some pressure on the wound to help control the bleeding.” The dispatcher keeps me on the line, asking me all kinds of questions—how she’s sitting, if I can get her to speak.
“Birdie,” I say, remembering what the kid said her mom’s name was. “Birdie, can you hear me?”
I’ve got the phone in one hand, and with the other, I take the towel and press it against her wound. She murmurs in response, which I take as a very good sign.
Mia drops to her knees beside her mom and grabs her hand. “Mama, please get up!”
I motion to Mia to step back, and in that moment, my instincts kick in. “The ambulance is going to be here soon, so can you find your mom’s purse? And if you know where she keeps her keys, she’s going to need them.”
Mia nods and rushes off to find those things, while I return my attention to Bridget.
“Bridget, Birdie…” I don’t know what to call her, but I try any name she might respond to. “Help is on the way, okay? Can you try to open your eyes?”
She flutters her lids and groans. “Mia,” she mumbles. “My daughter…”
“Mia is fine,” I assure her.
Mia comes back with her mom’s purse and keys. She hands them to me as if I’ll know what to do with them.
“Good girl,” I say, my voice tight.
The dispatcher is asking questions, but I’m only half listening.
Mia is crying and looks like she’s going to lose it, so I scramble my brain to think of another job for her to do. Anything to keep the kid focused on something other than her mom.
“Mia,” I say gently. “Do you have a favorite toy or book you want to bring to the hospital? When the paramedics come, they will probably want to take your mom to a doctor, so you’ll want to bring along some things to play with. Can you do that?”
Mia nods slowly but then dashes up the stairs and disappears into one of the bedrooms.
“Mia…” Bridget is moaning, but she must be coming to. She lifts a hand to her eyes but then covers her mouth. “I’m going to be sick.”
Oh fuck.
I drop the phone and grab her hand. I help her sit up just in time for her to vomit on the tile. Nothing much comes out, just a little saliva, but she groans like she’s in agony at the movement. I take her hand and crouch beside her, trying to remain calm.
“Hey, hey, you’re all right. Don’t you worry. Paramedics are on their way.”
She lets me hold her hand and looks into my face with confusion. “Who…?”
“I’m Logan,” I explain. “Don’t worry about a thing. You’re going to be okay.”
There’s a sudden knock at the door, which is still open. The paramedics announce themselves, and I wave them in. I release Birdie’s hand just as Mia comes barreling down the stairs with a stuffed giraffe in her arms.
When she sees the paramedics, she flies toward them, tears flowing anew. “Please help my mama,” she cries.
One of the paramedics glares at me, which sets my teeth on edge. “Can you give us some space?”
I nod. “Mia, come here, honey. Let’s let the paramedics do their thing.”
She looks at me reluctantly but then joins me on the couch. We sit quietly beside each other while the paramedics start assessing Bridget. I realize Mia’s watching every move they make, and I think the last thing the kid needs is to see that.
“Hey,” I say, trying to distract her. I tap the giraffe’s head. “Who’s this guy?”
She turns a little to face me. “Gavin,” she says.
“Gavin,” I repeat, a little surprised. “That’s a fancy name for a giraffe.”
I rack my brain for something to say to this kid, something to drown out the sounds of what they are asking Bridget and their obvious concern.
“Hey,” I say again. “So, do you know why the giraffe never gets invited to the other animals’ parties?”
She shakes her head.
“Because he’s a pain in the neck,” I say and give her a smile.
She looks at me for a minute, but then it’s like the joke hits her all at once and she giggles.
“Not Gavin over here, though,” I say. “I’m sure he has lots of friends.”
She’s smiling now, which is just the calm I need for what happens next. There’s a sharp knock on the door. Two uniformed police officers are peering inside. And they are looking at the bleeding woman on the floor. And then, they’re looking right at me.
4
CROW
My stomach rolls over, and I immediately break out in a fresh sweat.
“So, what happened here today?” The cops are oh-so casual, but my heart’s rocketing through my chest. I’m debating what to say, when the little kid jumps in and surprises the shit out of me.
She gets up off the couch and walks right up to the officer. It occurs to me this kid hasn’t been taught to fear the police. She’s likely never had reason to.
I look down at my hands, every instinct inside telling me to just keep it cool. There’s nothing to fear here. I did nothing wrong. I don’t even know these people, and I’m going to leave as soon as they take Bridget away.
“My mom fell down the stairs and got hurt,” Mia explains, still gripping Gavin tightly. “I know how to dial 9-1-1, but I couldn’t find her phone. She dropped it when she fell.”
One of the officers is looking at me, and the other is kneeling down to focus on Mia. “Are you hurt, sweetheart?” he asks.
Everything inside me is screaming. I should never have stopped. I should never have gotten involved. This bullshit instinct inside me to help, to run in, has already been my undoing once. The officers split up, one taking Mia aside, while the other heads over to chat me up.
“Tough morning, huh?” The second officer is acting casual, but he’s looking me over in a way I’m all too familiar with.
I hold my head firm. “For Bridget, unfortunately, yeah,” I say, trying to deflect his attention back on her.
They’re clearly assessing me while they assess the scene overall. I’m not going to make it easy for them to come to the wrong conclusion.
“Is Mia okay?” I ask, nodding at the little girl.
She’s crying again and talking fast to the officer.
“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” the second officer says. “What’s your name, sir?”
And here we go. The questioning.
“Logan Taylor,” I say.
“And do you live here, Logan?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No, sir.”
“Can you tell me what happened this morning?”