Page 51 of Rich Little Liars

Still.

Maybe already gone.

17

NOW

The hospital smells of bleach and death. I’ve been sitting in this plastic chair for hours now, watching Richard’s chest rise and fall in a rhythm that’s too shallow. The machines beep their endless commentary on whether he’s still alive. So far, the answer is yes.

But barely.

They let me ride in the ambulance with him. I don’t remember calling for one – just remember kneeling in his blood, pressing my hands against his skull, screaming words that might have been his name or might have been nothing at all. Then there were paramedics and sirens and Richard being lifted onto a stretcher, his body limp and pale and so terribly still.

The doctors say he has a subdural haematoma. A bleed in his brain. They’ve done surgery and now we wait to see if the swelling goes down. Wait to see if Richard Bancroft, town doctor and the only good thing in my ruined life, is going to wake up.

I’m still wearing his blood on my clothes. They offered me scrubs but I couldn’t move. Couldn’t make my legs carry me anywhere except this chair beside his bed, where I can watch the monitors and count his breaths and remind myself that he’s alive.

For now.

I reach for his hand. It’s warm but limp, his fingers unresponsive when I squeeze them. There’s a tube in his nose and wires attached to his chest and a bandage wrapped around his head that makes him look like a wounded soldier. The man who was so solid, so steady, so certain he could protect me – reduced to this.

Because of me.

The door opens behind me. I don’t turn around. Don’t take my eyes off Richard’s face because looking away feels like abandoning him.

‘Mrs Reynolds.’

‘Ms,’ I remind Officer Harvey. ‘It’s Ms Reynolds.’

‘My apologies.’ He moves into my peripheral vision, pulling one of the other plastic chairs closer. He sits slowly, calmly. ‘How is he?’

‘Stable. That’s what they keep saying. Stable but critical.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I think it means the trajectory towards death is consistent.’

‘He’s not expected to recover?’

‘They don’t know yet. The next twenty-four hours are key.’

Harvey nods like this is useful information. I can feel his gaze on the side of my face, studying me the same way he studied my house the night I called about the shape in the yard.

‘I need to ask you some questions,’ he says. ‘About what happened tonight.’

‘I already told the other officers.’

‘I know. But I’d like to hear it from you directly.’

I finally turn to look at him. He’s wearing civilian clothes – jeans and a jacket that’s seen better days – which means he was called in from home. Called in specifically for this. For me. And there’s something in his expression that makes my stomach drop.

‘Walk me through it. From the beginning.’

I tell him what I told the others. The crash of glass. The figure in the kitchen doorway. Richard coming downstairs. The fight. The blow that sent him crumpling to the floor. The intruder fleeing while I knelt in Richard’s blood, unable to do anything except scream.

Harvey listens without interrupting. When I finish, he pauses, his gaze drifting to Richard’s still form on the bed.

‘Did you get a look at the intruder’s face?’