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“Yes you will.” Marianne kissed Evie on the temple. “When you’re older and ready, but in the meantime, stop worrying. Remember what the specialist said? Low stress—”
“I know, I know—” A sharp ache ripped through the lower right of her abdomen, stealing her breath. “Ow!” She froze, her stomach gurgling loud enough for her mother to flinch.
“Are you in pain?” Marianne pulled back, her brows drawing in. “Evie, you promised—no more hiding symptoms.”
Her mother’s concern was valid. Months pre-diagnosis, Evie had kept quiet about seeing blood in the toilet and experiencing abdominal pains so brutal they felt like an army of alligators gnawing their way out.
“I’m not hiding anything. It’s just a little pinchy today.”
“Did you eat chocolate again?” Marianne touched her daughter’s forehead. “You are a bit warm…”
“Yeah, ’cause she met Nikolai Balfour!” joked Sam. “Oooo, Sprout’s got it BAD!”
Evie swatted him. “Shut up!”
FOUR
EVIE
Now, Wednesday, June 21
Swerving crying children, distraught puppeteers, and rubbernecking bagpipers stampeding for safety, Evie avoided the buckled doorway and climbed through the massive hole punched in the shop’s façade. Heart lodged in her throat, she held her phone against her ear.
“Are there any injuries?” asked the emergency dispatcher.
“I-I’m not sure.” Breaths frantic, Evie squinted into a dense cloud of dust and debris, the sickening crunch of shattered glass and splintered wood beneath her sensible flats. “I’ll have to l—” A scratchy, tickling cough stole her words. “Sorry,” her voice rasped. “It’s tough to see.” Ducking a dangling light fixture, she tripped over the puppet’s severed arm and pain rocketed up her shin. “Ou—ch!”
“Evie, listen to me,” the dispatcher instructed in her ear. “It’ll be safer if you wait outside. Emergency services are on their way.”
A guttural groan rose from within the shop. Oh shit! Nausea churned in Evie’s belly. “Jamie?! Gemma?!” she hollered, trampling chunks of ceiling tile as she searched for the injured party. “Where ARE you?!”
“Evie, wait outside!”
Ignoring the dispatcher’s plea, she bolted past an upended table, devoid of its usual puffin trays, toys, and mugs, and spotted a middle-aged woman slumped on the floor against the shop’s ice cream cooler, her pink bob sporting flecks of white plaster.
“Gemma!” Evie scrambled over the puppet’s enormous head and fell to her knees, spying a rivulet of fresh blood trickling down Gemma’s temple. She swallowed hard. “Where does it hurt?”
Supporting her elbow, Gemma rocked back and forth. “My arm…my head,” she yelped through clenched teeth. “It hurts pretty bad.”
The shrill wail of sirens rose in the distance as Evie relayed the information to the dispatcher.
“Keep her calm and use something to stop the bleeding—a towel, a shirt,” replied the calm voice. “The paramedics are almost there, but keep me on the line just in case.”
“I will, thanks.” Lowering her phone, Evie prised an otter-patterned apron from a wicker basket. “Gem, you’re gonna be all right. Help’s on the way.”
“Please.” She writhed in agony. “Don’t go.”
“I’m staying right here.” Evie bit her lip, hoping what she was about to say wouldn’t amplify Gemma’s distress. “There’s a cut on your forehead. I’m gonna stop the bleeding, okay?”
“I feel dizzy. Everything’s blurry.”
Evie gently held the soft cotton against Gemma’s scalp. “Do you remember what happened?”
“Something hit me, sent me flying.”
Stupid puppet. Evie frowned at its handsome face, scarred from impact but still smiling. Managing her mum’s shop, she knew the basics of first aid—what to do when someone was choking, what steps to take for CPR—but she had no clue how to handle a head injury.
Or a lazy shop assistant with a criminal record for joyriding.
