The Girl Next Door Read online

  About twenty miles back, a black SUV had begun to pick a fight with Jane. There was no reason, no provocation other than asinine sport. It kept passing her and then slowing down—passive aggression, highway-style. Jane tried to avoid road rage by keeping clear of the vehicle but the other driver seemed to be out looking for trouble. For the last mile, however, the SUV stayed away.

  Just as she passed a busy exit, navigating a sharp curve, she saw it. It was unmistakably a bald eagle, sitting on the grassy swale off the wide shoulder. Jane’s eyes remained glued to the bird as she drove past. She’d never seen one in the wild and at so close a distance and wished she could pull over to take a photo, but it wasn’t safe and she wanted to get back to the city before the nor’easter hit. She said a quick prayer that the bird wouldn’t venture onto the road. She’d heard that the eagles were coming back to New York in greater numbers.

  Then it happened.

  Jane was in the left lane to pass a compact car going just under the 55-mph speed limit. The black SUV came roaring up behind her, then zigzagged first into the right lane in front of the other car and then back into the left lane just ahead of Jane’s vehicle, leaving her no out, no choice, but to swerve to avoid a high-speed collision.

  Her panic made her overcompensate and she lost control, the car sailing over the narrow grass median. She saw the pickup flying directly at her, saw the horrified shock in the driver’s face, in the whites of his eyes, a terror that he surely saw reflected back at him in Jane’s expression. At the moment of impact there was a thunderous boom, followed by gruesome screeching as two fast-moving opposing forces collided head-on to an abrupt stop.

  It all went down so fast that she never even got to project the scream that lodged in her throat, making it impossible for her to breathe past it.

  Her world became incomprehensible pain… and then spiraled into black oblivion.

  Chapter 2

  “Looks like a head-on,” the young state trooper shouted over the roaring wind as he hurriedly approached Peter Perez, the first paramedic to leap out of the ambulance.

  Trooper Birkin, on scene four minutes after the call came in from a passing motorist, had just swallowed the last delicious bite of an overstuffed burrito when he got the call, and this accident scene was doing his digestion no favors. High-speed car collisions were never fun to look at, and this one was pretty gruesome, with both vehicles twisted into such a damn mess, as if the hand of God himself reached down and scrunched them into a fucked-up sculpture, complete with organic components. Mixed-media art. He snorted a laugh at his own black humor. Birkin was seriously not looking forward to having a look-see at the bodies inside the mangled metal. If the Gs could do that to steel…

  Lucky for him the EMTs reached the site less than ninety seconds later, before Birkin was forced to make any assessment himself. He radioed in for a medevac to stand by, waiting only for the paramedics to confirm life in either vehicle. From the looks of both, it was doubtful. He just prayed there were no kids involved. That would ruin his whole night and follow him into sleep. Head-ons were always the worst, trailed closely by T-bones—and of course when bikes laid down. Nasty business.

  As Perez and his partner got to work, Birkin again got on the radio, asking for backup, and set about securing the scene and detouring traffic, which would start to get heavier with the evening rush hour approaching. The wind was blowing something fierce, and his eyes and nose were running nonstop, commingling, and making it difficult to see a fucking thing. The heat had been oppressive all day, humidity making the air heavy like goo, and now a nor’easter was about to drop, the sky already dark as midnight at barely three o’clock. Looked like all lanes of the highway needed to be shut down since the debris field spread across the narrow grass median, extending to one lane in both directions. Maybe they could keep the outer lane open each way? Regardless, rush hour was gonna be a hot mess. Wet mess.

  Perez yelled to Birkin as he checked inside the compact Subaru SUV. “I got a pulse, single female occupant. We’ll need an airlift to Danbury or Westchester, stat.”

  Birkin radioed the update as Perez’s EMT partner checked the cab of what was left of the pickup. He shook his head when Birkin came over to check. “One occupant, male, deceased.”

  “You sure?”

  The paramedic shrugged. His usual unfazed expression slipped a tiny bit. “Can’t live without a head, last time I checked. Dog’s alive, though.”

  Birkin grimaced, glad he didn’t go do it himself. “A dog?”

  “Yeah. Needs medical attention. Can you drop it off at the closest vet until we notify his next of kin? The dog would go to them—if it lives.”

  “Yeah,” Birkin said, “I could do that. Would you bring it over to my squad car?”

  “Can do. Here comes the chopper.” He whistled. “That was fast. Looks like he’s landing over there, where the median widens a bit. I’ll have to bring the woman there first and then get the dog. Sit tight.”

  Birkin nodded and shifted his attention to detouring traffic. What a crappy end to a long day.

  ******

  It was already a busy night in the emergency room at Westchester General and only promised to get worse as the storm hit and traffic accidents began streaming in. One was arriving ahead of the storm. As they wheeled the young woman in, the team was already in place.

  Emily Lopez was on her first shift in the ER. Last month she’d requested a transfer down from neonatal, having watched three preemies die in a single week. Though the other nurses and even a few doctors assured her that it was an unusually high mortality rate for the department, Emily couldn’t hack it. She could deal with blood and gore but not dead babies.

  When the EMTs unloaded the gurney from the ambulance, Emily was by the door to do escort and get details. She took one look at the young woman’s nose that was hanging off her face and Emily felt her stomach acids gurgle. Poor girl. Taking a deep breath, she forged ahead. The ER might take some getting used to as well.

  They got the young woman situated in the farthest cubicle, hooked up to an IV drip, and were prepping her for surgery. Emily was assisting until Chrissy came on shift and relieved her in triage, so she was able to grab a quick bathroom break. Afterward, she headed over to reception to help out there since she was currently an ER floater and went where needed. As she approached Rosie at the desk, a young man rushed in. He wore business attire and an urgent expression.

  “Can I help you?” Rosie’s calm was in direct opposition to the man’s panic.

  “Uh, yeah. I just heard my friend was brought in here. Car accident?”

  “Your friend’s name, sir?”

  “Jane Jensen.”

  Emily looked at Rosie. “That’s the young woman who just came through ten minutes ago.” She shifted her attention back to the man. “Your name, sir?”

  “Er… Ed… Jensen.” At their look, he added quickly, “No relation… just a coincidence. Is Jane going to be OK?”

  “So you’re not a relative of Ms. Jensen?” Rosie inquired.

  “Uh… no, a friend.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Jensen. We cannot release any information to anyone other than relatives. Do you know a family member we can contact?”

  “Shit, no. I don’t. Can you at least tell me if she’s going to make it?”

  Emily watched Rosie shake her head. “I’m sorry, sir, but we cannot. Only family members. You can help tremendously if you can have one of her relatives contact us.”

  Running his hands through his hair, he spun around indecisively. “All right, all right. I’ll try to get in touch with one of them. Can you take my name and number and ask her relative to call me with her condition in case you reach one first?”

  Rosie nodded, her voice hesitant when she said, “I suppose I can do that.”

  He had to look at a paper in his wallet to give her a contact number. He wrote down Ed Jensen, followed by one of the numbers he’d taken off another piece of paper and handed it to the woman.
She accepted it with a frown, her hackles gone up for some reason.

  “Thanks,” he grumbled as he turned to walk out and under his breath added, “for nothing.”

  ******

  As soon as he stepped through the hospital doors and walked outside, the man who called himself Ed Jensen took a moment to try to collect himself and organize his thoughts. Standing under the awning as the storm beyond quickened, a panic like he’d never known before rolled through him—he tried to power through it. What the hell should he do? Just wait to see what happens?

  Damn it. He stomped his foot so hard on the ground that sharp needles of pain radiated from his heel and shot up his leg. Raking his hands through his hair, he grabbed fistfuls of it as he spun around in place. Go back and try again? Damn it all to hell—he should’ve said he was fucking family.

  He knew it was stupid to come to the hospital in the first place—security cameras were everywhere. But this shit wasn’t supposed to happen. What if she died? The plan would have to be changed. Things were already going horribly wrong before it was even off the ground. He began taking deep breaths and holding them for as long as he could.

  He stood there for a long minute staring into space before he snapped back to reality and made his way to his Porsche.

  He felt like choking someone to death, and he knew just whose throat he was itching to strangle.

  Chapter 3

  Her brain was on fire.

  Jane couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything to stop the explosive violence happening inside her brain. The pain was unbearable and like nothing she’d ever endured. It forced her outside of her body, right into a hallucinatory state.

  There was less than nothing that she could do about it. The paroxysms were ceaseless, excruciating, and growing in severity. She needed it to stop, but she didn’t know how to make it. She couldn’t even scream, and she didn’t know why.

  Sounds were coming at her. They started as a low murmur, gradually increasing in volume as if traveling closer from a long distance but at a fast speed. Through a tunnel maybe. She couldn’t identify them.

  A bright light was bearing down on her. Headlights? The light shone directly into Jane’s eyes and it hurt too. She tried to turn her head away from the offending light but couldn’t move an inch. Her head was immobilized. She grimaced and her face hurt from even that small motion. Every inch of her throbbed, she realized, as consciousness unfolded over her, revealing itself piece by piece.

  “Jane? Can you hear me?”

  The disembodied male voice was deep and suddenly loud. Jane wanted to answer him but was somehow unable to. She attempted to nod but was quickly reminded of her inability to move more than a quarter of an inch.

  “Jane?”

  She couldn’t answer; she tried, but nothing came out.

  “Jane, I’m Dr. Lavelle. You’re in the ICU of Westchester General. Do you know how you got here?”

  “No,” she finally managed, the word croaked out. Her throat was a parched ruin. Dry, desiccated, a desert arroyo in deep summer, in drought. She yearned for cool, clear water. Nothing else would slake her thirst.

  “Do you remember what happened?”

  Jane scrabbled through the jackhammering in her head for the answer that she should know. “I-I… I’m not… not sure.”

  “Do you know your full name?”

  “I…Water.”

  She heard him say something in a lower voice. Asking for ice chips… Someone else must be in the room. “Your name?” he asked again.

  “Jane. Jane Jensen.”

  “Good. What’s the last thing you remember, Jane?”

  “I…I don’t know. School, I guess. It’s over.”

  “School is over?”

  “Yeah. For the year.”

  “And?” the doctor prodded gently after a pause.

  “And,” she repeated, “now… it’s summer.”

  “Summer? Of what year?”

  Her hand, IV tubes dangling from it, reached for her forehead to gently rub it, as if that would trigger her memory but stopped when it touched bandages. “I’m not sure. I think… I think I… ninth grade?”

  The doctor’s words came through the dark slowly. “All right, Jane, there appears to be some memory loss and—”

  “Why?” she interrupted, rising panic in her tone.

  “Please don’t become alarmed,” came the soothing voice. “You were in an automobile accident, and you’ve sustained a head injury. It’s not uncommon to experience some temporary memory loss.”

  His volume dropped to a near whisper but she could still hear him despite the distant murmur of other voices. “Right now, I can only say it seems to be more extensive than anterograde amnesia—the inability to create new memories after the traumatic event. We’ll have to wait and see—”

  “Is the baby OK?” Jane’s rusty voice spoke over him, panicked.

  The room fell silent except for the hum of machines. “Baby?” the doctor echoed. “Was there a baby in the car with you?”

  He turned to the nurse standing just behind the resident trailing him today. “Can you check to see if there were any passengers in her vehicle?”

  Then he turned back to her. “Jane, don’t be alarmed. Everything is being taken care of.

  The doctor continued speaking in a low volume, not to Jane but to the resident he had shadowing him, probably believing that his patient was barely lucid. His voice remained in a soothing monotone, no doubt hoping to reassure her since she was conscious, however minimally.

  He must have assumed she couldn’t hear him but she did, every word. She just had a hard time responding.

  “There seems to be some long-term memory involvement as well.” He patted Jane’s hand. “In all likelihood, you will recover all or most of it as you heal. Right now, we’re going to help you feel better and begin to get back to yourself. For now, I just want you to rest.

  “OK.” Her voice was so faint that the doctor had to bend over to hear.

  Dr. Lavelle exited Jane Jensen’s ICU room, stepping just outside to speak with someone. Jane could hear a female voice and though the conversation was soft, somehow, she heard the words.

  “Lois?”

  “Yes, Doctor?”

  “I want Ms. Jensen to be closely monitored for the next twelve hours. Understood?”

  “Yes. Should I put organ procurement on alert? Her driver’s license indicated her as a potential donor.”

  “No, that’s premature at this point. Right now, keep her stabilized and watch closely for significant swelling—that’s the most immediate danger and almost inevitable. I’ll be back to check in on her within the hour.” He paused for a split second. “Do me a favor, Lois. Check the intake report on Ms. Jensen to see if there is any mention of other occupants in the patient’s car. We ran a pregnancy test and it came back negative, but the patient mentioned a baby. I’m fairly certain she’s delusional, but it’s worth a check. I hope to God there’s no child at home waiting for her.”

  “Of course, Doctor. I’ll be happy to look into it.”

  Neither of them heard Jane’s moan at the mention of organ donation. A single tear slipped down her cheek as she thought of her own imminent death and the fact that there was no child at home waiting for her. Or so the doctor said.

  The only thought running through her head at the moment was her resignation that it was her time to die. And she didn’t want to go.

  Chapter 4

  The call came in at 5:25 p.m., as Melanie Bartholomew, Jane Jensen’s coworker and only real friend, was getting ready to leave the office for the day. She’d been sitting with her brown riding boots propped up on the open drawer of her desk, totally spacing out as she tried to decide whether she should go straight home or treat herself to a new pair of shoes. She’d met a live one at Bar None the past weekend who’d persistently asked for her phone number and his parting words were a promise to call. Then again, Mel had been on the cusp of blackout drunk so maybe he wasn’t all tha
t hot anyway—besides, everyone looks hot at last call. Maybe she hadn’t even given him the right number.

  Even without the potential of a date, there was no wrong reason to buy a new pair of shoes. Leaning back, she ran her fingers through her short black hair. She loved the silky way it felt after a new haircut. Hair salons had the best conditioners.

  “Mel?”

  Nate Thompson’s deep voice calling her name snapped Mel out of her reverie. “Wassup?”

  “Phone call on line four. A woman. Wouldn’t say who it was. Do you want to take it? Sounds like a bill collector.” He lifted his brows as he wagged his finger at her.

  Melanie narrowed her eyes and shot him a filthy look. “Shoes aren’t free, asshole.” He knew she was kidding. They were always going back and forth like that since Mel was fairly obsessed with shoes—a walking cliché in that respect—and her desk was always surrounded by shopping bags. “Yeah, I’ll take it.” She picked up the phone and pressed the line button. “Hello?”

  “Is this Melanie Bartholomew?” a nasal voice on the other end of the line asked.

  The skin on the back of Mel’s neck prickled. “Yes, this is she. How may I help you?”

  “Ms. Bartholomew, you are listed as next of kin for Jane Jensen, of 1632 Kipling Road, Riverdale. Is that correct?”

  Mel’s heartbeat picked up like flapping wings of a bird ready for flight. “Yes,” she managed to choke out clearly, “that’s correct.”

  “I regret to inform you that Ms. Jensen has been involved in a serious automobile accident and has been brought into Westchester General’s ER. She is currently undergoing surgery, and her condition is critical.”

  The shock of the news was like a gut punch and Melanie doubled over, huffing out the last breath she took. “Oh no… my God. OK. Um… I’ll get there as soon as I can.”