“You were drugged,” he states bluntly. There's nothing fatherly or gentle about his tone. I must have been imagining the flicker of concern I saw in his eyes earlier. There is something there in his voice, though, irritation maybe? “Like I said, the scumbag has been dealt with. He'll rot in prison.”
I guess I'm grateful for that. It's a small town, though, and unless they were just passing through, I would most likely know the person. I just can't imagine any of them being capable of doing it.
“Who was it?”
“That's not important.”
There's no mistaking the dismissive way he answers. It's his 'this line of questioning is over' tone.
Turning away from him, I look around the room again and wonder how long I've been in here?
And then, another flicker of memory. Jacob. I think I was on my way to see him.
Yes.
I remember that now.
I wonder if he knows what happened to me? Would he have somehow heard it around town? I can't even imagine how he would feel about it, something hitting so close to home.
Is he okay?
I shift in my hospital bed as the uneasy thoughts start running rampant. I know he's been living on his own and dealing with everything himself for the past decade, but I can't help but feel like something like this would push him too far.
I care about him so much and love him, so–
“When you're released,” my father starts, cutting off my thoughts. “I'll be taking you home.”
My eyes swing to him. “Home? As in, my home?”
“That place is not your home. You belong in Chicago with your mother and me.”
“What? No!” I sit up straighter in my bed. “My life . . . I have a job–”
“Job,” he scoffs. “That job is done. You've been in here a week. We've already called and taken care of that.”
“A week?!” My stomach twists and turns at the thought.
“I got them to keep you under for longer to make sure you were okay.”
No. I can't believe this is happening. Exactly what I was afraid of.
I feel like I have no control over the situation, no control of my life.
Not only are my wings being clipped once again, but they're going to be bound close to my body.
“Where is mom?” I croak, noting that she hasn't made an appearance yet.
“She had an event back at home that needed organizing. You know how she is.”
I do know how she is. Her image is most important, and she'll never miss something that will make her look good. Not even for her own daughter, who is in the hospital after being attacked.
“Listen, we'll talk about this later,” he says, starting for the door. “Get some rest.”
“Wait. Um. Where's my phone?”
He looks at me over his shoulder, and there's a beat before he answers. “Must have gotten lost on the beach.” And then he's gone.
Alone, I lay my head back and stare at the ceiling.