Page 39 of Demo
“Bye, Celia.” I offer my hand, and we shake.
***
I know my next move is going to be awkward, and I’d rather drag myself across hot coals than do it but, dammit, I need answers.
I’m standing on the street when I pull out my phone and start to type a text to Knox, but it is long and making no sense and I decide, fuck it, I’ll just call him. His brother is a part-time volunteer EMT and may be able to give me some information I need.
It rings several times, and I am about to hang up, figuring he’s avoiding talking to me, when Knox answers. “Lizzie?” he sounds startled.
“Yeah. Hi.” If it’s possible to sound pathetic in just two words, I do. “If it’s a bad time I can call back.”
“No, no. I just got in the truck and had to fish my phone out of my pocket. What’s up?”
“I’m kind of calling to ask for a favor.”
“Okayyyy.” His response is a little questionable, and it breaks my heart. There was a time we would have done anything for each other.
“So, there’s a long back story, but essentially what I’m hoping is, if I find out which ambulance company responded to the Jerome King shooting a while back, do you think you can ask Bram to find out the names of the paramedics who arrived at the scene?”
There is a moment of silence, and I am about to say his name to make sure I didn’t lose him, but then he speaks up. “Lizzie, I already know who the first responders were.”
“You do?”
“You really don’t remember? I told you. Jerome was brought to the hospital during Bram’s shift. He wasn’t one of the drivers, but he remembers the call coming in … Lizzie?” It’s his turn to make sure I am still on the line.
“Yeah, sorry. Shit, I don’t remember anything, apparently.”
Another beat of silence.
“Yeah, it was Jimmy and Sanders from EMStar.”
“Any chance he could put me in touch with them?”
“You’d probably have better luck just swinging by the headquarters and asking when they’re next on shift,” he says.
That works for me. I know where headquarters is. “OK, great. Thanks. I guess that’s all—”
“Lizzie?”
I suck in a breath. “Yeah, Knox?”
There is another moment of silence. “You OK? You seem a little, I dunno, off.”
Well, my marriage is falling apart, and my job is on the line.
“You can call me for anything, you know that, right?” he says.
“Um, yeah.”
Silence.
“My fucking back is killing me from sleeping on the pullout couch,” he blurts out, and I know he’s trying to lighten the mood. “I know you remember what it’s like sleeping on that thing. Or, well, I guess we didn’t do much sleeping …”
I smile, telling myself it’s because he is in pain, and not from the memories of us trying to silently have sex on his dad’s pullout couch, then close my eyes at the memories.
“Anyway …” he continues.
“Anyway …” I reply.
