Page 38 of No Hope of Rescue

She always introduced herself by her first and last name, though. I think of her every time I offer my hand in greeting and say, “I’m Riley Delgado.”

Priscilla Dunbar was the first person to save my life. She got me out of that house, away from my drug addict mother, and helped me figure out later how to file for emancipation.

I never had a family until the Westons. Never really felt seen until I started working side by side with Brock. Last year, when he made me a full partner, he offered to put my name on the company masthead, but I turned him down. I don’t want her, that woman, my mother, tracing me anywhere. I left Tucson with no way to find me. I wasn’t about to hang my name out there.

It’s why I don’t do social media. I have no internet presence. The few times we’ve had to speak with reporters, I’ve stayed in the background. Brock thinks I’m shy. It’s just that I don’t want to be seen and recorded, with my name in some news report.

Shit.

He’s still not back. My mind is jumping around. I have to pace, move. I go walk down the hall to make peace with the vending machine and win yet another cup of coffee.

Ten minutes later, just as I turn away from the trash can where I’ve tossed yet another crumpled, coffee-stained paper cup, a middle-aged nurse approaches me. “Are you Riley Delgado?”

It turns out Codie is out of the ER and resting in a room. She wants to see me. Now. Before anyone else. Before her own mother.

Confused, worried, I follow the nurse to the elevator and up one floor, down a ceramic lime green corridor to room 425. Fourth floor, room twenty-five.

Knocking softly, I enter. Codie looks incredibly small, buried under blankets, a panel of machines tracking her heart, respiration, and God knows what else. I think I see a catheter emerging from the other side of the bed, but I can’t imagine why she has one.

“Hey.” I grab a chair and slide it up next to her bed.

“Hi,” she says. “The police are going to ask me questions, right?” Her face is pale—but I’m not sure it’s from being unwell.

“Whoa, slow down there, girlfriend.”

She stares at me.

“You’ve been through a lot.” I lay a hand on the bed railing

Silence.

“How are you feeling?”

Her small shoulders shrug under the blanket. “When will they come?”

Now it’s my turn to shrug. “I don’t know. I imagine soon.”

Large tears well in her eyes. I half rise from the chair and find her hand under the blankets.

“Hey, hey. Why are you so focused on the police? What’s going on? They’re just trying to help and find the men who took you. I’m so sorry this happened to you, Codie.”

Despite the fact the ER doctor doesn’t believe she’s been sexually abused, there are other forms of a sexual attack: fondling, groping, kissing—having her watch them. She may not have reported it. I shiver when I squeeze her hand and am met with no response.

The same nurse from the hallway whisks in, and Codie startles like a colt, suddenly gripping my fingers in a death hold.

The nurse, with a faded plastic name tag that states “Sheila,” is carrying a heavy black plastic back with a zipper across the top. “Here are your clothes, honey. The police will want them. Make sure your mom brings you something to change into.”

This was a kidnapping. Local law enforcement will want everything bagged, even her shoes. I think about the weather outside. “What about that sweater?” I point to the turtleneck folded in a pile with her pants and underwear. “She doesn’t have a coat.”

The nurse nods. “Everything.”

As soon as she leaves, Codie’s face, already pale, turns ghastly white, and a thin pulse beats in a blue vein that snakes across her temple.

“What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head and then says, “There’s a cell phone in the zip pocket.”

I know for a fact Brock said they threw her phone over the cliff. “They’re going to get you a new one,” I say.