Page 7 of Better than Famous

Ten minutes later, the registrar arrived. She wore a crisp floral blouse and a silver lanyard, carrying an iPad.

"Hi, Kate. I’m Sharon." She gave me a polite, professional smile. "Brenda said you had a rough night. I’m sorry about your car." She tapped the screen, looking over the file. "The ER visit, the X-rays, and the physician’s fee come to fifteen hundred dollars. Since we don’t have insurance on file, how would you like to settle the balance today?"

The number felt like a physical punch to my bruised ribs. I had three hundred dollars in cash at the bottom of a canal. "I... I don’t have my cards."

Sharon’s expression remained kind, but her posture straightened. "I understand. It’s a stressful situation. Do you have Apple Pay? It’s linked to your watch."

I held up my left arm. The Apple Watch was waterproof. It was the only piece of my real life that hadn’t drowned. I brought my wrist to the sensor on her iPad as hope lighted in my chest.

Please work. Please, let there be one account he hasn’t locked yet.

Beep.

The screen flashed red.

DECLINED.

"I’m sorry, Kate," Sharon said softly. "It didn’t go through. Do you want to try one more time?"

I tried. Again. And again.

Beep. DECLINED. CONTACT ISSUER.

It wasn’t a glitch. It was a message. Nash knew I was gone. He had done exactly what he’d promised the last time I’d told him we were over. He turned off the tap. He froze the joint accounts, the business cards, and the personal lines. He was starving me out.

I lowered my arm. The watch was like a shackle. "It’s not working."

Sharon sighed, her eyes full of pity, but she didn’t budge. "I’m so sorry. Hospital policy is pretty strict. I can’t release the prescription for the pain medication without a confirmed payment."

I thought quickly. “I don’t need pain medication. I’ll just take something over the counter. I gave an address earlier to Brenda. Can you just send the bill there?” It was my PR firm’s headquarters and one of the few addresses I knew by heart.

I held my breath as Sharon typed on her mobile workstation. “Looks like we have your name and a valid address. I can issue the bill and send it there.”

"Thank you."

"You can wait in the lobby," she said, gesturing toward the double doors at the end of the hall. "But we need to clear the gurney for the next transport. Can you walk, or should I get a wheelchair?"

I slid off the mattress. A hot jab of pain shot up my leg, but I clamped my jaw shut. I wasn’t going to cry. I was done crying. "I can walk."

I limped toward the exit, clutching the discharge papers as if they could keep me from disappearing entirely.

I limped down the hallway, clutching the discharge papers like they were a shield. The tile squeaked under my one remaining sneaker as I pushed through the double doors into the waiting room. It was quieter here, with a TV mounted in the corner playing a muted news loop about the approaching tropical depression. I needed to think. I needed to figure out how to get to... where? I had no car. No money. No phone.

I limped toward the vending machine, mostly just to have something to lean against. A man was standing there, feeding quarters into the slot. He was young, maybe twenty-two, wearing a faded hoodie and cargo shorts, with a heavy, professional-looking Nikon messenger bag slung over his shoulder.

My stomach dropped.

He turned as the machine dispensed a bag of chips and looked at me. His eyes were glazed over at first, just scanning the room. Then they stopped on my face. He blinked. He frowned. He tilted his head to the side, looking past the brown wig, past the total absence of makeup.

Recognition was a funny thing. It happened in stages—confusion, disbelief, and finally, realization. All three crossed his face in the span of two seconds, then his face went slack with shock.

"Holy shit." He reached for his bag. He didn’t pull out a gun. He pulled out a Nikon DSLR with a long lens. "You’re her. You’re Sutton Vale." His voice rose with excitement at every word.

I froze, utterly unable to move. I was backed against a vending machine full of stale Doritos and Junior Mints, my ankle throbbing, my bank accounts frozen, and my ex hunting me.

The shutter clicked.

Click-whir.