Chapter One

Charlie

Thursday, June 15th: 1:30 A.M.

Aiden’s mouth is moving, but I can’t make out the words. While he goes on about Wall Street like he’s some big shot investor, I’ve been carefully counting the freckles on his face. It’s this game I play when I get bored of our conversation, though I’ve never successfully completed a count. So far, I note at least 65 freckles across the bridge of his tanned nose and cheeks.

You’d think I’d have every mark on my fiancé’s skin memorized by now, but I don’t. Each time I play this little game, I have to start over because I forget where I left off. 

We’ve been engaged for two years and dated for two before that. He’s handsome, successful, and charming when he wants to be—perfect on paper. To our family and friends, we’re already married.

I look down at my glass to check the ice cubes. Watching them slowly melt into my drink makes me giddy. The water diluting the purple liquid makes the glass look like a lava lamp I had as a kid. 

The loud crowd blends into the sound of the music, embracing my body like a warm blanket. I love this bar; it feels like one you would see in a rom-com. It’s a Tiki-themed speakeasy made to look like a dark cave lined with pink and yellow Christmas lights. Plastic flowers dangle from the ceiling like wild vines, reminding me of an adults-only version of The Rainforest Café. 

The crowd is still pretty full for a weeknight, but I guess that’s normal for a small college town. The bars in Redwell are usually filled with 20-somethings taking advantage of their new-found freedom.  

“Hey.” Aiden crudely snaps his fingers in front of my face. I hate it when he does that. It reminds me of my days as a waitress, when rude men would snap to get me to come to their table. “You ready to go?” He belches. 

“Oh, yeah. Good idea. I’m getting kind of tired.” The room spins ever so slightly as I try to hop down from the tall barstool. The various colored lights blur together to form a soft orange hue. Aiden grabs me tightly by the hand and leads us toward the front of the bar, aggressively swaying with each step as he pulls me through hordes of drunk students. Several hot, damp bodies press against mine as we try to squeeze through the narrow doorway leading us outside. 

The cool desert air feels crisp on my skin and instantly dries the beads of sweat forming on my hairline. 

I’ve become a night owl since moving to Arizona. I’m from a coastal town in California; it’s the only time I can actually handle the temperature outside. I also work the graveyard shift at the hospital, so my mental clock keeps me awake even on my nights off. 

“I’ll order us a car,” I say as I pull out my phone.  

“No.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t drink that much.” 

“Yes, Aiden. Let me just call a car. You’ve been drinking a lot.” I raise my hand. “It’ll be quick.”

“I’m fine, Charlie,” he snaps back. His tightened jaw and flared nostrils say he won’t budge. 

I’d really prefer to be picked up, but Aiden gets angry whenever I suggest it. He says alcohol hardly affects him, so there’s no need to pay someone else to drive us. We’ve argued about it dozens of times, but tonight, I don’t have the energy. Work was unusually hectic this week, and alcohol makes me drowsy. 

“Fine.” I give up. “Just get me to bed,” I whine as I drag my feet over the parking lot gravel. The dusty purple neon sign spelling out ‘The Hot Spot’ angrily buzzes above us, as if lecturing the group of moths fluttering around it.

“I know,” Aiden grunts back. “Hurry up and get in.” He rolls his eyes as he swings open the passenger door. 

“What a gentleman,” I scoff as I fall onto the cold leather seat. I slide the backrest down so I can doze off during the drive home.  

My body jolts back as he floors it out of the parking lot, gravel grinding beneath the tires. I can feel us building speed once we hit the smooth pavement. My head feels like it’s dragging behind the rest of my body while each turn rocks my stomach like we’re on a boat in rough waters.

“Slow down,” I groan. “Why are you driving so crazy?” I sit back up and roll my window down to fight the motion sickness. 

“I’m not driving crazy. You’re just drunk,” he says matter-of-factly. 

“Don’t tell me I’m drunk! I don’t need to be sober to know you’re driving erratically.” I cross my arms tightly. I can’t stand when he acts like I’m being dramatic. 

“Okay. Do you want to drive?” he hisses as he points at me. “If you’re so annoyed by my driving, maybe you should be the one taking us home!” 

We don’t spend many nights out at the bars, but when we do, it tends to end in petty arguments like this one. 

Aiden mumbles something under his breath as he pushes harder on the gas. I feel like we’re traveling at light speed now, and I need to trick my brain into not puking. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am drunker than I thought. 

I close my eyes again and rest my head against the cold plastic of the door, the wind against my face from the open window both soothing and suffocating. 

We slow slightly before turning right. Even though my eyes are closed, I know we’re almost home; I’ve driven this route a thousand times before. 

A loud bang against the hood of our car rips me from my thoughts. My hand shoots for the overhead handle as the car jumps over what feels like a speedbump, fingers tightly wound, as if this will single handedly protect me.

“Oh my God, stop the car! What was that?” I shout, blood draining from my face. We come to a screeching halt about twenty feet away. 

“I-I think you hit something,” I stutter. 

Aiden puts his arm over the passenger seat as he turns his head back toward the rear window. “No. I don’t see anything.” His voice trembles as he looks into the dark void behind us. I can see the fear in his eyes too. 

“We need to go check.” I start to unbuckle my seatbelt, but Aiden’s eyes shoot in my direction. 

“Are you crazy?” His voice cracks. He snatches the buckle out of my hand and forces it back into the lock. 

“What are you doing? We need to go out there and make sure we didn’t hurt someone!” I plead.

Aiden scrunches his blond brows and purses his lips as he thinks over the situation. “Okay,” he says with a long sigh. “I’ll go check and come back.” He swings open the door. “But wait here,” he instructs, stumbling out of the car, leaving his door wide open before cautiously walking toward the lump in the road.

The rush of cold air and adrenaline wakes me up. The car dings in his absence, as if calling for its owner to return and somehow slowing time. Ding… Ding… Ding… 

Oh my God. This can’t be happening. I can’t believe he did this. I can’t believe I let him do this! I look in the rearview mirror at my fiancé’s shadow. His dark figure grows smaller in the distance. He appears to bend over for a moment to examine something in the road before straightening and speed-walking back to the car. 

Aiden jumps into his seat and stomps his foot on the gas without buckling up again. This can’t be a good sign. 

“What was it?” I ask. “Was it a person?” 

He begins moaning loudly, like an injured animal, like he’s trying to speak but can’t. 

“What was it?” I repeat as hot tears stream down my face. “Did we hit a person, yes or no?” 

He looks at me with glossy eyes. “Yes,” he utters. 

My heart sinks. We left a human being on the road, injured, possibly dead. How could we do this? “Stop the car. We need to go back,” I say.

He shakes his head frantically. “No. No. No,” he groans. “We can’t do that! Do you want to go to jail? We can’t. The house is right around the corner. We need to hurry and put the car in the garage before anyone sees us.” His knuckles go white as he tightens his grip on the steering wheel. 

“Stop the car, or I’ll jump out!” I threaten. “We need to help them. We need to call the police!” 

That’s when he realizes I’m serious. The car swerves toward the sidewalk and comes to a screeching halt at the end of the block. “Fine. If you need to help him, be my guest. I’m going to park the car and run back to you.” His voice goes deep. “Don’t tell the cops anything ‘til I get there.”  

I ignore his comments and jump out of the car. Luckily, I chose to wear short block heels tonight. I sprint back to the street corner with all the power in my being. My feet and thighs feel like they’re on fire by the time I reach the bloodied body in the road. It takes a moment for my mind to comprehend what I’m looking at.   

I tumble to my knees beside the person, the jagged blacktop scraping away my skin in the process. A man is lying on his back in a pool of blood.

I’m stumbling over my phone to turn on the flashlight to inspect his injuries. He’s unconscious, breaths shallow. 

“Sir, can you hear me?” I say loudly. “You’re going to be alright!” 

Still no response. 

I lift my shaky fingers and somehow manage to dial 9-1-1. 

“911.What’s the address of your emergency?” a woman with a nasally voice answers. 

“Yes, hello. My name is Charlette Damascus, and there’s been an accident. We need an ambulance on the corner of High Street and Washington Avenue.” My voice nearly gives out as I try to get my breathing under control. 

“Okay. Can you tell me what happened? Who’s injured?” 

I check his pulse. “I don’t know him, but there’s an unconscious male lying in the street with several shallow lacerations to his left arm and leg,” I explain. “I think his right leg might be broken too,” I add after further examination.

“Okay. Officers are on the way and should be there in a few minutes. In the meantime, please stay on the line.”

I ignore her and mute my microphone. If the operator is still speaking, I can’t hear her.

I’ve treated hundreds of patients with injuries like these in the Intensive Care Unit, but I would have never imagined being the cause of them. 

I point my phone’s flashlight back at the man. He’s wearing running shoes with blood-soaked Nike Crew socks, gray cotton shorts ending just above the knee, and a tattered black long-sleeve shirt. He was obviously working out, but why so late? And why in the middle of an unlit street? I take a deep breath to try to stop myself from spiraling. 

His face is covered in blood and dirt, so I can’t see the full extent of his wounds, but it’s safe to assume he has a concussion and other internal injuries. 

I take off my jean jacket and gently place it under his head, hovering my right ear slightly above his mouth so I can listen to his breathing. His lungs sound restricted as he struggles to inhale, so I roll him to his side to help keep his airway open until help arrives. 

Guilt and anger wash over me. How could this have happened? 

I look around for Aiden, terrified of being alone right now. What if he doesn’t come back? What would I say? I feel like a child left at the checkout counter as their parent runs off to find a last minute item. 

I try to push the thought out of my mind so I can focus on the person in front of me. I need to keep him stable while we wait for the paramedics. I sit on the road beside him, patiently waiting for sirens or lights. I tuck my tangled dark hair behind my ears so I can get a better look at him, and I can tell there’s a handsome face buried beneath the blood and grime from the road. 

His left eye twitches simultaneously with the left corner of his mouth, like he could be waking up.

“Hello. Can you hear me?” I ask again. “An ambulance is on the way.” I gently place my hand on his side to make sure he doesn’t roll onto his back. A knot forms in my throat as I look at the battered person before me, and I try my hardest not to burst into tears.

A pair of stomping feet approach me, Aiden is out of breath and disheveled, half of his white button-up shirt tucked into his pants while the other half flaps in the wind. His eyes are wide, face pale as a ghost. He’s terrified but, like me, is trying to pull himself together. 

“Why did you drive off like that? Now we’re going to look like we’re hiding evidence!” I shout. “The police will be here any minute. We need to tell them the truth.” I bring my voice back down to a whisper. “I’m sure everything will be okay if we just fess up now.” 

Aiden hunches over and rests his hands on his knees. “No,” he lets out between gasps, leaning against an old wooden fence. Once he gets his breathing under control, he speaks again. “We need to tell the cops we found him like this. We didn’t see the car. We can’t describe the car because we didn’t see it.” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” I fire back quickly. 

“Shh!” He points to the unconscious man beside me as if he was secretly listening in. 

“Look,” he starts, “what’s done is done. I already—” He stops talking at the sound of sirens in the distance. 

I don’t want to move the jogger off the street out of fear of hurting him more. “Aiden! Go flag them down. I can’t move him out of the way!” I scream frantically.

After what feels like an eternity, red and blue lights appear at the end of the street, sirens growing louder as they approach. Aiden runs to do as he’s told, flailing his arms while jumping up and down to get their attention. 

An ambulance arrives first, followed by a police car. Within minutes, a pair of young men in blue uniforms have the injured man strapped to a gurney and loaded into their truck, leaving my denim jacket and a dark pool of blood in his place.

I grab my dirtied coat and sit on the curb beside Aiden, who’s waiting for someone to take our statements. Two officers, a man and a woman, step out of their patrol vehicle. The tall man talks first. “Hello. Which one of you called?” he asks with a straight face, as if this is just an ordinary day in the office for him. 

“Um…that would be me, sir. My name is Charlette Damascus. This is my fiancé, Aiden Beckett.” 

The officer’s eyes remain glued to his notepad. “Can you tell us what happened?”

I open my mouth to tell him what happened. “Well, sir—” 

Aiden cuts me off. “We were walking home and found that guy lying in the road. We stopped to help him and called you guys right away,” he says calmly.

I look at Aiden in disgust. Are we really doing this right now? Should I call him out and tell the truth? Or will the fact that he’s lying and hid the car just make it worse? My mind feels scrambled as I try to figure out the best course of action. 

“Did you see the car that hit him or hear any noises?” the man in uniform follows up. 

“No sir. We didn’t see any cars,” Aiden answers a little too eagerly. “I heard tires screeching but didn’t think anything of it. I figured it was just some dumb college kids street racing.” He lets out a nervous laugh. The lies pour out of his mouth so effortlessly, even I would believe him had I not experienced the crash myself. 

“And around what time did you hear that sound?” The officer looks up from his pad.

Aiden shoots a glance to me. “Um, what time would you say that was?” He rubs his chin as if to think. “Maybe 10 or 15 minutes before we called you? I don’t know exactly what time that was.” He shrugs.

The officer’s eyes move to Aiden. “What were you guys doing out so late?” he asks, pale eyes narrowing in suspicion. 

“I work the graveyard shift at the hospital as an RN,” I jump in without thinking, “so I’m normally awake at this time. Aiden and I live just around that corner there and wanted to go for a walk.” There’s no turning back now; I guess I’m officially an accomplice. 

The officer looks to his partner and waves her over, a short, narrow woman with a slicked back blonde bun. “Please leave your contact information with Officer Bauer here. We’ll call you if we have any more questions,” he says before walking away.