Not Quite Dead (A Lowcountry Mystery)

Chapter Eleven

My eyes open to a brilliant, cloudless morning and the first streaks of golden light across the sky. Even with the clear weather, my bum ankle and the fact that I have no idea where my car is ensure it's almost noon by the time I make it back to Heron Creek. My phone lies useless on the passenger seat, and every time it gleams in the corner of my eye my stomach clenches harder, knowing there's no way to tell Gramps I'm fine.

He's got to be worried sick. There's no telling who he called, either. Maybe Mrs. Walters. It kills me to think people are going to say I'm not good for him, even more so because they're right. They're so right.

Gramps's house appears at the end of the block like a mirage. I want nothing more than to reassure him I'm fine, then take some painkillers and a shower, and go to bed. In that order.

There's someone sitting on our front porch, and the figure jumps to its feet at the sight of my car. It's Melanie, I realize as I park and open the door, watching Grant leap after what might be a frog in the side yard. She strides toward me, worry pinching her pretty features. Red circles rim her eyes and bloom on her cheeks, and she calls Grant to her before she gets close enough to startle at my appearance. If it was horrific yesterday, there probably aren't words now.

She makes no comment. "Get to the hospital, Gracie. They took Gramps a few hours ago."

"Who took him?"

"He called Mayor Drayton when you didn't come down this morning, and when he got here he found Gramps unconscious in the living room."

"What are you doing here?" It might be a rude question, but I can't tell. My brain stopped functioning at the news that my disappearance and subsequent failure to have a charged cell phone like a goddamn adult hurt the one person who never stopped caring about me.

"The mayor called Will. I guess you must have mentioned we're all friends. Were all friends, whatever, and he thought someone should be here to tell you. Will went with Gramps to the hospital."

The smallest bit of relief filters through my mountain of grief, trickling down like a cool river. "Thank you."

"Go. I'm going to feed Grant lunch and then stop by and check on you."



It takes ten minutes to get to the Creek's rinky-dink hospital. It smells like the worst things in the world—antiseptic, false hope, and death. I'd add doctors to the list, but at the moment they're sort of a necessity and I don't want to offend the universe. It hates me enough as it is.

My ankle throbs as I limp-hop to the information desk and get Gramps's room number. He's lying on a bed by the window when I burst through the door, fast asleep and hooked up to a few monitors. At first glance I can see there's nothing invasive, no tubes in his nose or down his throat. The other bed, the one closest to the door, is made and empty.

Mayor Beau sits on one side of Gramps, reading papers probably culled from the briefcase on the floor next to his uncomfortable-looking plastic chair. Will's on the opposite side, his eyes focused on the Cubs game playing on television. They both look up, then jump up at the sight of me in the doorway, which makes me realize I should have at least wiped my face in the car. The weirdness of seeing them here, together, sticks my feet to the spot while they rush over, helping me into the chair closest to Gramps. Will grabs the seat Beau had been using, sliding it over to support my ankle, which looks even worse than it feels.

"Jesus, Gracie, where have you been? And what happened to your foot? And your hands and legs?" Will's gush of concerns washes over me, snapping me out of my trance.

"Her legs? What happened to her face?" Beau's voice sounds strangled and holds a trace of restrained anger.

He should be mad at me. Everyone should hate me for this.