I add Jordan's number to my contacts and tear out of the parking lot.
Keeping my eyes on the road, landmarks pass by in a blur. Autumn-dusted trees and rolling foothills. The sprawling properties and boat marina flanking Gull Lake. Choppy gray waves clawing at the shore. I know the locations by heart, but I'm too distracted to pay them any attention.
Emma caused Jordan's accident. Forced her Jeep over the guardrail, and sent it plummeting hundreds of feet, narrowly missing the river below.
But why would she go out of her way to do something so heinous? Jordan could have been killed—and for what? Emma's already made it clear Jordan has no ties to her disappearance. That whatever information she thinks she has holds no bearing.
But then ... Emma's lied before. Telling my mom I'm paranoid again. Planting drugs in my car for Smith to find. What else is she lying about? For Jordan to summon me to the hospital like this, whatever she has to say must be big. Really big.
Anxiety slams into me as I enter the hospital, my heart thumping against my ribcage as I slide past the information desk. There's no reason for me to hide my face this time. I'm not sneaking in; I've been invited. And no auxiliary volunteer is going to keep me away.
A crowd waits at the elevators. A younger guy with nervous eyes, holding an empty car seat. An older couple with flowers and a gift bag that reads Get Well Soon. A lady playing referee between two prepubescent boys who are clearly trying to provoke one another.
With this many people in line, I'll never fit inside. I scan the area for a staircase, and push myself through the door, taking the steps two at a time up to the second floor. A fluorescent light flickers overhead as I head towards the pediatric wing. It's a different department than where Jordan was before; still an area for the sick and injured, but not as serious as the patients in intensive care.
The waiting room here is empty, and the double doors leading into the department locked. I peer through a window and wave, trying to catch the attention of a staff member at the nurse's station, and it doesn't take long for a woman in bright pink scrubs to notice me. Whatever she does behind the desk releases the lock and the doors let out a metallic click. I step through and tentatively approach the counter.
"May I help you?" she asks.
A chill runs through me as a gust of cool air funnels down the hall. "My friend Jordan Pacey is a patient here. She invited me to visit now that she's awake."
"You must be Arbor. Her mom said you'd be coming." When she smiles, her wide brown eyes crinkle at the corners. "My name's Shandra, I'm Jordan's nurse today. She's in room 219, third door from the end," she says, gesturing to her left.
I thank her and follow her instructions, pausing in front of a wooden door with the numbers 219 plated in the center. It's closed.
Shit. What am I supposed to do now?
My heartbeat floods my ears. I debate asking for help, but the nurse said Jordan was expecting me. I raise my fist and cringe before letting my knuckles rap against the wood.
"Come in," a muffled voice calls from the other side.
I twist the knob and step inside. Jordan is sitting upright, the head of the bed elevated to form an elongated L. Her mother slides a dinner tray with an assortment of cups and bowls in front of her.
A smile stretches across Mrs. Pacey's face. "Arbor, it's so good to see you again! And under much better circumstances this time."
"Um, hi. I hope I'm not interrupting?"
"Not at all. Jordan's been waiting for you, isn't that right?" she says, fluffing the pillow behind Jordan's back.
"Hey." Jordan offers me a fractured smile.
Her voice is deeper than usual, like it's scraping the side of a tin can. Purple bruises dot her lips and eyes. She flinches, her tongue flicking over a laceration on her bottom lip.
"Would you like more petroleum jelly for that? It will help them heal." Her mom hands over a tube of ointment, but Jordan shakes her head and adjusts her left arm across her lap. It's wrapped in a cast from her fingers to her elbow. "Well, as long as you're not alone, I think I'll head down to the cafeteria," she says with the slightest hint of hesitation. "Do you need anything before I go?"
Once again, Jordan shakes her head, her auburn hair disheveled as it swishes around her face.
"I'll let you two be then." Mrs. Pacey gives Jordan's pillow one final fluff, and shuffles toward the door. "Arbor, honey, will you make sure she eats something? It's only a liquid diet, but it's better than nothing," she says, as she passes me.
I needlessly step out of her way. "Absolutely."
Mrs. Pacey lingers for a beat, worry lines spider-webbing across her forehead.
"I'll be fine, Mom," Jordan says from the bed.
"I know, it's just good to see you awake. I wasn't sure if—" A flush rises to her cheeks. "Never mind. I'll be back soon."
Once the door closes, Jordan's eyes meet mine. "Sorry about that. She apparently turned into a helicopter parent while I was unconscious." There's a hint of humor in her tone. "Thanks for coming."
I'm not sure what to say, so I nod.
Using her right hand, Jordan fumbles with a plastic bowl on her tray, attempting to separate the lid from the rim. But the bowl tips, and a wave of amber liquid splashes onto the paper mat underneath.
I lunge toward the bed. "Here, let me help you with that," I say, grabbing paper towels from her table and dabbing them over the puddle of broth. I remove the lids from a bowl of green Jell-O and a mug filled with something that looks like watered-down coffee, and position them within her reach.
When I step back, Jordan looks up through her lashes. "Thank you."
I try to smile but my lips twitch instead. "It's no problem."
She nods toward a nearby chair. "Would you like to sit down?"
"Sure." I drag it closer to the bed and sink into a flowered cushion that's seen better days. My eyes coast along the stark white walls. "This room's a lot more cheerful than your last one," I say, taking in the Looney Tune decals, clinging to the paint.
An awkward silence stretches between us. And then, "Thank you for the roses," Jordan says. "Mom said you stopped by the other day."
A rush of heat swamps my cheeks as I glance at the flowers across the room. Several bouquets surround it now, and the mix of scents hangs in the air like perfume. Mixed with bleach. Mixed with God-only-knows-what.
"I'm sorry, I should have never come here like that. I didn't realize you were so ... sick."
Jordan dips a plastic spoon into the bowl, scooping up broth and letting it dribble off the edge. "I think it's cool you snuck in." She doesn't make eye contact when she says it.
A knot tightens in my stomach. "It wasn't cool. I came to get information about Emma. Not that I wasn't worried about you," I add quickly. "But I'd be lying if I said I didn't have ulterior motives."
Her green eyes lift to mine. "I know we're not the best of friends. Hell, we barely even know each other. But don't feel bad about why you came here. It still means a lot that you did."
Jordan gives me a genuine smile. I smile back. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you're feeling better. You look better, too."
She snorts and turns away. "Yeah, right. I look like something you'd scrape off the bottom of your shoe."
She doesn't get it. Her face may be bruised and swollen, but the color's back in her cheeks. When I came here the other day, she looked like a corpse. "You're alive. That's all that matters."
When our gazes meet again, they hold. "So, about Emma ..." she finally says.
I scoot forward in my seat. "Do you really think she caused your accident?"
"From what I could make out in the headlights, it looked like her truck. It was that same shade of blue."
"But I haven't seen her drive it since she's been home. She barely leaves the house."
Jordan shrugs a shoulder. "I know it sounds crazy, but there aren't any other vehicles around here that color."
It's true. When a resident of Menteuse needs to go car shopping, they have to travel far and wide to get to the closest dealerships. And in a sea of classic whites, silvers, blacks, and grays, the chances of them choosing that particular hue of royal blue isn't very likely.
My voice comes out a whisper. "What happened?"
She takes a deep breath, the color leaching from her face like when she was unconscious. "After I left your house, I noticed a vehicle following me. At first, I thought it was my imagination, but every turn I took, it did the same. So instead of going home, I decided to drive to the police station, just to be safe. But by that point, the only way to get there was to take Fibber's Ridge."
Her entire body recoils at the name.
"It was late and the roads were wet, yet that truck was the entire time, riding my bumper. And their high beams were on like I wasn't even there. I mean, who does that on Fibber's Ridge, right? It nearly blinded me," she says, like she's still processing what happened. "And then all of a sudden, they switched lanes, and I thought they were finally going to pass me. But instead, it pulled up next to me and forced me off to the side. I tried not to lose control, but when we came to the curve—you know the one I'm talking about?—I slammed into the guardrail and that's the last thing I remember."
My eyes squeeze closed as I envision what she just said. "But why would Emma do that? It makes no sense."
Jordan clears her throat and reaches for a cup of water. When she picks it up, she gives it a little shake. "I'm sorry, do you mind?" she says, her voice hoarser than before. She glances at the plastic pitcher near her tray.
I bounce up from my seat and pluck the lid from her foam cup, filling it to the rim. When I seal it back in place, I tear the paper off a fresh straw and stick it through the slot.
"Thanks," Jordan says when I pass it back. She takes a long swallow. "The doctor said my throat is sore because of the breathing tube." She pauses, and turns away. "That night, when I came over to your house, I wanted to tell you something. Something I haven't told anyone."
I blink. My stomach dropping to my toes. "Anyone?"
"Not a soul."
It feels like forever before she continues, and the longer she stalls, the more I know I'm not going to like what I hear.
And then she hits me with it. "Have you heard of an app called Prism?"