The Split by Kit Frick

Author:Kit Frick
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria
Published: 2024-02-13T00:00:00+00:00

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At a quarter after midnight, my second attempt to call Dylan goes to voice mail, and I settle for leaving a message. He hasn’t responded to my texts either, which is very unlike him. That said, it was already after nine the first time I reached out. He’ll see my messages in the morning.

Earlier, I gritted my teeth and left a message for Mark as well. I’ve never been a big fan of Mark Lloyd, even less so now that Esme has left him. Nonetheless, I figure he should know what’s going on, but I say a tiny prayer that if he comes to visit, he does it while I’m not around.

Over the past hour, I’ve squeezed as much information out of the hospital staff as they seem to know. Esme was found slumped on the sidewalk outside a closed storefront on the LES. The person who called 911 either didn’t leave a name or the hospital failed to record it. She was unconscious, covered in vomit, and bleeding badly where her head had struck the pavement. Fortunately, she collapsed in a busy area with a robust nightlife scene, and the paramedics said she hadn’t been out for long when they arrived. She came to just long enough to express confusion about where she was and how she’d gotten there.

At the hospital, they pumped her stomach and treated her head wound, but the swelling—a product of both the head trauma and the overdose—was severe enough for them to put her back under. The toxicology report hasn’t come back yet, but they suspect some mix of hallucinogens, alcohol, and the benzodiazepines they found in her purse. Dr. Kinnard says she could be out for a few hours or a few days, depending on how long it takes the swelling to go down.

As I half-doze in the hard hospital chair, fingers interlaced with Esme’s, I try to work out what the hell happened. In one scenario, my sister was partying downtown, and when she collapsed, whoever she was with got spooked and left her there. In another, she went outside alone and intentionally OD’d. In either case, I don’t have any idea who she might have been out with tonight. And the head trauma—did she really just hit her head when she fell? Or did someone do this to her?

The thought sends a chill racing through me.

Around four a.m., I give up on sleep and give myself over fully to the mire of questions clogging my brain. I need answers the hospital can’t provide. With Esme out indefinitely, and faced with the uncertainty she’ll be able to remember what happened when she is awake, I can’t wait for the anesthesiologist to bring her around. I switch on the light and reach for her phone. After three failed attempts to get the facial recognition to comply, I finally lift Esme’s mask gently from her face and raise her phone screen again. The ventilator gives three quick beeps and my heart nearly

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