Chapter 139 Blood Under My Nails
Victoria's POV
The walk to the main road took forever. Every step sent fire through my broken ribs, every breath a reminder of the alley, of Catherine's revenge, of how spectacularly everything had collapsed.
My bare feet were shredded, leaving bloody prints on the asphalt, but I couldn't stop. Couldn't let myself think about the body sinking into the lake behind me, the weight of what I'd just done settling like stones in my chest.
I had to keep moving.
The gas station appeared like a mirage in the darkness—fluorescent lights bleeding into the night, a beacon of civilization after the nightmare of those woods.
I stumbled into the bathroom, locked the door, and stared at myself in the grimy mirror.
Christ. I looked like I'd crawled out of a grave.
My face was streaked with mud and blood, the gash on my cheek still oozing. My designer blouse—what was left of it—hung in tatters, exposing the purple bruises blooming across my ribs. My broken hand had swollen to twice its normal size, the fingers bent at unnatural angles.
But I was alive. Dr. Whitmore wasn't.
I cleaned up as best I could with paper towels and hand soap, wincing as the water hit raw skin. The cut on my cheek needed stitches, but that would have to wait.
Right now, I needed to disappear, to get somewhere safe before anyone realized what had happened.
I pulled off the ruined blouse, turned it inside out to hide the worst of the blood, and slipped it back on.
It would have to do. My own hair was so matted with mud and blood that it looked different anyway. Dark. Lifeless.
Good. I needed to be unrecognizable.
I bought a cheap hoodie from the gas station's pathetic clothing rack, paying cash, keeping my head down when the clerk's eyes lingered too long on my face. Then I walked back outside and opened a rideshare app on the burner phone I'd bought two days ago.
The driver who pulled up ten minutes later was a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a rosary hanging from his rearview mirror. He took one look at me and frowned.
"You okay, miss?"
I forced a smile, sliding into the backseat and pulling the hood up to shadow my face. "Car accident. Just need to get to NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital."
His frown deepened. "You sure you don't want me to call an ambulance? You look—"
"I'm fine." My voice came out sharper than I'd intended. I softened it, added a tremor of vulnerability. "My sister's there. She's... she's dying. I just got the call. I was so upset, I ran off the road."
I held up my broken hand, let him see the grotesque angle of the fingers. "This happened when the airbag deployed. But I need to see her. Please. I can't wait for an ambulance."
The lie rolled off my tongue smooth as silk, honed by years of manipulation. I watched his expression shift from suspicion to sympathy, saw the moment he decided I was a victim, not a threat.
"Of course," he said quietly, pulling back onto the road. "I'll get you there. Just... hang on, okay?"
I leaned back against the seat, closing my eyes, letting the pain wash over me in waves. The drive to Manhattan would take over an hour. Plenty of time to think, to plan, to figure out what the hell I was going to do next.
Because I couldn't go back. Not to my apartment, not to my old life.
Adrain would be looking for me by now. He'd have called the mental hospital, discovered I never arrived.
Adrian would be tracking my credit cards, my phone, every digital footprint I'd ever left.
But they didn't know about the burner phone I carried with me at all times, just in case I needed it.
I'd just never thought it would happen like this.
"Your hand," the driver said suddenly, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. "Is that... is that blood? Under your nails?"
My breath caught. I looked down at my good hand—the one I'd used to grip the flashlight, to beat Dr. Whitmore's skull in—and saw the dark crescents of dried blood beneath my fingernails.
'Think.' Fast.
"I tried to stop the bleeding," I whispered, my voice breaking. "My sister's. On the phone. I could hear her... choking. The nurse said there was blood. So much blood. I was clawing at my own hand, trying to—" I let out a sob, raw and real, because the fear was real even if the story wasn't. "I can't lose her. I can't."
The driver's face crumpled with pity. "Hey, hey. It's okay. We'll get you there. Just breathe, alright?"
I nodded, burying my face in my hands, letting my shoulders shake.
He didn't speak again for the rest of the drive, just turned up the gospel music on his radio and gave me space to "grieve."
Stupid, sentimental fool.
By the time we pulled up to the hospital, I'd composed myself. Paid him in cash, added a generous tip that made him wish me luck and God's blessings. Then I walked through the automatic doors into the bright, sterile hell of NewYork-Presbyterian, just another broken woman seeking help in the middle of the night.
It was just past three AM. The lobby was nearly empty—a few exhausted family members dozing in chairs, a janitor mopping the far corner. No one looked at me twice.
I found a bathroom, locked myself in a stall, and forced myself to think clearly despite the pain and exhaustion. I needed Josephine's room number, but I couldn't just walk up to information looking like this. I needed to blend in, to look like someone who belonged.
I left the hospital and found a 24-hour diner two blocks away. Ordered coffee I couldn't drink, a plate of eggs I couldn't eat. The waitress kept refilling my cup, her kind eyes asking silent questions I didn't answer.
"Just waiting," I told her. "My mom's in surgery."