Do you understand that you can be charged with attempted murder?

Do you understand that you can be charged with attempted murder?
Violet’s pov

Sleep was a fucking impossibility.

A deep ache had settled into my bones, a persistent nausea churned in my gut, and a web of wires and tubes tethered me to the beeping, blinking machines. The hallway was a river of constant motion as nurses flowed in and out, and the elderly woman sharing my room contributed a symphony of gaseous noises. Relaxation was a concept from another lifetime. The narrow, unforgiving mattress, the pathetic scrap of a blanket, and the relentless glare of the overhead lights every time staff entered made sure of that.

I had never experienced such profound misery. A jittery, crawling anxiety lived under my skin, a vile side effect of the epinephrine, making me want to claw my way out of my own body. Meanwhile, the antihistamine dripping into my veins wrapped my brain in thick, stupid cotton. A pounding headache, a cramped stomach, and a deep, throbbing pain in my chest completed the picture.

I was told Richard saved my life. His CPR, administered until the paramedics could take over, was the reason I was still breathing. The ache in my sternum was a badge of honor from his efforts; the nurses even complimented his technique, mentioning that broken ribs are a common, if brutal, consequence. One of them called him a “scrumptious cupcake.” I managed a weak smile of agreement.

I did not even have my phone for a distraction. I scanned the television channels, but every show and commercial felt like a personal assault on my frayed nerves. A persistent, maddening itch lingered around my neck and face, a ghost of the reaction even after the swelling and hives had receded. I kept applying the medicated cream they had given me.

They also sent me home with two EpiPens, new permanent accessories for my life. The doctor’s warning was blunt: the next exposure would likely be more severe, potentially fatal if I did not inject myself the instant I felt a symptom.

By 5:00 AM, I surrendered to the fact that rest was not coming. My roommate launched into a coughing fit, prompting a visit from the respiratory therapist. I peeled my body from the bed and dragged my IV pole toward the bathroom. The one small mercy was having it to myself; the old woman was confined to a bedside commode.

I closed the door, wishing desperately for a lock.

The first thing I saw was blood. I stared at the crimson stain on the tissue, and a complicated, powerful feeling surged up in my chest with such force it threatened to choke me.

A period is a good thing, I told myself sternly. You have enough to fucking deal with right now. A baby is the last thing you need.

But perhaps… a tiny, hidden part of me had been hoping for something else.

I managed the awkward process with one hand, the other still captive to the IV. A portable heart monitor hung from a strap around my neck, the world’s most unattractive piece of jewelry. At the sink, I washed my hands and then let the flimsy hospital gown slip from my shoulders so I could look at my chest in the mirror.

A bruise marked my breastbone, a dark, heart-shaped shadow. It was a terrifying thought, I might have died. Technically, I did, for a few minutes.

My memory was a blank slate after sitting down to dinner. I had vague, dream-like impressions of the ambulance ride, but I did not truly surface until the second dose of epinephrine jolted me in the emergency room. It was, honestly, a little disappointing. There was no brilliant light, no review of my life, no cosmic journey. No spirit of my father waiting to greet me.

I felt completely cheated.

I looked in the mirror again. I looked like death had taken a bite, found me distasteful, and spat me back out. And my fucking terrible day was about to deteriorate even further.

When I shuffled out of the bathroom, Nash Turner was propped against the wall near my bed. He looked like hell. His hair and clothes were a mess, dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes, and a heavy stubble covered his jaw. “Good morning, Miss Blair. It is good to see you up and about.”

It was humiliating to be seen like this, clad in hospital slipper socks and a gown that gaped open in the back. I fumbled with my free hand, trying to pull it closed. “Hello. What are you doing here?” I studied him, a suspicion dawning. “Have you been here all night?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do not call me that.” I sighed and hauled myself back onto the high, stiff bed.

“Sorry, Violet.” He pushed off the wall, standing up straight. “Your mother is outside. She is asking to see you. Would you like to speak with her, or should I send her away?”

I bit my lip, wrestling with the decision.

My mother had knowingly given me contaminated food. Whatever her justification, whatever her pathetic excuses, she had nearly ended my life. I did not want to see her. Not now, perhaps not ever. If a child could divorce a parent, I was ready to sign the papers.

On the other hand… a burning curiosity was eating me alive. I wanted to hear what she could possibly say. I needed to know who had put her up to it, because I knew my mother far too well. I settled myself against the pillows and gave a single nod. “Let her come in… but Nash?”

“Yes?”

“Please stay close.”

“Of course. Would you like me to remain in the room?”

“Please.”

“No problem.” He went to the door and gestured for my mother to enter.

She looked ghastly, her skin pale and almost bruised around her red-rimmed eyes. “Violet?” she breathed, her face a mask of horrified shame as she absorbed my appearance.

“Mom.” I was impressed by the cold, detached sound of my own voice.

She hurried to the bedside, gripping the metal rail with both hands. I saw Nash shift his position near the window, his focus on my mother intense and predatory. “Violet, please, I am so sorry, it… it was an accident!”

“An accident, Mother? Really?” I held her gaze until she looked down at the floor in guilty defeat.

“You see, I have been seeing a therapist, and… well, I mentioned your strange allergies in one of our sessions.”

I did not even want to ask why the hell she was wasting her therapy time talking about me and my problems instead of dealing with her own.

“He said you were probably faking, that your allergies were just a way to demand my attention after your father died.”

“Are you fucking serious?” I asked, my voice dripping with disbelief. “Do you not remember how sick I was?”

She just looked at me blankly, and I understood then that those months had simply been erased from her memory, or maybe they had never truly mattered to her. The months of constant stomach pain, the endless trips to the bathroom, the miserable bloating. Not to mention the headaches, the rashes, the aching joints. I had not invented any of that, and I certainly had not faked the allergen-specific immunoglobulin E test. My mother had been sitting right beside me when the doctor said she had never seen a patient with so many food sensitivities.

“You were never allergic to those things before,” she muttered.

The doctor had explained that, too. It could have been an environmental shift, like moving out of my childhood home after Daddy died. Or it could have been the stress and trauma wreaking havoc on my immune system. But I was not going to remind her. I did not owe her a single further explanation. I sat perfectly still, my face a stone mask.

“He… he said I should prove you were not allergic, and then confront you about it, so you could just go back to eating normal things.”

I pressed the heel of my hand against my forehead. “So you just decided to do whatever this man told you to do?” I growled from behind my fingers.

“I did not know!” my mother wailed, tears starting again. “I did not think anything bad would happen!”

Nash moved forward then, his expression turning hard and dangerous. “Do you understand that you can be charged with attempted murder?” he asked, his voice low and threatening.

“No! No, I did not do that! I was not trying to hurt anyone!” Mom denied, shaking her head wildly. “I just wanted to stop you from always making yourself the center of attention!” The words burst from her so loudly that a nurse in the hallway stopped and stared, shocked. “Everyone is always focused on you! Oh, poor Violet, she cannot eat bread. Oh, look at Violet, she has snagged herself two rich boyfriends. Oh, save Violet, a bad man is after her. It is all an act! My therapist agrees, even Bennett agrees!” Her voice was climbing, becoming a shrill shriek.

The monitor around my neck started beeping a frantic alarm as my heart rate skyrocketed. I felt a hot pressure behind my eyes, my face flushed, and my mouth went dry.

Was that really how she saw me? Was that what everyone thought?

“Okay, that is enough.” Nash moved toward my mother slowly, the way one might approach a deranged animal, which was precisely what she resembled, with her mascara streaked in black trails down her cheeks and a wild, frantic look in her eyes. “It is time for you to go, Mrs. Blair.”