Warning: This story depicts some nasty subjects, such as drug abuse and suicide.
If you'd like to tell me what a wonderful writer I am or that I royally suck, feel free at: XenaNut@hotmail.com
The world was one big swirl, mixing with the cool breezy night. Christine stepped out of the rental that she'd parked smack in the middle of the rickety old bridge. She had no idea that bridges like this even existed anymore. Certainly not in L.A.
The boards creaked under her booted feet, her unsteady body reeling as the chemicals raced through her blood stream, slamming every nerve ending she had alive as it passed. Her vision was blurred, the rail she was nearing seeming so far away, her hand reaching out, trying to bring it back.
The brunette nearly fell as the rail hit her mid-section, knocking her off balance. She giggled to herself, thinking of those warning signs on mirrors- Warning: Objects may seem closer than they appear.
Grabbing onto it, she steadied herself, looking over it, down into the murky depths of the river, which river? Hell, she couldn't remember. All she knew was it was some river in the podung town she'd found herself in.
Raising a leather-clad leg, Christine rested her boot against a rung of the railing, grunting slightly as she pushed with her thigh, her other boot finding the top rung of the railing. She cursed at the splinter that lodged in her hand as she grabbed the nearest support pole, a dangling light attacked to it swinging back and forth as she disturbed it with her head.
"Fucker!" Christine slurred, bringing a hand to her head, then grabbing the pole with both hands as she began to lose her balance again.
Steadying herself, she once again looked down into the water, midnight black in the near moonless night. The swinging lantern cast eerie shadows on everything, shadows dancing across the wood planks of the bridge, shadows dancing across Christine's features.
She felt a sting behind her eyes, and shook her head to try and get rid of it. She was also trying to shake the memories that were beginning to flood back in, her high wearing off, the numbness wearing off. She was starting to be able to think, and she didn't want to think, feel, remember.
The crowd, huge and loud, demanding, wanting every part of her that they could get, or could take. The band behind her, playing, exchanging glances with each other as Christine had stood there, microphone between her hands, forehead resting against the silver head. She had missed her cue twice over, and she didn't care. She couldn't remember the words, her mind and focus stolen from the good hit she'd taken in her dressing room.
"What the fuck is the problem?" the lead guitarist, Joey, had asked, after he'd made a stroll up to the lead singer, playing the entire time.
This snapped Christine out of her stooper for a moment. She grinned at him, telling him it was all good, and then turned to her audience, not seeing any of them, not one single face.
A disaster. A total, fucking disaster. Christine felt the sting worsen, and then wetness on her cheek, chilled by the breeze.
Her eyes refocused on the water below, so inviting, so calming in its chaos. She felt the weightlessness as one boot left the security of the railing, and she leaned further over, seeing her leg dangling above the churning river. Leaning further, further, further. Her last thought was that she had gotten another splinter in her palm as she let go.
Frizzy synthetic red hair brushed across the ceiling of the Dodge Ram. A pale hand slammed against the steering wheel in time with the beat of the music on the radio, ridiculously pale face, streaked with color, bobbed to the beat of the gloved-hand, flopping that frizzy red hair around like a huge bush.
"Yeah, sing it, Christina!" Willow sang out, painted green eyes closing for just a moment before opening up again, only to squint with her raucous laughter. She wasn't exceptionally keen on Christina Aguilar's attitudes or public persona, but the girl could sing.
She loved the high she got after doing her gigs on the side. All the energy from the little rascals at the birthday party seemed to flow into her, giving her a natural high like nothing else. Even her job as a nurse on the children's ward couldn't affect her the way the parties did.
She reached down to the volume knob and cranked the sucker, laughing at herself as she sang, quite horribly, along with the next song that came on, which made it worse, because she had absolutely no idea what the words were.
Life was good for Willow Bowman as she headed out of the small town of Williamsburg, Oklahoma, which wasn't terribly far from Oklahoma City, and headed further out toward her small ranch just outside.
Voice giving out finally, probably God's way of telling Willow to shut it, she continued to bob her head and beat the steering wheel along with the music.
Heading around Dittman's Curve, she approached the bridge named after Ronald Dittman, some old guy who'd done something or other for the town a hundred years ago. What Dittman really needed to do was fix his bridge.
As she neared it, she noticed a car parked smack dab in the middle of it, lights off, looking quite abandoned.
"Shoot," she muttered, as the bridge was only one laned, and the only way to get to her ranch. Eyes still on the bridge, Willow blindly reached across the console until she felt the passenger seat, then her phone.
Movement caught Willow's eye, and she looked to the rail of the bridge.
"Oh my god!" Pulling the truck to a stop, she dropped the phone, the engine running, door swinging open as she ran to the rail. A huge splash in the dark depths. Without another thought, Willow climbed up where she had seen the dark figure only seconds before they jumped, and followed suit.
The water was freezing, chilling every part of her, stabbing at her like thousands of tiny knives. It took her a moment to get her bearings, then she began to thrash around in the near complete darkness, using her hands to feel frantically.
It was cold, but she figured it would be. She allowed that cold to embrace her, swallow her. Christine was angry for a moment as her body's natural survival instincts made her hold her breath, her body far more willing to survive than Christine's heart.
The weightless sinking, further into the dark depths, her brain still hazed enough to see it as a comforting cocoon, swarming around her body, ending the demons that lurked above the surface of the water.
She felt the numbness begin to overcome her again, that lack of feeling, ability to feel, inside or out. She welcomed it, prayed for it, wanted it.
Christine was brought from her reverie as she felt something grab her wrist. She began to thrash, horrid images swarming her mind, scenes from a child's nightmare. She could hear the muffled sounds she made as she tried to escape the demon that had followed her into the depths, but it refused to let go.
The brunette took in a lungful of water as she tried to scream, then began to thrash anew as she tried to dispel it, only to take in more water.
Floating, floating, blackness, sinking, sinking, ....
Willow broke the surface, frizzy synthetic hair now covering one eye as she drug her find out of the water and to the banks of the river. The body was heavy, but the small woman was determined.
Heaving it to the rocky shore, she pushed the hair out of her face, seeing that it was a woman, who's own face was half covered by long, dark hair. Not bothering to move it away, Willow jutted the woman's jaw back, plugging her nose, and leaned down to blow hot, life-giving air into her open, chilled lips.
Sitting back up, she pressed on the woman's tank top-clad torso, feeling the clock tick, the woman's chances of survival speeding away with each second.
"Come on," she panted as she went back to giving air. After several tries, Willow threw herself back, startled at the feel of water hitting her lips. She looked down, relief filling her as the woman coughed, which racked her entire body, throwing her halfway to her side as a stream of water was spewed to the sand beneath her. More coughing and spasms.
Willow sat back on her heels, waiting, watching, brows narrowed in deep concern. The woman calmed after a few moments, still coughing, but she was alive. She slowly rolled back onto her back, head turning, then she jumped back.
"Fuck!" Christine exclaimed, turning to see a monster sitting next to her- a mass of smashed red hair covering part of the face, which was streaked with white, black and blue. A slash of red extended from the lips down the chin and splotched the neck.
"Shh, it's okay," Willow said, realizing she must look a sight. She yanked off the wig, her slicked short, blonde hair turned a strange gray, green in the night. "Are you okay?" She asked, her voice soft as she put a hand to the woman's arm.
Christine calmed, finding it funny that she'd been drug out of the river by a clown. She hated clowns. As a kid they used to creep her out. She nodded, trying to sit up, but found the hand that had been on her arm move to her shoulder.
"Just lie there. Can you breathe?" the woman asked, and Christine nodded, taking several deep breaths just to make sure. "Okay. Stay here." The clown jumped up and ran, though the brunette couldn't figure out how she was running with massive, red shoes on. As a strange thought, she figured they must have made great flippers to swim in.
This thought sent a giggle through Christine's still fuzzy brain. Within moments she heard the rocks crunching under foot, and the low, soft voice of her savior coming back, having a one-sided conversation.
"Okay. Thanks, John. We'll be here." Willow flipped her phone shut and knelt down next to her companion again. The woman laid there, staring up at the sky, then closed her eyes, bringing an arm up to rest across them. Sighing, Willow couldn't stop the questions from parading across her mind. Why had this woman done this? Was it suicide or an accident? Who was she? From the woman's dress, black tank top with black leather pants and heavy boots, she doubted she was from the area. Also the car had a Hertz sticker on the back window.
She sat next to the woman, waiting for the Ambulance to arrive. She began to shiver, the chilled night breeze getting under her wet skin, seeping into the completely saturated material of her once baggy clown suit, which now clung to her like a second skin.
"Do you have a name, honey?" she asked quietly, reaching out to brush some of the hair from the woman's face.
"It doesn't matter." The arm came down, and blue eyes looked into Willow's briefly before turning away. Finally the woman sighed. "Christine," she said quietly.
"Nice to meet you, Christine, though I'm sorry it has to be under these kind of circumstances." Christine could see worry in the other woman's eyes, and that surprised her. They were total strangers, why should she care? Shit, those in Christine's life who knew her better than anyone on the planet didn't care about her, or show the kind of concern this woman did.
"Yeah. And you, Bozo?"
Willow stared at her for a moment, mouth open to protest when she remembered her current get up. She chuckled lightly. "Willow Bowman."
The brunette nodded in acknowledgement, then turned to look back up into the heavens, the sound of a siren not far away.
The lights of Mercy Medical's ER nearly blinded Willow as she parked her truck in a parking spot, and hurried in after Toby and Allen, the two EMT's.
The sound of chaotic activity surrounded the blonde as she pushed through the ER doors, hurrying along side the gurney where Christine had been strapped down.
"Why am I here?" the brunette asked, her head lulling from side to side, her skin pale, heavy, dark shadows underneath her closed eyes.
"Just to make sure everything checks out okay," Willow said, holding the woman's hand.
"I don't need to be here," she muttered, then began to cough violently, more water coming up. She'd had similar fits the entire way in the ambulance. As doctors and ER nurses emerged on the scene, Willow knew it was her cue to back off.
She grabbed a cup of coffee and headed out into the waiting room of the ER, wanting to get out of the way. She told one of the nurses to notify her the moment they were done with Christine.
"Hey, girl, what are you doing here?" Rachel Smith asked, lightly touching the blonde's arm as she sat in one of the black, plastic chairs against a wall.
"Hey," she smiled, then sighed, "Guess I decided to go fishing at," she looked at her watch, noting the hands weren't moving, and a very menacing bubble was floating around the face. "Shoot," she turned to her friend. "some late hour." She leaned against the wall behind her, exhaustion finally taking root.
"What? What happened?" The nurse sat in the chair next to the blonde's, hands clasped between her spread knees.
"Oh, you wouldn't believe it." Willow opened her mouth to speak, then noticed two men walking through the automatic doors of the lobby. One wore a black suit, a large, black leather satchel in his hand. The other was also dressed in finery, though more understated- a white button up shirt, sleeves rolled to the mid-forearm, the shirt tucked into expensive looking gray slacks.
The men immediately began to look around, one spotting Rachel in her scrubs. Walking over to her, the man with graying hair, yet young skin, smiled.
"Excuse me, nurse, but I need to find someone." Dark brown eyes looked from one to the other of the women, his brows furrowing when he saw the destroyed clown makeup still smeared all over Willow's face. This, of course, made her extremely self-conscious. In all the activity, she had forgotten all about her appearance.
"Who's that?" Rachel asked, standing.
"Uh," the man turned to the suit behind him, who handed him a piece of paper. "Willow Bowman?" the man said, raising a brow at Rachel. "I understand she's a nurse at this hospital?"
"I'm Willow Bowman," the blonde said, also standing. The man looked at her, doubt evident in his eyes. "It's a long story," she said softly. "What can I do for you, mister,"
"Robert Knowles." He extended a hand, which she took, after removing her ruined white glove. "I need to speak with you concerning tonight's events. I assume it's why you look like a drowned rat?" His smile was tight-lipped, and she wasn't so sure she liked this guy.
"Ah, yeah," she looked down at herself, then back up at him. She found a white handkerchief being held out to her.
He turned back to Rachel. "Is there somewhere we can speak with Miss Bowman?"
"Sure. Follow me to the conference room." Rachel looked at her friend, who only shrugged.
"Miss Bowman will join us once she's cleaned up a bit." Knowles said. Yeah, Willow didn't like him.
She splashed water all along the white sink, rinsing off the last vestiges of makeup, then looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was freshly cleaned, though there wasn't much she could do about her attire. She had unbuttoned the coverall-type clown suit, letting the top hang down, arms flapping around her legs. She was glad she'd worn a tank top underneath it.
Pushing open the doors of the conference room, Willow saw the two men, the suit standing over a laptop, a tiny printer buzzing away next to it, spitting out a single sheet of paper. Robert Knowles was sitting at the head of the table, fingers steepled under his chin, an expensive gold watch glittering against a tanned wrist and large, gold pinky ring on his right hand.
"Ah, Miss Bowman. Please, have a seat." He indicated the chair to his left, and the blonde took it, glancing at the suit across the table from her, who had yet to speak.
"What's going on?" she asked, looking back to Knowles, who sighed and sat forward in his chair, fingers clasping as he rested his hands on the table before him.
"Have you spoken with anyone about what happened tonight? Other than emergency personnel, of course."
"No. Listen, Mr. Knowles,"
"Miss Bowman," he interrupted, stunning the blonde into silence. She started as something was put before her by the suit. Looking at it, she realized it was a check. Green eyes flew up to meet dark brown.
"This is a check for twenty-five thousand dollars," she said, her voice breathless and even more confused.
"And all yours if," he held up a well manicured finger, "you do one simple thing for us,"
"Us? What, you and the suit?" she thumbed at the other man who was busy typing on the small keypad of the laptop. Robert Knowles chuckled, making Willow's skin crawl.
"No. Henry is simply Miss Gray's attorney. What you'll be doing will be for her, me, and Miss Gray's reputation."
Willow stared at him, utterly baffled for a moment, words flowing through her head, trying to make sense of what he was telling her. Miss Gray, Christine.
"Holy shit!" Her eyes widened, hand going to her mouth. The men exchanged a glance, then Robert looked at her again. "I pulled Christine Gray out of Chandler River?" she breathed. He nodded. "As in won six Grammy's last year?" He nodded once more.
"Perhaps now you see just how important it is that we get your full cooperation with this." The paper from the printer was slid in front of the blonde. She looked down at it, realizing it looked like a contract of sorts.
"What is this?"
"It's your promise that you'll keep what happened tonight to yourself," Robert said simply. She picked it up and began to scan over it.
"So," Willow drawled, eyes still scanning over the document, "You're saying I get the money if I keep my trap shut?"
"Miss Bowman, Christine has a great many fans that are young girls, girls who are in their teens, early twenties. These fans look up to her, immolate her. In her music they find inspiration for their own lives, as well as words they can relate to. These girls would be devastated to find out their hero, their role model has fallen from grace,"
Willow looked up at the man, the corner of her mouth quirking up at his spew of crap. "You play a good game, Mr. Knowles," she chuckled. His brows drew in irritation.
"Then let me put it to you this way. If this got out, Christine would be finished. Better?" He sighed, flopping back in the chair, his hand going to his forehead. "Cleaning up this mess is going to cost her enough as it is."
Willow turned back to the contract under her hand, then glanced over at the check. Instantly, as if the lawyer were reading her thoughts, a gold pen appeared before her. She picked it up, tapping it against her chin as she read over the document.
"I'll sign your contract here, Mr. Knowles, but I don't want your money."
"The check stays here, Miss Bowman. Whether you chose to cash it or not is entirely up to you." She nodded, scribbling her signature across the dotted line.
"This is a legal document, Miss Bowman," the suit said, taking the pen and contract from her before the ink had a chance to dry. "If you were to breach it, Christine Gray can and will take legal action against you. Do you understand this?"
Willow nodded, sighing warily. "Yes."
"Thank you," Robert Knowles said, standing. "Good evening to you." With amazing efficiency, the attorney had the laptop and printer packed up, and both men were on their way.
Willow glanced at the check, taking it in her fingers. "Holy crap," she whispered. "I just saved the life of the woman who won the Grammy for best female vocalist of the year,"
The day outside was gray, the rain only stopped falling an hour ago. Blue eyes gazed out, noting that the sky didn't look quite as pregnant as it had earlier.
Christine brought her knees up in the chair, pressing them against her chest and wrapping her arms around them. As she rested her chin on her knees, she sighed deeply. She felt strange, somehow changed beyond reconciliation to the person she was this time the day before.
A soul-altering choice, said the lady from the psych ward, who had administered a mental evaluation that morning. Christine guessed they wanted to see if she was crazy, or just really fucked up. She voted for both, and was craving a cigarette like nothing else.
So she'd finally tried it, finally reached the edge that she had been able to step back from time and time again. Christine shivered, realizing how close she'd come to succeeding. She also realized how close she was to not caring.
She flinched slightly at the sound of the key in the door to her room, but didn't turn around. Her gaze was still fixed on the gray world outside her window, little metal criss-cross bars embedded into the glass.
There was quiet murmuring just outside the room, then footfalls, followed by the heavy sound of her door being closed and locked.
Her manager was silent as he took a seat on the bed behind her chair. The room was sparse at best. Simple bed, no rails, no bars, bolted down. The chair she sat in and a bathroom off to the side with a pedestal sink and toilet. Everything nice and snug, nothing she could harm herself with.
"Quite a mess you've gotten yourself into here," he said, his voice quiet, tired.
"So it would seem." She didn't look at him, in truth, not wanting to see the disappointment she knew she'd find there.
"Everything's been taken care of- hospital staff, doctors, ambulance drivers, the police, and the crazy little clown that fished you out." He snickered. 'Apparently she's a nurse of some sort here."
He looked at his client, studying the back of her head, dark hair hanging free. He knew it hung wildly around her face, giving her the feral look that her fans loved. He had to use will power to not reach out and touch it.
The silence grew heavy, Christine changing positions slightly, letting one foot slip to the floor, still holding the other leg tightly.
"Why'd you do it?" he finally asked, breaking the silence with the effect of a sledgehammer through glass.
"I don't want to talk about it with you, Bob." Christine's voice was low, silently suggesting a change of topic. He didn't bite.
"Christine, I'm your friend."
"Friend?" She turned on him then, blue eyes blazing brilliantly, expensive white teeth bared. "No, I don't think so. I'm no friend to you. I'm your meal ticket. Always have been,"
"No!" she hissed. "If I meant anything to you, you never would have scheduled this tour. I told you I needed a break, that I was struggling. You knew," she turned back to the window, hugging herself as she walked over to it, jaw muscles clenching.
"But the album,"
"Fuck the album. What about me?" she near whispered. "Not like what I thought or wanted has ever mattered. Should have fired your ass years ago."
"You'd be nothing without me and you know it," he spat. She looked at him over her shoulder.
"Maybe not. But I'd still have me." Turning back to the window, shoulders falling. "Do something useful, Bob. Get me the fuck out of here."
Willow turned up the volume on her stereo, continuing to fold laundry as she listened to the impassioned lyrics of 'Swan Song,' the latest release by Christine Gray. The song was much slower than most of Gray's strong, alternative style. This one was just a piano, a cello in the background, and Christine's strong, but velvety voice.
Pair of unfolded socks still in hand, the blonde sat on the edge of the couch, closing her eyes as she listened to the words. Such sadness, emptiness. The song was filled with a longing for love and acceptance. It talked about how the world expected the singer's very soul, yet gave nothing return, as money, after all, can't buy happiness.
Willow was surprised to find that she had tears streaming down her cheeks, images of that night, more than a month ago, flashing before her mind's eye.
She had been a nurse in the children's ward for six years, and had experienced babies dying in her arms, but nothing she had seen before could prepare her for the profound way she would be affected by the soul shattering sadness she had seen in that woman's blue eyes. The loneliness and desperation.
That was why she had stayed with her to the end, as long as she was allowed, She wanted Christine to know that she wasn't alone, she had someone there who cared and would hold her hand through her pain.
After her meeting with Robert Knowels she had headed out to her truck, tucking the check into the glove compartment, not wanting to chance it getting ruined in her saturated pockets.
Shivering and soul tired, that's what the nurses called it at the hospital when one of them had been so drastically affected by something at work, she had headed to the female employee locker room. Glad to find a pair of scrubs in the her locker that weren't too smelly, she'd hurried into the shower room, stripping out of her pasted on clothing and had stepped under the warm, calming spray.
She felt her skin warming, but her heart was still like ice. She kept seeing Christine's face as she lay there on the banks, so vulnerable, death hovering in the air.
She couldn't reconcile in her own mind the face of the woman she'd seen that night with the woman she'd seen on television and on CD and magazine covers. What had caused someone like that, the world at her feet, money and fame in abundance, to do something so drastic?
She wondered if the toxicology reports would tell them anything. The look in the woman's eyes had been dazed and fuzzy, eyes very dilated, which the near-drowning could only partially explain. She had a hunch there was more to it.
Willow stepped out of the small stall, pushing the curtain aside. Grabbing a towel, she quickly dried herself and slipped into the scrubs. She had no shoes and eyed the big red ones.
Opting to not look like Patch Adams, she stuck some surgical booties on her feet, and headed out to get some information.
The air in the ER was cool and sterilized, as every ER that Willow had been in or worked at, was. She saw Dr. Samms making some notes on a chart and hurried over to him.
"How is she, Brad?"
The large man looked down at the nurse, seeing the worry in her beautiful green eyes. If only she weren't married. He closed the chart, tucking it into a plastic chart box mounted to the wall above the nurses station.
"She's okay. Nothing major sustained though her blood stream was having one hell of a party in there." He sighed, crossed muscular arms over a broad chest. He and Willow often worked out together in the hospital's gym. It was a great way to stay in shape and ease the tensions of their respective jobs.
Willow nodded, biting her lip. "I was afraid of that. Can I see her?"
"Sure. She's in three resting."
"Thanks, bud." Squeezing his bicep, she hurried down the hall that would lead her past the other cubicles, some with closed curtain, some empty and ready to be used. At three, the curtain was pulled, the beeping of machinery behind it could be heard.
Gently pushing the curtain aside, she slipped around it, looking around the dim space. The lights above Christine's gurney had been turned off, only a circle of light breaching around the top of the curtain. Red, green and blue lights shone in the dim.
Willow's eyes quickly adjusted, and she focused on the form tucked under a thin, white blanket, arms out, a hospital band wrapped around one wrist, an IV taped to the back of her hand.
The blonde looked down at the closed eyes, long, dark lashes, face at peace in slumber. She studied the face, high, sharp cheekbones, and a prominent jaw. The skin was very pale, blue veins visible from beneath the skin.
Christine's hair looked so dark, black, against the paleness of the skin and the white bedding beneath her. A few wisps rested against the singer's face. Gently, Willow tucked the strands back behind an ear.
Reaching behind her, the blonde found the chair she knew was there, and scooted it forward until she was able to sit. Taking Christine's hand within her own, she felt the warm skin, relieved beyond belief that it was in fact warm, and not the cold, stiff skin it had been at the river.
Sighing softly, Willow lowered her head, her exhaustion reaching her eyes, making the heavy and burn.
Christine could sense someone was with her, then as the haze lessoned, she realized that the someone was holding her hand. Eyes slowly fluttering open, she turned, her head pounding, making her close her eyes for a moment before opening them to focus on the figured slouched over in a chair next to her bed.
Short blonde hair, light blue scrubs. Who was this? A nurse from the ER? A doctor, maybe? Her gaze fell to their joined hands, the hand in her own tanned against her own pale skin, the nails trimmed neatly, well taken care of. A small hand, no, petit. Looked like all of her was petite- narrow shoulders and fine features.
Christine concentrated on the face, much of it hidden by the angle in which the woman slouched. Dark blonde brows, a slight crease between the closed eyes. The woman looked as though even in slumber she was worrying something.
A very gentle face, lips lightly brushing against one another, the blonde hair slightly covering the tops of small ears.
As she drifted off to sleep again, she wondered who her visitor was.
Willow woke with a start, eyes popping open to see Rachel smiling down at her. Realty coming back to the blonde, she sat up, looking around. Her gaze moved to the woman in the bed, realizing their hands were still linked. She was, however, surprised to see that the position of their hands had changed, Christine's fingers curled around her own.
Rachel said nothing, turning away to give her friend some privacy. She knew how compassionate Willow was, all too often taking the pain and fear of her patients onto her own shoulders. It always worried the ER nurse. Willow was one of the best nurses at Mercy, and she didn't want to see the young blonde burn out, especially with how stressful their job could be.
Willow gently pulled her hand free of the brunette's, laying the larger hand on the bed beside the other woman. Pulling the sheet up to tuck her in, Willow turned to her friend, nodding toward the partially open curtain.
Once out of the cubicle, she led her friend away so they could talk without disturbing Christine.
"You should go home, Willow. It's late and Kevin's going to be worried."
"Oh, crap," The blonde ran a hand through her hair, her eyes even more heavy than before. "I need to get home. Call me if anything changes, okay?" she asked her friend, who nodded and patted her shoulder.
"I will. No get to bed."
The drive home was long, and as Willow drove across the Dittman Bridge, she felt a shiver pass through her, green eyes automatically were drawn to the spot where Christine had jumped, and a wave of sadness washed over her.
Taking several deep breaths, she forced her eyes straight ahead, driving the last ten miles to her ranch.
"Mmm, must have been some part," Kevin rolled over, pulling his wife against his naked body, still half asleep.
"Had an emergency at the hospital," Willow murmured, settling her tired body against the soft mattress.
"Everything okay?" Willow's husband sounded a bit more awake, though his eyes were still closed.
"Mm hmm. Talk tomorrow," the blonde slurred, already asleep. It had been a long day.
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