Free Black Widow by Randy Wayne White

was in critical condition, he said. Drug overdose.
    Shay’s condition was unknown.
     
7
     
    SHAY USED HER FINGER to signal me closer, and whispered in a voice hoarse from sleep, “The black hole’s trying to drag me back — you believe me now? It won’t let me be something I’m not.”
    I touched my lips to a part of her temple not covered by surgical bandage and replied, “You’re giving up so easy? Now you’re even acting like a rich girl. You’ve got the curse thing backward, sister.”
    She smiled . . . winced at the pain, then pointed to her water. It was next to the hospital bed beneath monitors. I held the glass while she used the flexible straw, only a curtain separating us from the woman asleep in the next bed. Just us, but we kept our voices low.
    Michael and his mother had exited as I entered, like changing shift. Shay’s future mother-in-law . . .
maybe
. As we passed, the fiancé stared through me, not a nod, but the mother locked eyes and scowled. Heavy, rectangular brow. Her son had inherited the elongated earlobes. No way to know if she scowled for a reason, or if she was one of those angry people whose face had devolved into a warning to the world.
    But Shay dismissed them quickly, whispering, “Understand now why Mrs. Jonquil drives me bonkers?” before demanding a report on Corey. As I answered, Shay’s eyes were intense, alert for lies. Reassuring. Even after slamming her convertible into a palm tree, her brain was sharp.
    “Doctors haven’t downgraded Corey’s condition, so she’s hanging in there,” I said.
    “That’s all you know?”
    “That’s all.”
    “How’s her family doing?”
    “I’ve never met them, so I can’t say. The waiting room’s full. Your friend Beryl’s here. Liz, too.”
    “Did they . . . say anything to you?”
    I caught the hesitation. “I don’t think they saw me.”
    “What about Vance?”
    I replied, “Vance,” in a flat tone, not ready to tell her we’d met.
    “Corey’s husband. That jerk. When I found her, the side of her face was all swollen, and her eye was turning black. I told the EMTs and the cops about him. That son of a bitch.”
    I put my hand on her wrist. “The nurse said I’d have to leave if you get upset.”
    “Okay, okay. But I show up at three a.m., his truck’s gone, and she’s nearly dead. I’ll bet right now he’s out making sure he has an alibi so he can pretend like nothing happened.”
    A girl who knew how small-time criminals operated. Yes, her brain was functioning fine after a very close call.
    Along with scalp lacerations and facial bruises, Shay had a closed head injury — medicalspeak for an injury that could be minor or could make her a vegetable. She’d been unconscious for at least a couple of minutes, so there were more tests to be done. But there were no obvious signs of brain trauma.
    So I made her sip some water and calm down before telling me what had happened.
    Around 2:30 a.m., Shay had checked her cell and found a hysterical message from Corey. After trying Corey’s phone, she drove to the Varigono home, where she’d discovered her friend unconscious on the couch. EMT response was fast, but Corey stopped breathing just before the ambulance arrived.
    No wonder the mood was grim in the ICU waiting room.
    “I took CPR, but, Christ, I couldn’t tell if I was helping her or not.
    She vomited a couple of times. It was awful! Doc?” Shay turned her head slightly — painful. “We promised we’d be straight with each other, so you’ve got to tell me. Is Corey dead?”
    Her face was swollen, raw in spots from the air bag. Skin around her eyes was pale purple, edged with magenta. Not too bad. “Raccoon eyes” is another medical term, but the girl was going to be okay.
    I replied, “Corey’s alive. That’s the truth. You did everything you could to help her. That’s all a friend can do.”
    “I did something else.” Shay touched a finger to her lips, whispering.
    “Corey left a note, and