Free The Bones Will Speak by Carrie Stuart Parks

chattering of voices in the hallway carried clearly.
    â€œYou’ll let me know when she’s awake? We’d like to get a composite sketch out as soon as possible.” The male voice spoke with authority. It sounded like him .
    â€œSo you’ve told us about a hundred times, detective,” the female voice snapped.
    A surge of relief flooded her. It was a deputy. He wasn’t here, and she was safe. “Thank You, Jesus.” Where did that come from? She didn’t believe in Jesus. Or God. Or anybody. Not for a long, long time.
    Her mind drifted, enjoying the freedom from pain. The bed was soft and clean. A woman’s face, like an angel, emerged from her musing. My guardian angel? Wavy, short hair. Blue eyes. Gentle hands. The lady at the house.
    The house.
    Adrenalin shot through her veins. Her eyes flew open. Where was he ?
    No. She was safe, at the hospital. She’d get out of here and go . . . where? Missoula was out. He’d found her in Missoula. She could go to Seattle. Or Portland. Maybe farther away. San Francisco? She’d never been to California. But she wouldn’t turn tricks anymore. Maybe she could make a living drawing things. She could draw pretty well. When she had a chance. She could set up an easel on the street. Or better yet, on the beach. She’d heard they had nice beaches. She wiggled her shoulders into the mattress, feeling warm sand under her. She could hitchhike, catch a ride with a long-haul trucker.
    Her stomach hurt. She was hungry. Didn’t they ever feed people in a hospital? What was she supposed to do, just hang out? Boring. A television attached to the wall looked promising, but the restraints held her to the bed. Someone would come and unfasten them soon. It’s not as if I’m gonna hurt someone. Voices in the hall and the squeaking of rubber soles grew louder, then softer as they passed her door.
    â€œIs there any coffee around here?” The man was right outside her room.
    A female voice responded, “Just down the hall, Detective. I heard Gwen Marcey found her and might do a sketch. Is Gwen . . .?”
    â€œDon’t know her personally. I’m just supposed to let the sheriff know when Mattie’s awake enough to interview.” The detective’s words faded as he moved away.
    Gwen Marcey. The lady that saved her had a name. A nice name. Sunlight caressed the Venetian blinds, forming golden horizontal bars across her bed. She relaxed. Yeah . She should go to California. Someplace like that. Lots of sunshine. No dark . . . houses.
    More voices, a creaky gurney, then the whiff of food. Finally! It smelled like soup: tomato soup. Her mouth watered. Tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich was her favorite.
    How would she eat? They’d have to untie her. That’d be good, then what? She bit her lip and stared at her hands. Useless. Using her elbows, she partially propped herself up. The walls twisted and whirled around her, making her want to puke. She slid down, concentrating on the ceiling and counting the tiles until the sickness passed. The side rails on either side of her head felt like jail bars. Nudging the pillows, she managed to block the view. Better .
    When was the last time she ate?
    The curtain glided on its track.
    â€œThat smells good.” Mattie continued to stare at the ceiling. “I was starting to think I’d starve to death. That would be funny, wouldn’t it? Croak in a hospital.”
    Silence. Figures. No sense of humor. Footsteps shuffled to her bed. A click as the nurse placed something beside her on the table.
    â€œYou’re gonna have to untie me. And I don’t know if I can sit up,” Mattie said. “I need a remote for the TV.” Strange. It didn’t smell like lunch. It smelled like flowers, sweet lilacs, and chocolate. She loved chocolate, especially the kind with caramel in the center.
    Tilting her head back, she sniffed again. It smelled like . . .