I wake to the smell of antiseptic and the feeling of dull pain pounding away at my skull. My fingers twitch spasmodically, my brain caught between wanting my compact so I can check my hair and wanting to tear at the terrible itch on my cheek.
My eyes blink open and my gaze wanders around the room. Hospital, obviously, of the sterile-green variety, with questionably-patterned sheets and plastic jugs of water. Someone is sprawled in the chair beside the door, and it takes a few moments for my sluggish mental processes to recognize it as one Detective Stiles Stilinski, in shirtsleeves and suspenders, drooling onto the armrest. I regard him for a moment in blank astonishment, then I move on in the desperate hope that the rest of the room will make more sense.
Ah, and it does they do. I am quite gratified by the garden of flowers and cards that surrounds me. Tokens, no doubt, from my many colleagues and friends. They must have heard of my terrifying ordeal and arrived in droves to support me, only to be turned away by a stern nurse – in my imagination, named Gertrude – who shushed them firmly and sent them packing. "She's too delicate," Gertrude must have said (she had flashing dark eyes) as she made them tiptoe so as not to disturb my rest.
I look again at the chair by the door. He is still there, snoring in an indelicate fashion, and in no way does he belong in my fantasy. Gertrude would have taken one look at his big, clumsy paws and excitable grin and barred him from my door without hesitation.
Suddenly, I want my mother, and a lump grows in my throat. I sit up slowly, meaning to call out for Gertrude, but by some instinct he wakes from his slumber. He jerks to his feet before his eyes are fully open and stares around the room. He sees me looking back at him and we stare at each other for a handful of heartbeats.
"Are you ok?" he asks.
Something about the simple query tugs even further at the sore spot inside me that was already niggling like a loose tooth. I break away from his gaze and begin picking at the bedspread. "Is – is my mother here?"
He gestures. "We're taking turns. I sent her home to sleep. She wanted to be here but . . ."
I wonder what my mother made of him, and can't help the faint grin that tugs at my mouth. "I'm surprised she agreed to that," I say.
"It wasn't easy," he shrugs. "But you've been in here for two days now. And I had some help to convince her. Medical help."
"Gertrude?" I venture.
He settles onto the end of my bed. "No – Scott's mom, Melissa. She's your nurse. She threatened to give your mom a sedative." He grins at the memory.
"Did anyone come to see me?" I ask. My mind briefly goes to my old boyfriend, Jackson, but I dismiss the thought. Even if he had heard, he was halfway across the world, living the trust fund dream in London.
He shakes his head. "No visitors. Melissa can be quite stern, when she needs to be. Lots of gifts, though." He scratches his head, suddenly looking embarrassed.
"Who are these from?" I ask, pointing at a showy bouquet on my bedside table.
He fidgets. "Me."
"And those?" A box of chocolates at the foot of the bed.
"Well – me again. I thought you might be hungry when you woke up."
The next three – a vase of pink roses, a delicate silver watch, and an adorable posy of daisies – also turn out to be from him. I sink back into my pillow, exhausted.
"To be honest," he fumbles, "I haven't had much to do the past few days but go to the gift shop. Melissa finally said I couldn't put anything more in this room. That one's from Allison though." He indicates an arrangement almost invisible on the table.
"You could have gone home," I say. "Why didn't you?"
He meets my gaze in his direct way, and I wonder how it is that he has more courage in his pinky finger than I seem to possess in my entire body. "I promised I would protect you," he said. "I was just keeping my promise."
"Am I still in danger?" I ask, trying to lighten the mood.
"Not really – but it's hard to say for sure. My dad – the sheriff – arrested more than half of Kate's gang yesterday," he told me. "She was nowhere to be found, naturally, but at least now we know who we're looking for."
"It's a miracle we're still alive to talk about it," I say. "But I can't seem to remember how we're even alive and in this hospital. Would you mind helping me fill in some gaps?"
"Sure, but it's kind of complicated. See, my old girlfriend happens to be Peter's daughter and . . ." He frowns suddenly. "Who's Gertrude?"
I can't help but laugh, a sound so loud and unexpectedly wonderful that I continue for almost a minute until I'm gasping and clutching my stomach. He stares at me, grinning in confusion, and I reach out to take his hand.
"I'll tell you later – over dinner," I say. "I insist on paying, though."
"Good," he replies as his fingers tighten over mine. "You really wouldn't believe how much flowers cost."