RUNNING BACK

Chapter 21: To Punish with Impunity

I wake up attached to an I.V.

My mother is sitting next to me, her mouth a grim line, her eyebrows stitched together.

"What happened?" I mumble.

"Our neighbors found you several miles down Windsor Lane. Thank God they recognized your shaved head and called me. You can't keep pushing yourself like this Peyton. Your body needs rest. The EMT said you were severely dehydrated and overheated. You passed out and hit your head on the concrete."

"Sorry."

"I'm worried about you," she says.

"Where's Dad?"

She looks past me, out the window, and shrugs. "I don't know. He never came to bed last night. His car is gone, and he won't answer his phone. I texted him. But you know how he is about hospitals. They're a major trigger for him."

Another wave of nausea hits me. "I'm sorry," I whisper.

"It's not your fault."

"It might be. A little."

"Why? What happened?"

I don't want to tell her what I said. "Nothing. I think we got in a fight. I was mad at him."

"Why? What did he do?" Mom asks.

"Everything. Nothing. I don't know, really."

She sighs and rests her hand on mine. "I understand."

The doctor comes in, eyes on her clipboard. She looks up at us and smiles, extending her hand to my mom.

"I'm Dr. Mahoney."

"Clare Thomas, Peyton's mom."

"Mrs. Thomas, I've been reviewing the results of the tests we ran. Peyton had a blood alcohol concentration of .25 when we took the specimen a few hours ago. Very dangerous for a girl her age."

My mom is speechless. She just glares at me. I have no idea what to say.

"And the contusion on her head is a concern. Peyton, I need to ask you a few questions, okay? Just to make sure your memory wasn't compromised."

I nod in a daze.

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"Do you remember the events that brought you here?"

I flash back to the locker room. Trapped up against the metal. His hands. His breath. The terror. The panic.

"No. Not really," I finally say.

She marks something down on the form. "That's okay. How many sisters do you have?"

"One."

"Can you tell me her name and age?"

"Emma. She's fifteen."

"Brothers?"

"Yes. One."

My mom's eyes dart to my face and then she quickly casts them down to the floor.

"How old is he?"

"Fifteen..." I answer, but it doesn't seem right. I'm forgetting something.

"Is he your sister's twin?"

"No, he's my twin."

"But you just told me you're sixteen."

I look to my mom for help, but her gaze refuses to meet mine. Then I remember. "I used to have a brother. He was fifteen."