“Why?” She massaged her left temple, where a throbbing headache threatened.
“At first, she was drifting in and out of consciousness. Now she’s sleeping.”
The image of an unconscious Mona stopped Holly’s heart.
“I rang your father. He said you were closer.” His growl was a grating mixture of impatience and disgust.
Holly shared his impatience. I have to be there, now! Maybe he’d misunderstood her father’s deferral to her. She was closer in distance, closer in spirit. Her father trusted her to get there as fast as she could, faster than he could.
“I’m on my way.” She started a mental list; apologise to the organisers, hand over the medical inventory to a colleague, pack her gear, then retrace the twenty kilometres of dirt road to the highway before tackling the five-hundred-odd kilometre drive to Bendigo. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“I wouldn’t want you to put yourself out.”
Flint hitting cold steel couldn’t have been sharper. The man was seriously irked, and her failure to estimate an arrival time probably pissed him off further. She shuffled names in her head. She had a contact at the hospital, could get a professional update as soon as she got this grumpy Samaritan off the phone. “What’s your name?”
“Christopher Silverton.”
“Thanks for letting me know about Mona, Mr. Silverton.”
Holly approached the hospital entrance, her chokehold on her bag bringing an unwelcome insight. Six months away, and the sense she was no longer safe in a hospital lingered. She wasn’t ready to return to emergency work. Still, she hadn’t known her stomach would heave like the deck of the Titanic at the thought of entering any hospital.
Flashing lights and a siren signalled the imminent arrival of an ambulance. Sweat trickled down her spine. Baulking at the hospital doors, she glanced around to check for witnesses to her mini panic attack. “Eight, seven, six, five...” She counted backward to zero, then did it again—and again—before she was steady enough to cross the threshold.
She’d also thought she was prepared for how frail Mona would look, but her heart stumbled at the stillness of the tiny body tucked beneath the blindingly white hospital sheets in the private room. The corners of the bed were neatly tucked. A trivial detail for her to notice, but attention to detail showed someone cared. After brushing away her tears, she donned a hospital gown over her grubby clothes before approaching the bed.
“You’re here,” Mona whispered, her hand turning in Holly’s.
Mona conscious, and aware, banished some of the scariest scenarios her mind had conjured while counting down the kilometres on the endless, punishing drive. “For as long as you need me.”
“I’m sorry I scared you.”
“I don’t scare that easily.” Holly flashed her brightest smile. But fear of what she’d find had kept her mind sharp and her muscles tense. Lives could be changed forever in an instant.
“It can’t stop now.”
“What can’t stop?”
“The project. I was right.” Mona’s whisper was part plea. “Creating a garden can help children heal. The project can’t stop because I’m in hospital.”
“It won’t stop.” Holly’s promise was a solemn vow.
Holly couldn’t remember a time when Mona hadn’t plotted for this project. From a distance, Holly had been party to every application, every knockback, every painstaking effort over years to get the education, health, and juvenile justice authorities on side for her gardening-as-healing pilot project for children who’d witnessed or been victims of domestic violence. Mona’s delight had reverberated down the phone line when she won the six-month grant to fund it.
Any threat to the project was a threat to Mona’s recovery.
“Go home now, darling. I knew you’d come.” Mona closed her eyes on a sigh.
Holly’s contact at the hospital had finished for the day, but the duty intern and her own check of the charts confirmed Mona was stable, medicated, and under observation. She updated her father before leaving the hospital.
Drawing to a halt in Mona’s driveway, she rested her head on the steering wheel. She was beyond tired, and with the adrenalin draining from her body, every muscle and bone ached.
She hauled her rucksack from the back of the van she’d named Norman. Expecting to detour to Mona’s on her journey south, she’d packed her own keys, a mis-matched set of six. Her fingers moved over the metal surfaces in the half-dark of a star-filled night, finding the right one for the front door.
The door gave as easily as ever, and the old-fashioned lightshade bathed the hallway with a warm glow. She inhaled comfort and reassurance along with the heady scent of the yellow roses spilling over the sides of the crystal vase on the hall table. And breathed out some of her body’s stiffness. The smell of beeswax sat behind the delicate perfume of the roses, Mona’s preferred polish for the wide, cypress-pine boards. Roses, beeswax, and a hint of lavender. Holly’s first lesson in natural remedies; a few drops of lavender oil in floor or furniture polish helped keep fleas under control.
There was always the risk of fleas because there were always animals.
“Bella!” Mona’s golden Labrador should have barrelled down the hall to greet her, desperate for food as well as affection at this hour. Holly walked through rooms flicking on lights. Finding them empty, she quickened her steps.
“Bella,” she called again. “Max.” She pushed open the back door. The old cat had still been alive when she’d chatted to Mona, although the vet didn’t give the ancient feline more than a few more weeks to live. Mona’s voice had wobbled in the telling. Holly was a few steps into the garden, her gaze straining against new and unfamiliar shapes when the doorbell rang.
Small country town. A neighbour must have seen the lights. She laughed at her jumpiness. But her steps slowed as she headed down the hall. The shadowy figure on the other side of the half-glass door filled the space. Over six feet and broad didn’t match any of the neighbours Holly remembered.
A flicker of alarm blindsided her. Donna’s killer had been big.
The Westminster chimes rang through the house again, and Bella barked. Whoever was on the other side of the door had Mona’s animals. Holly flung it open and was knocked off her feet by the enthusiastic dog. She sprawled on the floor, the dog straddling her, her long tongue lapping at Holly’s chin.
“Down. Bella. Darling,” she crooned, her fingers finding the magic spot on Bella’s stomach. The dog rolled over in delight.
“You know the dog.”
Holly recognised the voice of her caller from earlier in the day. Her gaze travelled up long legs and paused at the work-roughened hand holding the large cat basket where Max peered regally through the mesh. Continuing up, she found a broad chest, covered in a navy sweater knitted in an intricate pattern Mona reserved for those she was fond of. Holly’s stare landed on a craggy, square-jawed face scowling at her. His frosty grey gaze suggested his mood hadn’t improved. How come Mona didn’t mention her ripped, mid-thirties friend?
“Christopher Silverton.” She scrambled to her feet and offered a hand. “I’m guessing you looked after Bella and Max, as well as Mona.”