Her tone sharpened.
“What kind of personal stuff?”
“The kind that’s personal,” I said, and ended the call before she could dig any deeper.
By evening, I was unpacked, my fridge stocked, and the locks double-checked. Old habit.
The next morning was clear and bright. I made coffee, pulled up the river house address, and drove there. The neighborhood was quiet, full of old homes with manicured lawns. Aunt Evelyn’s house sat at the end of a street that dead-ended into the water.
The house looked perfect—fresh paint, solid shutters, a sturdy roof. The dock stretched into the tide below. For a moment, I imagined living there. No more constant Air Force moves. No more cramped apartments.
Then reality hit. I wasn’t ready to give up my career, and this house might just become another target for Natalie.
I locked up and headed back to the condo to grab lunch before the meeting with Mark. But I never made it that far.
I was two blocks from home, crossing an intersection I’d driven through countless times. The light turned green. Out of the corner of my eye, a white delivery truck ran the red.
There was no time to react.
The impact felt like a sledgehammer. My head slammed against the window. Glass shattered. The world spun. The airbag slammed into my chest, knocking the breath out of me. My ears rang.
Voices came from outside. “Don’t move, ma’am. We’re calling for help.”
I wanted to speak, but my mouth felt full of cotton. My left shoulder screamed, and a metallic taste filled my mouth—I had bitten my tongue.
Paramedics arrived fast. One leaned in. “Your name?”
I gave it along with my address. He asked if anyone should be notified. My mind went straight to someone from my unit. Not Natalie.
They lifted me onto a stretcher, stabilized my neck, and loaded me into the ambulance. I stared at the ceiling panels as they attached an IV. The siren wailed, and the city streaked past the rear doors.
I wasn’t focused on the truck or the damage to my car. I was thinking about how, in less than twenty-four hours, I’d gone from quietly managing my aunt’s inheritance to being strapped into an ambulance, headed to a military hospital with no idea how many people would find out where I was by day’s end.
The paramedics’ questions faded as they wheeled me through the hospital doors. The antiseptic smell hit before the bright lights did. They brought me into an exam room, hooked me up to monitors, and began cutting away my shirt to check for injuries. My shoulder throbbed sharply as the cold scissors grazed my skin.
A nurse with a no-nonsense voice introduced herself as Denise. She asked me to rate my pain from one to ten. I said nine, maybe nine and a half, and she gave me something through the IV that dulled it almost immediately.
X-rays came next. My collarbone was fractured, two ribs were cracked, and the concussion promised a pounding headache for days.
While the doctor issued orders, my mind drifted—not to the truck or hospital bills, but back years, to the kitchen table where Natalie and I learned early how to push each other’s buttons. Only two years apart, we might as well have been from different planets.
I brought home perfect report cards and letters from coaches. Natalie could charm anyone and make friends instantly, but rules were optional in her eyes.
Our parents tried to keep balance. When I earned an award, Natalie got a day out with Mom. When she got in trouble, I was drawn into the family talk so no one felt singled out. But it never worked. Natalie kept a mental scoreboard, and I was always ahead in her mind.
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