As My Daughter Burned, He Lit Fireworks for Her

Derick was halfway to the elevator when the feeling hit him. It was a cold knot in his stomach, a prickle on the back of his neck. He had seen Elinor angry. He had seen her hysterical. But he had never seen her eyes go blank like that. He had never heard that sound-the laugh that wasn't a laugh. He paused, his hand hovering over the elevator button. Kamryn was waiting. Kiana needed him. But the image of Elinor falling back against the wall, her face ashen, flashed in his mind. The super had said she hadn't left the apartment in days. The fridge was empty except for stale takeout boxes. "Damn it," Derick muttered. He turned around and walked back down the hall. He pushed open the broken door. "Elinor," he called out, his voice sharp. "I forgot my-" He stopped. Elinor was lying on the bedroom floor, crumpled at an unnatural angle. A dark pool of liquid was spreading beneath her head, soaking into the cheap carpet. Derick's heart stopped. The world narrowed to the woman on the floor and the blood. "Elinor!" He sprinted across the room, dropping to his knees beside her. He gathered her into his arms, his hands shaking. Her face was white, her skin cold and clammy. A deep gash on her forehead was still bleeding. "Hey!" he yelled, tapping her cheek. "Wake up! Open your eyes!" She didn't respond. Her head lolled against his arm. Derick pulled out his phone with trembling fingers. He bypassed 911 and dialed a direct number. "Finch," the voice answered on the first ring. "Alistair, it's Derick," he said, his voice tight. "Elinor's hurt. She's unconscious. Bleeding from the head. Get to Brooklyn, now." He gave the address, dropping the phone without hanging up. He pressed his hand against the wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood. It seeped between his fingers, warm and red. Twenty minutes later, the front door banged open. Dr. Alistair Finch, the Grant family physician, rushed in, his medical bag in hand. He was followed by a nurse. "Put her on the bed," Finch ordered. Derick carried her to the mattress, laying her down gently. He stepped back, his hands covered in her blood, his breath coming in short gasps. Finch worked quickly, cleaning the wound, injecting a local anesthetic, and stitching the gash closed. He checked her pupils, her pulse, her blood pressure. He hooked up an IV bag of saline to a stand, the needle sliding into the back of her hand. When he finally stepped back, he looked at Derick. His expression was grim. "She's severely malnourished," Finch said. "Dehydrated. Exhaustion. The fall was a result of her body shutting down. Another few hours without intervention, and she might not have woken up at all." Derick stared at the unconscious woman on the bed. She looked so small, so fragile. The bones of her wrists were sharp beneath the tape holding the IV in place. "Will she live?" Derick asked, his voice rough. "Physically, yes," Finch said. "But if she suffers another shock like this, it could kill her. She needs rest. She needs care. Not whatever the hell is on here." Finch packed up his bag and left, the nurse following. Derick stood in the silence of the apartment. He pulled a chair up to the bedside and sat down. He watched the slow rise and fall of her chest. Hours passed. The sun went down, casting the room in shadows. Elinor began to moan. Her head tossed on the pillow, her brow furrowed. Tears leaked from the corners of her closed eyes. "No," she whimpered. "Please... don't take it." Derick leaned forward, his hand hovering over hers, unsure if he should touch her. Elinor's hand shot out. She grabbed Derick's wrist, her grip surprisingly strong, her nails digging into his skin. "My baby," Elinor sobbed, her body wracking with tremors. "Cece... no... please..." The rest was a torrent of anguished, incoherent mumbling. He caught fragments, disjointed words that made no sense, lost in the raw sound of her grief. Elinor's eyes flew open. She gasped, a sharp intake of breath, and sat bolt upright. She looked around the room, her eyes wild, before landing on Derick. She scrambled backward, pressing herself against the headboard, her chest heaving. She reached up and touched the bandage on her forehead, wincing. "Stay away from me," she whispered. Derick raised his hands, palms out. "You passed out. Finch stitched you up." Elinor stared at him, her eyes flicking to the IV in her hand, then back to his face. The wildness faded, replaced by the familiar cold hatred. Derick's expression hardened, his brief moment of concern vanishing. "So, even in your sleep, you're spinning stories?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Quite the performance." Elinor opened her mouth, a retort on the tip of her tongue, but her stomach interrupted. A loud, prolonged growl filled the room, the sound unmistakable. Derick blinked. He looked at her flat stomach, then back at her face. Elinor's cheeks flushed with humiliation. She looked away, her jaw tight. Derick stood up slowly. "I'll get you something to eat." He turned and walked out of the bedroom, heading for the tiny kitchen. Elinor watched him go, her hand drifting up to touch the locket that still hung around her neck. The metal was cold, but the hate inside her was burning hotter than ever.