Page 88 of The Substitute Fiancée

The burglar is still there.

A silhouette suddenly bursts out of the apartment. A man—tall—one arm raised in front of his face to keep me from seeing him. He bolts toward the stairwell.

“No!” I scream.

He slams into me as he passes. I lose my balance, tipping into empty space, reaching for the railing. My fingers brush the metal, but it’s too late.

I fall.

My head hits the wall halfway down the stairs. A sharp pain explodes in my skull. My body tumbles down a few more steps, then everything blurs.

The thief’s footsteps fade down the stairwell. Somewhere below, the building’s front door slams shut.

I’m lying on the steps between the second and third floors, dazed, unable to move. The world spins around me.

My phone. Where’s my phone?

I spot it just a few inches from my hand. With a superhuman effort, I reach out and grab it.

Alexander. I need Alexander.

I dial his number again. My vision blurs. My fingers feel sticky—blood, I think.

Voicemail.

A deep despair grips me. He’s unreachable.

Then everything goes black.

*

I wake up once in the fire truck, then again in a hospital room. The white light is blinding. I blink, disoriented. I’m alone. I don’t know what time it is. I don’t even know what day it is.

My head hurts terribly.

A nurse comes in and notices I’m awake.

“Oh, you’re finally awake. How are you feeling?”

“My head hurts.”

“That’s normal. You had quite a serious fall. You lost consciousness. The police found you unconscious in the stairwell. You have a mild concussion and numerous bruises,” the nurse continues. “We’re keeping you overnight for observation, but you should be able to go home tomorrow if everything looks good.”

I nod, which triggers another wave of pain.

A little later, a police officer knocks on the door and steps inside, a file in hand. Early thirties, brown hair, serious yet kind eyes.

“Hello, Miss Chevalier. Inspector Sanders. I’m in charge of the investigation into the break-in at your apartment. May I ask you a few questions?”

“Yes, of course.”

He sits down on the chair beside the bed and pulls out a notebook.

“Tell me what happened.”

I recount it briefly. Coming home. The door already open. The wrecked apartment. The man who appeared and shoved me.

“Did you see his face?”