Pain radiates up my leg, and I thrash my arms and start biting. I get his ear, and he howls in pain, dropping me on my ass.
There’s a honking and a screeching of tires. A car door slams, and my would-be kidnapper’s car squeals off. Oh my god. I suck in a breath. I’m okay.We’reokay.
“Are you all right?” A young female voice sounds in my ear, and I grunt in agreement, looking up at the slight young woman with wispy black hair as she bends over me.
“I’m okay. Could you get my pocketbook out of my car?” I point to where it’s still nose-first in the ditch.
“Of course!” She hurried over to it, leaning in through the open door and lifting out my bag. Handing it to me, she crouches, hovering.
“Should I call the police? I got a picture of the guy and one of his car.”
“Uh, no. It’s okay. I’m fine. We don’t need to bother them.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. What would they do anyway? Take my statement and never look at it again?”
Sighing, she scrunches up her face. “Yeah. I guess. Can I at least drive you to the hospital?”
“That would be amazing. Could you send those pictures to me? I want to see if I recognize him or his car. I didn’t really get a good look at him when he grabbed me.”
“Of course! I’m Mindy.”
She straightens, pulling out her phone and getting my number to text me with pictures.
Putting her phone back in her pocket, she helps me hobble to her car, sliding into the front passenger seat. I dig out my phone as she drives to the closest hospital. I don’t have insurance, but I don’t care. I need my baby checked out.
I look at the pictures Mindy sent through. She did well to get one of the guy’s face. The one of the car is good too. It has the make, model, and license plate.
Mindy parks in the drop-off zone, helping me hobble inside.
“I’m happy to speak with the police if you decide to call them. You can give them my number.”
I smile tightly at her. That so isn’t happening. “Thanks for everything.”
“Not at all. I hope your ankle isn’t too bad.”
I watch her go, turning to the patient representative who has appeared pushing an empty wheelchair. I think it might be for me. Relief floods me at the thought of not having to hobble on my poor ankle again.
“What brings you here today?”
“I was in a car accident. I think I’ve broken my ankle. I’m also twelve weeks pregnant.”
“Of course, I’ll just grab some details. Name?”
“Andrea Halpern.”
“Next of kin?”
“Uh, Connor Fitzpatrick.”
There’s a pause as she blinks at me.
“Oh. We’ll take you through immediately. I can get the rest of your details once you’re comfortable.”
“O-okay.” That never happens. Did I just say the magic word?
After they check my baby is okay, which was my first demand, and hook me up to pregnancy-acceptable painkillers and set and plaster my ankle, I call Lauren.