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EYEWITNESS

A Thriller

T. R. FOLSOM

Book Description

It’s not paranoia if they're really after you...

Blind music teacher Emily Warner regains her eyesight through a transplant. But her newfound vision catapults her onto a path that is fraught with danger. As she begins to investigate the strange things she sees, she realizes that the visions she has belong to her cornea donor…. and that her donor’s death was no accident.

When she decides to prove that her donor was murdered, she draws the attention of the killer onto herself. But no matter the danger she’s putting herself in, she has to expose him, before another young girl will die at his hand… and before Emily becomes his next victim.

A fast-paced, suspenseful thriller set among Washington D.C.’s elite.

* * * * *

Eyewitness

* * * * *

1

Maryland – Fifteen Years Ago

EMILY WARNER SHOULD HAVE DIED in the crash, but she survived.

A week before the accident that changed her life forever, Emily had turned fifteen, and her acne had just cleared up. She saw it as a good sign. She had a mad crush on Kevin, a boy from her school, and she’d caught him looking at her during class. However, her dreams of being kissed by him never came true. She never saw him again. In fact, she never saw any of her classmates and friends again. All because two cars collided at an intersection, one speeding through a red light, the other innocently adhering to the traffic laws.

The red traffic light was the last thing Emily saw, before the seatbelt cut into her chest, robbing her of her breath. Glass shattered all around her. The collision’s sounds echoed in the night. The side impact knocked her unconscious. When she regained consciousness, she wondered for a moment whether she was dead. She felt numb, as if her body was gone. But then the pain receptors in her brain responded, and she realized she was still strapped in by her seatbelt, a sticky fluid covering her eyes. Sharp pain made her head ache worse than any migraine, while her body was tightly wedged between pancaked sheets of metal, plastic, and upholstery. She was trapped, unable to move.

Emily neither saw the blinking lights of the ambulances and the police cars, nor the flashlights of the first responders trying to assess the situation. She only heard the sirens and the police officers’ and paramedics’ voices, telling her to remain calm, assuring her that they would get her out. That she would be alright.

She wanted to believe them.

Emily felt movement and heard metal being bent or cut. Then somebody groaned, and she knew she wasn’t the only one who’d survived. But before she could sigh with relief, a paramedic whispered low to a colleague, obviously not wanting Emily to overhear him, “The passenger has no pulse.”

Her heart stopped in that instant. For an eternity, time stood still. But then her body reacted to the terrible news she didn’t want to be true. Tears mingled with the viscous liquid in her eyes, the blood so thick that no light could penetrate. She tried to wipe it away, but her arm was stuck. She didn’t know then that it wouldn’t have made a difference. The blood remained where it was. No amount of tears could wash it away.

Deep down, Emily knew what it meant, even though she didn’t want to acknowledge it at the time. Like a ragdoll, the paramedics pulled her out of the wreck. The morphine they gave her in the ambulance lulled her into a fitful dream, helping her push the memory of the crash out of her mind.

At the hospital, Emily heard the voices of the emergency physicians and nurses as they went to work on her. According to them, it was a wonder that she was alive.

She knew she should be grateful. But how could she be grateful for the nothingness that greeted her when she opened her eyes? Her future would be different from anything she’d dreamed of ever since she could remember. Nothing would ever be the same again. Her old life was over. A new one, one she hadn’t asked for, had begun. And this new life was overshadowed by an absence of light that swallowed everything around her like a black hole.

Yes, she had survived.

But the miracle came at a price.

She was blind.

2

Washington D.C. – Present Day

May 23rd

ERIC BOLTON PULLED HIS SILVER MERCEDES into a parking spot closest to the Emergency Department’s entrance. He jumped out of his car and ran inside, not even locking it, his heart beating like a jackhammer, but he knew he wasn’t having a heart attack. He was fit for his sixty-nine years, barely carried an extra pound around his midsection, and was as healthy as could be expected from an influential man who ate more meals in fancy restaurants than at home.

Inside the hospital, he oriented himself and quickly found a nurse’s station. He had no time to lose.

“Where is my daughter? Madeline Bolton, she came in an ambulance.”

The woman behind the counter looked at him. “What’s your name?”

“Eric Bolton. I’m her father. Where is my daughter?” he asked hurriedly, leaning halfway across the counter as if that would make the woman answer any faster.

“Please calm down, sir,” she said and typed something on her keyboard.

Calm down? How could he calm down? His daughter was hurt, badly hurt from what he could piece together from Lucia’s frantic phone call. Madeline’s housekeeper had cried, her words laden with sadness, alarm, and fear. It sent a shock through his body, and the resulting adrenaline pumping through his veins had somehow helped him drive back into the city and to the hospital without getting into an accident.

“Ms. Bolton was taken to trauma two,” the nurse finally said. “Please take a seat over there.” She pointed to the waiting room.

But Bolton didn’t sit down. He couldn’t. He needed to know what had happened, what state Maddie was in. He needed to be by her side, tell her that she would be okay, that her daddy was here to make sure she got the best care. So he ignored the nurse’s suggestion and headed for the double doors that led to the trauma rooms.

“Sir, sir! You can’t go in there!” she yelled after him.

But he ignored her, even as she called for security over the PA system. “Security to trauma center, corridor B immediately.”

On the other side of the double doors, Bolton rushed along the corridor lined with a variety of medical equipment needed to monitor heartbeat, blood pressure, oxygenation and other vitals, as well as machines to shock a heart back into beating, and ventilators to take over a patient’s breathing. He heard various beeping sounds and hastily spoken commands between the doctors and nurses. The sterile smell of disinfecting liquids hit him, reminding him that the last time he’d been inside a hospital was when Rita had given birth to Madeline. Back then, he hadn’t minded the hospital smells or the sight of the many machines that helped sustain life. Today, the scene and its smells conjured up the worst possible outcomes.

A multitude of rooms, all with large floor-to-ceiling windows, some with closed curtains providing privacy, others with open ones, lay to his left and right. Many of the doors stood open, others were closed.

“You can’t be in here,” a firm male voice addressed him from behind.

Bolton ignored the reprimand and kept walking, reading the signs outside the doors. Trauma five, he read and headed farther down the corridor. But he didn’t get far. The security guard’s hand on Bolton’s shoulder jerked him back, forcing him to stop and pivot.

“Sir, you have to leave, or I’ll have the police arrest you,” the tall black man wearing a dark-blue uniform warned.

“You don’t understand,” Bolton pleaded. “My daughter, she’s here. She’s hurt. I have to get to her.” He tried to free himself from the man’s grip, but couldn’t. So he raised his voice. “Madeline, Madeline, baby, your daddy is here.”

“Let’s go,” the security guard said and dragged him back toward the double doors.

Bolton didn’t make it easy for him, using his weight against the man. “Damn it! Let me go! I have to see Madeline.” He looked over his shoulder and called out toward trauma room two. “Madeline! Maddie!”

All of a sudden, a middle-aged black woman in scrubs appeared in the doorway. With the authority of a physician who’d seen it all, she looked straight at him. “Mr. Bolton?” Then her gaze shifted to the security guard, and she gave him a subtle sign by moving her head to one side.

The security guard let go of Bolton. Bolton made a few steps toward the doctor, then stopped. It was written on her face, the expression that meant that the news wasn’t good.

She met him halfway. “I’m sorry.” Her eyes brimmed with compassion. “Your daughter didn’t make it.”

All life drained from Bolton’s body, and for a moment, the world stood still. The trauma surgeon was still talking. Words like cerebral hemorrhage and swelling of the brain echoed in the corridor. Bolton barely heard anything.

Madeline was gone.

Somebody led him to a chair where he sat numb from grief and pain. Everything seemed too quiet around him. And in the solitary pain of his grief, he realized that everything he’d achieved in his life, everything he’d worked for, meant nothing. He felt tears rim his eyes and forced them back. He couldn’t break down now, couldn’t allow himself to be weak. He had to be strong, for himself and his family. If he gave in now, if he allowed grief to swallow him, there would be nobody to comfort Rita, his wife of forty years.

But how could he comfort Rita when he himself felt more pain than he ever had?

He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there, somewhere in the hospital, when his cell phone rang. Automatically, he pulled it from his pocket and looked at it. He wasn’t sure why he answered the call, when he could barely speak, but he did it anyway.

The familiar voice was cheerful. “Morning, Eric, how far out are you? The horses are saddled. We’re burning daylight here.”

“Mike,” Bolton said, his voice breaking.

Mike Faulkner, the President’s Chief of Staff had been his friend since they’d both been members of the same fraternity. While at first their career choices had taken them in different directions and to different locations, their friendship had only strengthened, until they’d both ended up in government, Faulkner in the executive branch, and Bolton as a defense contractor with ties to lobbyists, and as a major donor.

“Did you forget?”

“Mike…” Bolton collected all his strength to force the next words out of his mouth without breaking down. “Maddie… she’s dead. My little girl is dead.” A sob tore from his chest. It didn’t matter that Maddie was thirty-two years old and lived on her own in a swanky townhouse in Georgetown. She would always be his little girl. And now she was gone. Her infectious smile gone. Her laughter gone.

“Oh my God, what happened?”

Bolton pushed another rising sob down. “I don’t know. Lucia called me. She found her when she got in. They rushed her to the hospital, but it was too late. She’s…” This time, reality sank in even deeper, and he couldn’t get the word over his lips. The image was too raw, too painful.

“Eric, I can’t even imagine what you and Rita are going through right now.”

“Rita doesn’t know yet. She’s at home.” His voice broke, but he pulled himself together. He took a breath. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I’m here for you, Eric. Whatever you need. You just let me know. You have to be strong for Rita, and I can be strong for you.”

A sob tore from Bolton’s chest. “Maybe there is something you can do. The police… they’ll want to investigate what happened. And I need to know too. I need to know what happened and why. But I don’t want the police to drag her name through the mud.”

Even though he loved Maddie more than his own life, he wasn’t blind. She’d been a wild child in her twenties, and had experimented with drugs. Her lovers spanned the globe. Not all of them decent men. He didn’t want that to be her legacy.

“Don’t worry about anything. You let me handle this. I’ll make sure she’ll be treated right. I’ll send my own people in,” Faulkner promised.

“The Secret Service? Can you do that?”

“Ordinarily, no. It’s not within our jurisdiction. But I can call in some favors so DC Police won’t take point on this. The Secret Service will make sure nothing leaks that you don’t want the public to know about. And they’ll be thorough. I promise you. That’s the least I can do for my goddaughter.”

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

“No need to thank me,” Faulkner said. “Take care of Rita. She needs you now more than ever.”

Before Bolton could utter another thanks, Faulkner disconnected the call, and shoved his cell phone into his pants pocket.

Faulkner stopped at the stable door. He’d looked forward to riding out with Bolton. He didn’t get to ride his horses much anymore since he’d become President Robert Langford’s Chief of Staff over two years ago. In fact, he didn’t get to stay at his equestrian estate in rural Virginia much at all. Instead, Faulkner spent most of his days and nights in his house in Washington D.C. It was close enough to the White House so he could be in the Oval Office with fifteen minutes’ notice, traffic permitting.

Sometimes he wondered why he’d taken the job. Was it because he liked the power the position afforded? The prestige? Or had he given in to the President’s offer because they’d been friends since college? Like Bolton, the President had been a member of the same fraternity Faulkner had pledged to. Maybe it wasn’t either of those reasons. Perhaps not remarrying after the unexpected death of his wife when their son was still a child had contributed to his quest for more professional challenges. He’d been no good at raising his rebellious and grief-stricken teenage son.

“Morning, Mr. Faulkner,” the groom said.

Robert Woolf looked like a crusty old sailor, his face leathered from the time he spent outdoors whatever the weather, his hands calloused from the hard labor he performed without complaint. Faulkner knew a good man when he saw one. And Woolf was a good man, honest, reliable, invaluable.

“Morning, Robert.”

“Has your guest arrived?” Woolf asked.

“I’m afraid he had to cancel. Something came up. And I have to return to Washington D.C. immediately.”

Woolf sighed. “Hmm. The President sure rides you hard, if you don’t mind my saying so. He never lets you enjoy a day off.”

Faulkner let out a bitter laugh. “Normally you’d be right, but this time, I have to help an old friend out.” He rubbed his hand over the horse Woolf had already saddled. “Perhaps you and Caleb can ride out instead. I’ll call him and see if he has plans to come out.”

Before he could reach for his cell phone, Woolf waved him off. “Don’t think so. He was here yesterday.”

“Caleb? Good!” Though his only son wasn’t as much into horses as Faulkner and his wife had been, he occasionally did show some interest.

“He didn’t take any of the horses out. He wasn’t here long enough. I was ready to saddle Lucky for him, but he said he didn’t have time.”

Faulkner’s forehead furrowed. “Then what did he do here?”

Woolf shrugged. “He said he forgot something last time he was here.”

“Oh well, why don’t you ride Lucky then? And maybe that boy who helps out here occasionally wants to ride the mare. I don’t mind. He seems responsible enough.”

“Will do, sir.”

“Thanks, Robert.”

Faulkner turned and marched out of the stable, pulled his cell phone from his pocket, and scrolled through his contacts.

3

THERE WAS NO PARKING outside the quaint Georgetown two-story townhouse when Detective Adam Yang arrived with his partner, Detective Simon Jefferson. It was to be expected. There was never any parking in this part of Washington D.C. to begin with. And today, it was even worse: a car was already double-parked.

Yang exchanged a look with Jefferson, his black partner of only two years. They’d both become members of the Washington Metropolitan Police Department in their early twenties and risen through the ranks, making detective within six months of each other. But that was where their similarities ended. Jefferson belonged to the black majority at DC Police, where roughly sixty percent of all officers were black, and only a little over two percent were Asian.

While Yang felt at home in the multi-cultural department, he was certainly the odd man out. Just like he was the odd man out in his extended Chinese family. His siblings, two sisters and a brother, as well as his many cousins, were professionals: lawyers, doctors, accountants. His parents had meant for him to follow in their footsteps, but he had no interest in medicine or accounting. The law had called to him, though not in the way his parents had hoped. A lawyer or judge in the family would have satisfied their ambitions for him, but Yang had chosen to join the police force instead.

“Just park behind the black car,” Jefferson said with a shrug.

Normally, Yang would at least have made an effort to find a proper parking spot, but after an early morning phone call with his soon-to-be ex-wife in which they’d fought over the financial aspect of their divorce, which was dragging on for far too long, Yang didn’t have any fight left in him.

Without a word, Yang switched off the engine and hopped out of the car. Jefferson was already on the steps leading to the entrance door, which stood open. Jefferson entered. In the well-appointed foyer, Yang caught up with his partner.

“Nice digs, huh?” Jefferson said in a low voice.

“It reeks of money.” Just like half the city. Yet to Yang it was home. He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else but inside the Beltway. There was something about living in the nerve center of the nation even though he wasn’t part of its political fabric.

Hearing voices from a door, which was ajar, Yang headed for it. But before he and Jefferson reached it, a black man in a dark suit emerged from it and blocked the entrance.

Yang and Jefferson flashed their badges. “Detectives Yang and Jefferson, DC Police. And you are?”

When the man flashed his badge faster than a magician performing a trick, Yang already smelled trouble. The man’s dark suit and his indifferent expression were a dead giveaway.

“Agent Banning, Secret Service.” Banning pointed over his shoulder, still blocking the entrance to the living room. “My colleague Agent Mitchell and I have got this. You’re not needed. Please see yourselves out.”

“I don’t think so. From what I’ve been told, this is a suspicious death, which falls firmly within our jurisdiction,” Yang said without missing a beat. “So, unless this is a case of counterfeiting or bank fraud, I suggest you leave this to us.”

Agent Banning didn’t move. Behind him, Agent Mitchell came into view. He was a carbon copy of his colleague down to the boring tie, though his hair was shorter, and his shoulders broader.

“This is a case for the Metropolitan Police Department, not the Secret Service,” Yang said.

“Guess you didn’t get the memo,” Agent Banning said with a smug face.

Yang opened his mouth to retort when his cell phone rang.

Agent Mitchell pointed to Yang’s pocket, from where the sound originated. “I would answer it if I were you. Might be important.”

Yang met Mitchell’s gaze, then exchanged a look with Jefferson. Jefferson shrugged.

It was clear the agent knew something Yang didn’t. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell. Pressing it to his ear, he answered, “Detective Yang.”

“Yang, Lieutenant Arnold.” Whenever his superior, Lieutenant Latochia Arnold, called, it was generally important.

Jefferson stepped closer so he could listen in.

“Lieutenant, ma’am. I was about to call you to—” He didn’t get to finish his sentence.

“Have the Secret Service agents arrived yet?” she interrupted.

“Yes, how did—?”

Again, she interrupted him. “Good. Leave this to them. I’m pulling you and Jefferson off this case effective immediately.”

“With all due respect, ma’am, this is our jurisdiction,” Yang said as calmly as he could, while staring at the two Secret Service agents. “You can’t just—”

“It wasn’t my call, Yang. My hands are tied.”

Yang grunted in displeasure.

“Listen, Yang,” Arnold said with a little less force, “this comes from way above my pay grade. The victim’s father has clout, and was able to pull some strings. The mayor leaned on the chief to let this one go. Something to do with the victim being in contact with members of a foreign government. Secret Service claims it’s a matter of national security. It’s total b—ahm, I don’t like it either, but it is what it is. So, do me a favor, don’t make a scene. Just leave, and let them deal with it.”

“Alright,” Yang said tightly and disconnected the call.

Trying to ignore the two agents’ self-righteous facial expressions, Yang said, “It’s all yours.”

In the car, Yang turned to Jefferson. “Can you believe this crap? What the fuck was this all about?”

“Well, considering who the victim is… or was…” Jefferson said.

“What do you mean? Who was she?”

“Madeline Bolton. She belongs to D.C. high society.” Jefferson shrugged. “Father is a big shot in politics or something like that. Apparently he’s friends with the President.”

Yang couldn’t believe his ears. “How do you know that?”

Jefferson shook his head. “How don’t you know that? I read the papers.”

“Papers or gossip rags?”

“Either way, I keep up with what’s going on in this town. Can’t hurt knowing who’s who.”

Yang sighed and started the car. “Lieutenant Arnold wasn’t kidding when she said this was above her pay grade.”

“Arnold never jokes unless she’s off-duty. Besides, do you really want to get involved in a case where the victim’s family is going to be up your ass looking for any mistakes you might make? You know what rich people are like.”

Yang grunted, still annoyed.

“You’re just annoyed that Secret Service encroached on our turf,” Jefferson said.

Yang cast him a glance. “I guess that’s the difference between us: I want to solve cases, you want to close them.”

Jefferson gave a short chuckle. “Those two things aren’t mutually exclusive. You know that, right?”

4

May 26th

EMILY FELT MOVEMENT return to her hands and feet as her body shook off the groggy feeling of the sedatives the IV had delivered into her vein. During the surgery, she imagined hearing sentence fragments of Dr. Milton Harland’s steady voice giving orders to his small team. Most likely she was just dreaming, creating her own reality while her life lay in someone else’s hands once more. There was comfort in that thought, and fear. Yet, she felt no pain, nor any sense of time having passed.

At some point, she heard the sound of a hospital bed rolling over the linoleum floor, and felt the movement of a nurse pushing the bed into the recovery room. The brakes being set made a grating noise and indicated that she’d arrived in a cubicle. The sleeve around her right biceps became tighter as it filled with more air. The pressure released slowly while a heart monitor beeped steadily.

“One forty-three over eighty-five,” Tiffany, the nurse who’d helped prepare her for the surgery, said in a soothing voice. A warm hand touched Emily’s. “Still a little high, but it all looks good, hon. The doctor will be with you soon. Just rest in the meantime.”

Emily opened her mouth to thank her, but her throat was parched, and she couldn’t form any words. Instead, she swallowed hard.

“I’ll bring you some water.”

Her lids were too heavy to lift, and she attributed the sensation to the sedatives she’d received. She was coming out of a sleep-like state and felt disoriented. Even if she could have opened her eyes, she didn’t dare do so, worried about what would greet her. Darkness? Intense light? Nothing? She didn’t want to speculate, because it would only add to her anxiety.

Emily felt cool water moisten her mouth and realized that the nurse had come back, pressed a cup into her hands, and led the straw to her lips. She couldn’t remember accepting the water, nor could she feel how Tiffany removed the cup from her hands, only that suddenly a different hand was touching hers lightly.

How much time had passed from the moment she’d taken a sip of water until a hand squeezed hers? She didn’t know.

“It went well.” The voice pulled her further out of her daze. It belonged to Dr. Milton Harland, the surgeon who’d performed the procedure. “Though it took longer than we anticipated.”

Something about his statement sent unease through her body.

“What?” she managed to mumble.

Again, she felt a squeeze of her hand meant to reassure her. “Nothing to worry about. The stem cell patches have integrated well and appear to have repaired the optic nerve atrophy you were diagnosed with several years ago. We couldn’t have done this even five years ago, but medicine has come a long way. As I told you in our pre-op discussion, this therapy is brand-new and still experimental, but I’m confident it’s working. And with the donated corneas we implanted today, you’ll eventually have 20/20 vision.”

Emily picked up on the one word that belied the doctor’s confident statement. She was good at that, at listening for words that didn’t fit, because she’d had to rely on her sense of hearing more than ever after the accident. “Eventually?”

“Well, let’s take a look, shall we?”

She felt the air between them move and realized that Dr. Harland was leaning in.

“Tiffany, dim the lights, please.”

A warm hand touched her face, fingers brushed against her temple. Then the sound of an adhesive strip being pulled away from skin reached her ears, even though she didn’t feel any discomfort. Until now, she hadn’t even realized that her eyes were covered with something, a thin layer of gauze.

On her left side, Emily suddenly perceived a brightness she had almost forgotten existed. Her heart began to thunder in excitement while simultaneously the beeping coming from the heart monitor accelerated. Then an equal brightness appeared on the right.

“Now, slowly open your eyes,” Dr. Harland instructed.

When she hesitated for several seconds, he added, “Don’t be concerned. There are no harsh lights you have to be afraid of.”

She couldn’t delay any longer. It was time to face reality. For fifteen years, she’d lived in the dark. Today, she would find out if light would once again enter her life.

Emily released a shaky breath. “Okay then.” Slowly, she lifted her heavy eyelids a tiny fraction of an inch. Something she hadn’t seen in far too long streamed in as if the floodgates of a dam had been opened: light. With a gasp, for fear the light could burn her eyes, she squeezed them shut.

“Are you in pain?” Dr. Harland asked.

She shook her head. “It’s so bright.”

A soft chuckle rolled off the doctor’s lips. “That’s a good sign. We’ll take it slow, alright?”

Slowly, she corrected him in her mind, her teacher side taking over for a brief moment. But then she immediately slipped back into her role as patient, a patient apprehensive about meeting disappointment. She’d been down this road once before. Back then, the operation had been a failure.

“Try it again,” Dr. Harland encouraged her patiently.

This time, Emily forced herself to open her eyes wider, allowing more light to stream in. The brightness was overwhelming at first, but she called on all her courage not to give in to fear this time, and kept her eyes open.

“That’s good.” The doctor’s voice was full of praise. Or maybe she was just projecting onto him what she was hoping for. “Just a little bit more.”

Emily allowed her eyelids to swing open fully, braving the light as if she were a surfer taking a wave head-on. The reward followed only moments later. The light became more defined. Shapes formed, shadows appeared, and colors popped up from out of nowhere. The silhouette of a person separated from the bright background, still blurred, but becoming clearer with every second.

“Green,” she murmured. “Your scrubs are green.”

Somebody to the right of that shadow let out a relieved breath: the nurse, Tiffany. Emily turned her head slightly and focused on her. It took a few moments for the picture to sharpen sufficiently to recognize the shape of a petite woman dressed in pink. Emily swept her gaze upward and concentrated on the head and hair, but the area appeared as a dark black hole, a place devoid of light. Was there a problem with the corneas they’d implanted? Was there a tear, a blemish, an imperfection that suddenly caused the light to vanish?

“No,” she muttered to herself, panic cutting off the air to breathe.

“What’s wrong?” The doctor’s voice made her snap her head back in his direction.

That’s when she realized her mistake. There was no shadow on her corneas: Dr. Harland’s silhouette appeared without shadows. To confirm her realization, she looked at Tiffany again. With every second, her eyes became more used to the light, and the shapes in front of her became more defined, revealing the nurse with more clarity, contrasting her dark skin from the pink scrubs she wore. Emily felt foolish not having realized that Tiffany was black. Instead, she’d falsely assumed the worst.

“Nothing… nothing is wrong.” It was the truth. “I can see.” She hesitated. She didn’t want to complain or criticize, but her concern gained the upper hand. “Only…”

“You don’t have a clear vision yet. It’s still blurry,” Dr. Harland guessed.

“How did you—”

“It’s to be expected. If it had only been an issue about implanting new corneas, your sight would have been restored immediately. But with having to repair the optic nerve too, the process takes a little longer. Your brain has to form new synapses to process the signals the optic nerve is sending.”

Relief washed over her. “How long?”

“It depends. In some patients, it takes a week, in others several. But in any case, your eyesight will improve with each day.”

“Thank you.” Emily turned her head toward Tiffany in order to include her. “I don’t know how to thank you and your team.” Tears suddenly welled up and clouded her blurry vision further. “And the donor’s family too. I want to thank them.”

“We’re just glad we could take care of you,” Dr. Harland said. “Right, Tiffany?”

“You’ve been a model patient, Miss Emily,” Tiffany replied. “Now, let me call your ride to come so she can drive you home when you’re ready.”

“Thank you.” But Tiffany was already turning and leaving her field of vision.

“And the donor’s family?” Emily asked, looking back at the surgeon. She could now see that he had salt and pepper hair, but more details still escaped her. “I would like to call them.”

Dr. Harland opened a folder, then sighed. “I’m sorry, Miss Warner, but the note from Transplant Administration says that the donor’s family wants to remain anonymous.”

“Oh…”

The news was disappointing, but in a way she understood. Perhaps they didn’t want to be reminded of their recent loss. Emily knew what it meant. Unfortunately, she’d never had a choice whether to be reminded of it or not. Every single day of the past fifteen years she’d thought of what she’d lost: not only her vision, but also the person she loved most. She hadn’t found it in her heart to show mercy to the person responsible. Instead, with all the anger of a fifteen-year-old girl, she’d made him pay.

5

“I CAN WALK,” Emily said, but Tiffany forced her, gently but firmly, to sit in the wheelchair.

“Hospital policy,” she insisted. “Now, I’ve already made your follow-up appointment with Dr. Harland. I noted the date and time on your discharge papers. Let me just get those for you.”

Before Emily could ask more about the appointment, Tiffany pulled the wheelchair to the side and set the brakes, then walked behind the nurses’ station and got busy looking for the folder.

“Damn it, Arleen, where did my patient’s discharge folder go? I just put it down here a minute ago.”

“Patient name?” one of the nurses, presumably Arleen, asked.

“Emily Warner.”

“Don’t have it here. Susan just grabbed a stack of files. Maybe she accidentally took it. She went into the back office.”

With an annoyed huff, Tiffany marched off.

There was nothing else Emily could do, but sit there like a potted plant. As the chatter of the nurses died down, the sound of a TV mounted on the opposite wall drifted to her.

“… A memorial is being planned and will likely include foreign and domestic dignitaries and prominent members of the Washington D.C. society. The recent engagement announcement of incumbent Senator Puller’s daughter to the son of his primary opponent Kurt Altman, has all of Washington’s elite guessing whether the wedding can reunite these two bitter rivals. Stay tuned. And after the commercial break: Who was recently seen at the brand-new nightclub SWANK with his ex? You won’t believe this.”

“Here it is,” Tiffany said from behind Emily.

Emily tore her attention from the TV and reached for the folder Tiffany pressed into her hand.

“So, the appointment is all set for late next week.”

“What time of day? I teach until—”

“Don’t worry, hon, I figured you’d say that. I arranged a late afternoon appointment for you.”

“Thank you. Ordinarily I wouldn’t mind… but I’ve already lost a few days this school year, and I don’t want to short-change my students.”

Tiffany clicked her tongue. “Nothing wrong with taking a few days off. An operation like this isn’t to be taken lightly. You need plenty of rest.”

“It’s a long weekend for me. No classes on Monday. Dr. Harland said I can go back to work on Tuesday.”

“Hon, Dr. Harland is a workaholic. Of course, he’ll say you can go back to work after three days, because that’s what he would do. I’m just saying if you feel you need more time to rest, take it. And don’t forget to wear your sunglasses to give your eyes time to get used to bright lights. It can be jarring at first.”

“I’ll do that. I promise.” Emily had no intention of jeopardizing her recovery. Besides, she felt comfortable behind dark glasses. For the better part of two decades, they’d been her defensive wall, a shield behind which to retreat when life became too overwhelming. And together with her cane and her seeing-eye dog, Coffee, they signaled to the world around her to get out of her way. Now, all that would change. And this change, though welcome beyond all imagination, was scary.

“Here we are,” Tiffany suddenly said as she pushed the wheelchair out through the automatic doors of the hospital’s main entrance. “Before I forget it: the pharmacy will deliver your meds to your home later today. Make sure you take them as prescribed. They’ll make sure your body won’t reject the corneas.”

“I know. Dr. Harland explained before the operation.” He’d warned her that her body might perceive the donor’s tissue as a foreign entity and reject it, but that in the case of corneas such a rejection was extremely rare.

Emily let her gaze wander. Her vision was a little bit clearer now than right after she’d woken up from the procedure, but it still felt as if she were looking through a thick glass pane that distorted everything behind it.

“What does your friend look like?” Tiffany asked.

“She’s Asian, dark hair, slim.”

The only reason Emily knew this was because her neighbor Vicky Hong had described her appearance when Emily had moved into the quaint apartment building in the Columbia Heights neighborhood of Washington D.C. They’d literally bumped into each other when Vicky had rushed out of her apartment on the second floor while Emily had tried to unlock her apartment door—or what she thought was her apartment door. Unfortunately, she’d miscounted her steps and stopped in front of Vicky’s apartment instead. For some reason or another, Vicky had befriended her immediately and taken her under her wing. Emily knew that at first Vicky’s motives for helping her were steeped in pity and perhaps novelty of having a friend who was so very different from herself. But although they were as different as night and day—or maybe because of it—the quirky computer geek had become her BFF.

A dog barked, pulling Emily’s attention into his direction. “Coffee!” She felt a smile curve her lips upward. Vicky had brought Emily’s guide dog. “Come, boy!”

A big chocolate-brown lug of Labrador ran toward her. Emily reached for Coffee’s head but fell short. Clearly, her depth perception wasn’t up to snuff yet. But a second later, Coffee’s wet nose nuzzled against her palm, and a tongue licked her skin, before he nestled his head in her lap.

“My good boy,” she cooed, petting his head, rubbing behind his ears, while she looked into his eyes. He looked every bit as handsome as she’d always imagined.

When a shadow blocked out the light in front of her, she looked up. “Hey, Vicky.” Her friend was dressed in a multitude of bright colors. It appeared that Vicky hadn’t joked when she’d said that she liked to dress to be noticed.

“Hey, girl.” A smile colored Vicky’s words. “Ready for your new life to begin?”

Emily rested her gaze on Vicky’s face and matched her smile. “I hope you didn’t have to wait too long.”

Vicky made a dismissive hand movement. “I used the time to catch up with old colleagues on the third floor.”

“You worked here?” Tiffany said from behind the wheelchair.

“Yep, for about seven years. Admin and stuff. I’m working freelance now, medical transcriptions and computer work,” Vicky answered. What Vicky dismissively called computer work was actually writing sophisticated computer programs for apps and websites. Vicky pointed toward Emily’s lap. “Is that your discharge folder? I’ll take that. My car is parked right there in the red zone.” She looked over her shoulder, then grunted in displeasure.

“Oh come on, buddy!” she called out in the direction of her parked car.

Emily focused her eyes on the spot and saw a uniformed man standing next to the beat-up old Volkswagen Rabbit.

“It’s Ambulance Parking only,” the officer said in a rather stern and loud voice.

“I’m picking up a patient, for Christ’s sake! Have a little compassion here. You can’t just discriminate against a disabled American. There are laws.” She motioned toward Emily. “Can’t you see the girl is blind?”

Emily suppressed a chuckle. She’d been witness to Vicky’s previous attempts at getting out of a ticket. Not all attempts had succeeded. In fact, only a few had. “I’m not blind anymore,” Emily whispered.

Vicky turned halfway and whispered back, “Yeah, but he doesn’t know that. You’re wearing dark glasses and you have a guide dog with a vest saying so, so just play along. Maybe do a little Stevie Wonder, you know, the way he moves his head from side to side.”

Emily had a hard time not breaking out in laughter, and even Tiffany let out a small chuckle.

“Some friend you’ve got,” Tiffany said under her breath.

“Yeah, guess I was blind when I picked her.”

“Very funny. Okay, let’s move it,” Vicky said and walked toward the car. “We’re coming already.”

“Coffee,” Emily ordered her dog. “Forward.” The dog turned and marched alongside the wheelchair while Tiffany pushed her in the direction of Vicky’s car.

“I have to apologize for my friend, Officer,” Emily said as they reached the car, where the policeman was still hovering. She reached out her hand, moving it from left to right, pretending not to be aware of the policeman’s exact position. “Please give me the ticket. I’ll pay it. She’s only here to pick me up. It’s all my fault.”

The policeman shook his head. “It’s alright, ma’am. I’m not gonna issue a ticket this time. Just make sure your friend doesn’t do it again. Her car is no ambulance.” He tossed a look at Vicky.

“Thank you, Officer, that’s too kind,” Emily said.

With a nod, he turned away.

The instant he was out of earshot, Vicky chuckled. “You’ve still got it.”

Moments later, Emily was sitting in the passenger seat, Coffee was spread out on the back bench while Vicky switched on the engine and let it rev. Across the street, the police officer whirled around.

Emily put her hand on Vicky’s arm. “Don’t piss him off now.”

Vicky stuck her head out the window. “Sorry, Officer, old car. I’m happy it still works.” Before he could answer, she pulled out of the illegal parking spot and merged onto the street.

“One of these days,” Emily started, but her friend interrupted.

“I know, I know, but when I see somebody with a stick up his butt, I just can’t help myself. Good thing I have a get-out-of-jail-free card.”

“Which is?”

For a second, Vicky took her eyes off the traffic. “A blind friend to evoke sympathy. Works like a charm every time.”

“Yeah, about that.” Emily pointed to her face. “Not blind anymore.”

A genuine smile lit up Vicky’s face. “I know. I’m so happy for you.” Then she looked in the rearview mirror and pointed over her shoulder. “You gonna tell Coffee that you don’t need him anymore?”

Emily shook her head. “I still need him. My sight isn’t one-hundred percent yet. Besides, he’s been with me for six years. I could never give him away. Guess he’ll just have to spend his retirement with me.”

“Seeing-eye dogs retire?”

“Sure they do. And Coffee deserves it.”

She looked over her shoulder and gazed at her dog. He’d afforded her a certain independence, which a cane alone could never have provided. He was her second guide dog. Her first had given his life for her, saving her from being run over by a car. The teachers at the School for the Blind in Baltimore, where she’d spent several years, had warned the students regularly: It’s not whether you’re gonna get hit by a car, bus, or bike, but when. They couldn’t have been more on the money.

“You okay?” Vicky asked.

Emily nodded automatically. “It’s just a lot to take in. And I still feel a little woozy from the sedatives.”

“It’s okay if you want to close your eyes and nap a little.” Seemingly without effort, Vicky navigated the car through busy traffic.

“I don’t want to close my eyes. There’s so much to see.” She motioned to the buildings that seemed to whizz past the car, the people on the sidewalks, the cars coming toward them. “I thought Washington was a big city.” Yet there were few tall buildings. It looked so quaint and had a small-town feel to it.

“It is, but every little neighborhood is like a village in itself. You’ll see. You’ll like it. We’ll go exploring when you feel up to it.”

“You’re doing so much for me.”

“Ah, it’s nothing, it gets me out of the house. Besides, driving through D.C. traffic on a Friday is like contact sports for me. I love the challenge.”

Emily had to chuckle. “You’re strange.”

“Strange good or strange bad?”

“No comment,” Emily said.

She looked out of the passenger side window, but the speed with which the images moved past her made her dizzy, so she turned her head back to gaze through the windshield instead. Better, she thought and focused on buildings farther ahead, took in their shapes and their colors. A massive white building with a rotunda rose in the distance. She remembered it from pictures from before she’d become blind.

Emily pointed to it. “Is that the Capitol?”

“Yep.”

“It’s bigger than I imagined.” Suddenly, something flashed in front of her eyes, blinding her for a short instant. She whirled her head in Vicky’s direction. Her heart suddenly raced. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

She pointed straight ahead. “The flash.”

“There was no flash,” Vicky said slowly and with a good deal of concern in her voice. “Do you want me to take you back to the hospital?”

“No, no, don’t. I… ahm, I’m fine, really. Maybe I just caught the sun reflecting in something shiny,” she lied to Vicky, not wanting her to get worried and drive her back to the clinic.

Yet, she was certain that she hadn’t seen light reflect on a shiny surface. She’d clearly seen the flash of a camera go off. Around the flash it had been dark, when right now it was daytime. What she’d seen was physically impossible. But what had flashed in front of her eyes had felt as real as watching the traffic around her.

Something was wrong, and that thought made her shiver despite the warm weather. An uncomfortable feeling akin to nausea settled in her stomach, which she couldn’t ascribe to the medications she’d received today. No, this wasn’t nausea, this was something else. Trepidation was rearing its ugly head.

6

AFTER VICKY BROUGHT EMILY BACK to her apartment and left after getting her settled, Emily walked into her bathroom. Sufficient light streamed through the small window, so she didn’t need to switch on the overhead light. With hesitant steps she walked to the sink. This was the only place in her apartment that had a mirror. The small medicine cabinet that hung over the sink had already been there when she’d moved in. While she stashed the usual over-the-counter medications like aspirin, allergy pills, and salves for various cuts and burns there, she’d never used the mirror on its front. It had never been of any use to her. Until now.

Slowly, Emily took off her dark glasses and placed them on the counter next to the sink, where her personal beauty and hygiene products were displayed in an orderly fashion. She hadn’t been a neat person as a teenager, but after losing her eyesight, she’d had to learn order. After reaching for anti-itch cream instead of toothpaste to brush her teeth, she’d learned her lesson quickly. Everything had its place now.

Emily put her hands on the edge of the sink, bracing herself for the truth. She knew she had scars from the accident. She could feel them with the pads of her fingers, could feel the tiny ridges, the bumps where once there had been smooth skin. In the months after the accident, she’d asked her doctors and nurses how terrible she looked. They hadn’t been honest with her, claiming that the scars were barely visible. So she’d stopped asking. But she’d never stopped wondering.

It was time to see for herself. To face her fear that she was ugly. She knew it was shallow to worry about physical beauty, but it didn’t stop her from feeling anxious. It was one thing to be overlooked by men because she was blind, and a whole other thing to be rejected because she was ugly.

“Time to face the music,” she murmured to herself.

In one drawn-out movement, she lifted her head and looked straight into the mirror. It took a second or two for the reflection to come into focus. She stared into it, taking in what she could. There were no visible scars, none she could see anyway. Only when she leaned in closer, she noticed a few spots where her skin was darker, but a casual observer might think they were freckles. The skin around her eyes, while puffy and red from the operation, was otherwise unmarred. Her long dark-brown hair was straight and framed her face like a silk curtain.

Emily smiled at her reflection, relieved. She wasn’t ugly. She stepped back a little for a different perspective. She remembered what she’d looked like as a young teenager. She’d held onto that image through regular visualization exercises they’d taught her in Baltimore. Just like she’d held onto other images, but over the years, the images had faded somewhat. And as she looked into the mirror now, she wasn’t looking at the girl she’d once been. There were hints of her still left, but so much had changed. She’d matured.

Her long hair still had the same chestnut color as during her childhood, though now the color seemed even richer. Her irises were still brown, still unassuming, but different at the same time, more inquisitive, more thoughtful. She had changed. She had grown up, become a woman.

The reflection she gazed into now wasn’t that of a stranger. It was a woman she knew and loved. She’d had no idea how much she now looked like her own mother at that age.

“Mom,” she whispered and reached for the mirror as if to touch her.

The image blurred in front of her eyes, and she realized that tears were streaming down her face. “I miss you so much.”

7

ADAM YANG WALKED

Table of Contents

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