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couldn’t hear him. She was nearly passed out completely. Josh swerved into a U-turn and raced back to Petula’s house. He screeched to a halt in front, ran around the passenger side, opened the door, and pulled Petula out. He dragged her a few feet and dumped her like a smelly pile of trash on her driveway, then sped off. Petula felt the cold blacktop and little pebbles and gravel pushing into the side of her perfect profile.
    Meanwhile, Scarlet, tired from a busy night at the coffeehouse and still a little depressed, drove home immediately after work, anxious to see if Damen had e-mailed. She parked her car on the street and walked over the lawn to the front door. By chance, she looked over at the driveway and thought she saw a sack of garbage.
    “Damn raccoons,” she muttered, feeling obliged to stomp over and pick it up.
    At closer inspection, she saw it was Petula lying there passed out, her arms and legs splayed. On any other night, she would have just stepped over her, letting her sleep it off in the driveway to teach her a lesson. This time was different for some reason. Even at her worst, Scarlet thought, Petula would never let anyone see her in this condition.
    “Party too hard again?” Scarlet asked, nudging her sister gently.
    There was no response.
    “Petula, wake up,” she said, this time louder but not as angrily.
    Just then Petula’s phone began to ring, only she didn’t answer it. Knowing that Petula was a complete nomophobic — in constant fear of being out of mobile phone contact —Scarlet knew then that something was wrong.
    She flicked her Bic and knelt down to get a closer look. Scarlet was shocked. Petula’s eyes were slightly open and dilated, her breathing shallow. She was drenched in sweat and smelled of vomit. When Scarlet reached to touch her face, it felt like a furnace. She grabbed her sister by the shoulders and turned her over so that they were face to face.
    “Petula!” she screamed, over and over, now officially in panic mode. Still no response.
    Scarlet rested Petula’s back on her lap as she cradled her head, then reached in the pocket of her vintage black, mink-collared coat and called 911.
    Chapter 4
    Epitaph for the Heart
    We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.
    —Anaïs Nin
    You can only get outside yourself by looking inside.
    Some people are in constant fear that their heart might cease between beats, feeling each pulse as a countdown to the end rather than a vital sign of life. Others are barely aware that they even have a heart beating inside them, moving through the day unencumbered by the complexity of their inner workings. Worry may not change the outcome, but it definitely affects your outlook. Better to care too much than too little?
    Petula was still lying on the gurney that the EMTs had brought her in on, naked underneath one of those backless white one-size-fits-all surgical gowns. Scarlet rode in the ambulance with her, warding off the PMS — potential murder suspect — looks she was getting and nervously watching as the techs checked her vitals and tried to stabilize her. She’d been wheeled through the Emergency entrance of the hospital and into an isolated triage room, away from the rest of the patients being treated in the urgent care rooms.
    “What’s wrong with her, doctor?” Scarlet pleaded, leaning over Petula’s helpless body.
    “Right now, I have no idea,” Dr. Patrick answered. “All we know for sure is that she is fevered and unresponsive. Comatose, clinically.”
    Scarlet turned away, petrified at that word, and was relieved to see her mom rush into the room. She was less pleased to see the Wendys burst in close behind. The look on the Wendys’ two faces at the sight of Petula might have been perceived as shock or grief or even sympathy by someone who didn’t know them so well, but Scarlet knew better. She knew it was the look of pure jealousy. Though she prided herself on her inability to guess what they were