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Talking hurts, but I ask the question anyway. “What about Vaughn?”
The nurse looks up from her computer. “Who?”
I clear my throat, ignoring the stabbing fire in my ribs. “The guy that I came in with. He was driving.”
“The police haven’t brought us your belongings yet, so we just have you in the system as John and Jane Doe. No assumed relation, of course.” She taps something onto the keyboard without looking away from me. “Is Vaughn a friend of yours?”
I open my mouth to answer that with sarcasm, but quickly shut it again. Friend isn’t precisely the word I would use to describe the guy who held a gun to my head while he tried to compel into making a false statement to the police.
There are about a million questions I want to ask that I probably shouldn’t.
Did the police find the gun? Does anyone know who ran us off the road? Is everyone else going to figure out that I’ve been lying about my identity?
What the hell am I going to do now?
“He going to be okay?” I ask, not sure if I’m hoping the answer will be yes or no.
Something in my tone alters her expression. She almost looks suspicious as she studies me.
Machines beep in time with the clock on the wall. Several seconds pass before she finally answers.
“I don’t have a lot of details. We have him up on the third floor, in our intensive-care unit. But this is a small hospital, so that unit is really more like an upgraded medical floor. If they can’t stabilize him, then they’ll probably airlift him to a larger facility.”
It takes me a second to understand her words. If Vaughn isn’t stable, does that mean he could die?
My first thought is that his death would solve the largest of my problems. As far I as I know, Vaughn Ashbridge is the only person at St. Bart’s who has figured out that I’m not really Olivia.
With him gone, I might still be able to make this work, even if I’m now the laughingstock of the entire campus.
Then I realize what a terrible thought that is and immediately feel bad about it. The guy might be an asshole, but that doesn’t mean he deserves to die. Rotting in jail would probably be good enough.
“Would you like to go visit your friend?” the nurse asks, her voice noticeably less cheerful than it was before.
Knowing how tempting it might be to suffocate Vaughn with his own pillow, I decline. “No, that’s okay.”
She blinks, then gives me a tight smile. “You’ll probably be discharged tomorrow. In the meantime, there are these forms from the registration department that I need you to fill out. If you have insurance, we need that information as quickly as possible.”
The nurse points to a clipboard loaded down with dozens of printed pages. She picks it up off the counter and sets it on the bedside table within my reach.
When I don’t immediately pick it up, her voice turns a little stern. “I need this paperwork done as soon as possible. Probably best to get started before the pain medication wears off again.”
I make a show of reaching for the clipboard. “I’ll get right on it.”
“Great.” The bright smile on her lips doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Use the call button if you need anything else.”
The metal door clicks shut behind her with a sound of finality.
Somehow, I managed to alienate what has to be the most cheerful nurse on the night shift.
Go me.
I pick up the clipboard and glance down at it. The first question is already tripping me up: Full Name.
If I give them Olivia’s name, it will definitely get back to my father.
If I give them mine, all hell will break loose and I’m not going to be able to stop it.
Going to jail for healthcare fraud isn’t exactly on my to-do list. Despite his extreme and obvious disappointment in me, my father has always bailed me out of my legal trouble. Even if it was only to keep his family name out of the muck, the lawyer fees still get paid.
