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I hung up and drove like a bat out of hell. I’d never done a getaway job this fast, never driven this fast even when the cops were after us. My wheels ate up the road, which was as empty as any California highway ever gets at three o’clock in the morning. It wasn’t just because Olivia was sitting alone in a hospital lobby, shaken and upset and waiting for me. It was because of what she’d said.
I fell down the stairs at Shady Oaks.
I’d watched her go to her door hours ago. I’d watched her put the key in the lock and open it. I’d watched her turn around and wave. She’d been nowhere near the stairs.
Fell, my ass.
There was an ember of a fire, deep down inside me, in my gut, at the base of my spine, and it started to burn.
Gray Jensen wouldn’t have the guts to push a woman down the stairs. He was finished, anyway. Only one man I knew had the means to have me watched, to find out I was spending my time with Olivia. And only one man I knew had the motivation, and the pure blackness of soul, to have her pushed down the stairs.
I hadn’t answered him about his shipment, and he was sending me a message. You’re in. You may not think you are, but you are. You’re in this.
I pulled up to the emergency entrance of UCSF and got out of the car. Olivia had already spotted me. She came through the glass doors and toward me. She was still wearing the clothes I’d dropped her off in—a pair of loose linen pants, now wrinkled, a tank top, and a thin sweater—and her wrist was bandaged. She looked pale, and when I got close I saw that the side of her face was bruised from the fall. Her face. The fire got hotter, the flames licking up my stomach and my chest.
Still, I tried to keep myself calm. Without a thought to what it looked like to anyone watching, she flung herself at me and buried her face in my neck as I caught her. “I’ve never been so happy to see anyone in my life,” she said, her voice muffled against my skin.
I held her for a minute, and then I gently pushed her away. I wanted to get the fuck out of here. But first I looked into her bruised face, my thumb gently brushing her temple. For a second the fire was so hot I couldn’t speak. “Baby,” I managed.
“I’m okay.” She shook her head. “The doctors checked me out, I promise.”
“No concussion?”
“No. They did all the tests. X-rays, too. It was just a fall. I need rest. I’ll be fine.”
I held her still for a second and looked at her. “A fall,” I said, not phrasing it as a question.
Her eyes slid away from mine. “Can we get out of here?”
I helped her into the car, and I pulled away from the hospital. She was shaken up, but the fire was burning and I had to have the truth. “Did he hit you?” I asked.
She had been looking straight ahead, but now she turned and looked at me. “Did who hit me?”
“The man who did this to you.” When she was quiet, I added, “You can’t lie to me about this. I already figured it out. Just tell me the truth.”
She had gone stiff and tense in her seat, and I realized she was afraid. “I really don’t—”
“Olivia.”
She flinched, and I felt lower than shit. I was supposed to be the good guy, the nice guy, here. I was supposed to say reassuring th
ings to her, tell her it was going to be okay, make her feel better after her shitty night. Instead I said, “Tell me.”
“He said it was a warning,” she said at last.
“To you?”
“No.” She paused. “To you.”
For a split second the road disappeared and all I saw was red. Oh, Craig Bastien, you thought you were so clever, using my woman to threaten me. You have no fucking idea.
“Devon,” Olivia said. “What is this about? Can you even tell me?”
“Did he hit you?” I asked her again.
She bit her lip. “No. He pushed me down the stairs.”
“Did you recognize him?”
