“Hurry up, Sloane! They were getting ready to take her back into the OR. There’s not a lot of time.”
OR. The operating room.
“She needs you!” Adam called.
But Sloane took a step in retreat. “When did you transfer here?”
He rushed back around the corner. “Your friend needs you! Come on!”
She shouldn’t have left the ER waiting area. She shouldn’t have gone with him. Sloane swallowed. “When I first met you, you said your name was Adam East.”
“Uh, yeah, come on—” His hands were behind his back.
“Like Adam West—the actor that played Batman so long ago. Back in the 1960s.”
“Sloane.” He advanced on her.
“Like him, but the opposite. You told me right then and there, didn’t you?”
He shook his head.
The corridor was empty. She had no weapon. “He was the hero,” she whispered. “You’re the opposite. You’re the villain.” She was alone with him. No weapon.
His head dropped forward.
Her heart raced in her chest. What part of California are you from, Adam? Was Adam even his real name? Preston had been born in California. The Last Breath Killer had hunted primarily in California. Preston’s mother, Mary Jean, had lived and died in California.
“Yeah, I’m the fucking villain.” His head snapped up. “And you’re dead.” He lunged at her and even as she swung her fist toward his face, he yanked a syringe from behind his back and plunged it into her neck.
Preston would be pissed if he didn’t get his eyes on Sloane and keep protecting her. Frankie slammed the door to the Range Rover. His sister had called him, all worried because she kept seeing the local news stories about the burials. She’d made him promise that he’d watch his ass.
He would.
But he was also supposed to be watching Preston’s ass. And, hell, Sloane’s ass, too. Preston had been adamant that Sloane should be the priority. Frankie’s eyes should be on her. His focus on protecting her.
He hurried toward the back entrance at the hospital. A few ambulances were parked in the area, and as he headed through the rear doors of Grace General, an EMT rushed out. An EMT pushing a gurney. A big, white sheet covered the person on the gurney.
Frankie stopped.
There was no guard on duty in that area. Normally, there was a guard. Someone to keep an eye on the sliding doors. Maybe the guy had been called away but…
Frankie’s head tilted as he studied the EMT. “I know you.”
“Got a body transport,” the man huffed as he pushed the gurney. “Got to go.”
“You’re…you’re the EMT who tried to perform CPR on Bridget Russell.” That scene was burned in his mind. Frankie found himself edging after the man. Looking down at the gurney and the white sheet that completely covered the body beneath it.
He was sure that sheet just…rose. “Your body is breathing.”
“Get away!” A snarl from the EMT.
But he wasn’t getting away. The guy was sweating far too much, and Frankie’s instincts were screaming at him. Where was the hospital security guard who should have been on duty? Why was this EMT rushing so much? I know the body moved. “Just slow down a moment, would you?”
A moan came from beneath the sheet.
The EMT’s eyes widened.
What the fuck? Frankie grabbed the sheet. Yanked it away completely. “Sloane!” Shock and rage blasted through him.
