Page 37 of Trust No One

“I won’t.”

Last night’s time-out in jail should have shaken some sense into him. But Gabe had never connected actions and consequences.

I stopped at a gas station, filled up, and hurried inside to pay. The scent of fresh coffee drew me to a pot. A large cup filled, I turned to the register.

The old man working the counter eyed me. I hadn’t been here in years, but he recognized me. He’d always made it clear he didn’t like the Hales. He’d claimed my father had stiffed him on a car repair bill. He rang me up. I paid and crammed a twenty-dollar bill in the tip cup. If the valley didn’t know I was back, they would soon. I thanked him and left.

This I-64 stretch remained familiar. Navigating the hospital exit, side streets through town, and the parking lot was automatic. I rode the elevator to the ICU unit.

The hospital floor smelled like it had the previous day—antiseptic and fear. An alarm buzzed somewhere on the floor. No one was at the nurses’ station.

I continued to Maria’s room. When I pushed back her curtain, I found an empty bed.

Flowers and cards from coworkers were lined up on the table by the window. The dry-erase patient chart still listed Maria Durant, and the plastic bag filled with her belongings, shredded by emergency room staff, remained bagged and in the corner.

A touch confirmed the rumpled sheets were still warm from Maria’s body. Had I rolled in seconds after she’d coded? Was that lingering alarm for her?

My stomach dropped.

From Dr. Webber’s first call, I hadn’t believed Maria could die. She’d made it to the hospital, and hospitals saved lives, right? Maria was young. Healthy. She would beat this.

This was supposed to be our wake-up call. Maria and I were blood. Thicker than water, right? We’d mend the divide and return to the friendship we’d had as kids.

And now what?

When my father died in the emergency room, devastation and confusion had rushed me. Just two hours earlier, I’d passed him in the kitchen. Newspaper, coffee, buttered toast on a rose china plate set in front of him. He’d smiled. I kissed him, remembered the scent of his aftershave.

The curtain behind me whooshed. Startled, I turned. A short man with thick hair dressed in scrubs was surprised to see me. His name tag read Dan Fitzgerald. A physician’s assistant. I didn’t recall seeing Dan yesterday.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Raine Hale.” Had he come to erase all traces of Maria? “Where’s Maria Durant?” I demanded.

Dan held up a hand as if calming a wild animal. “She’s been moved to another floor.”

“Why?”

“She doesn’t need to be in ICU. Her vitals are improving.”

Relief arrowed through the numbness. “When did this happen?”

“We just moved her.”

His dispassion checked my fears. “Does anyone know what caused the heart attack?”

“That’s a conversation for Dr. Webber.”

“Right. Okay.” He reached for the bag of Maria’s clothes. I grabbed the cards and flowers. “Can I see Maria?”

“Sure. She should be settled now.”

“Has she woken up?” Facts, even unwelcome ones, were always better than the unknown.

“She’s more responsive. But not fully awake.” His smile waned, faltering. “She’s heading in the right direction.”

“But waking up doesn’t mean recovered.”

He shrugged. “It’s the first step.”