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Even after the doctor had assured him Allie would be fine, and the police confirmed Señora Sanchez was locked up behind bars, Sam still couldn’t shake the feeling something was off.
Laney finished her cell phone conversation and hung up. Her eyes red from crying, she came over to where he was pacing in the corner. Watching Allie like a hawk.
“Sam. Thank you again for everything.” Laney looked over at her sister, concern and love evident in her worried eyes. She turned back to him. “If it weren’t for you, we might not be here now. Things could have ended…badly. You’ll never know how grateful I am, we all are.”
He nodded and put his hand out to touch her frail arm. She snuffled and started to cry again. “Sorry. Can’t seem to stop.”
“You should get something to eat. Or a cup of tea. A change of scenery.” She started to object, and he held up a hand. “I didn’t say to go home, but maybe go check out the cafeteria. Allie would want you to keep up your strength. She’s going to need you when she wakes up.”
Laney’s eyes filled with even more tears. She nodded finally. “Okay. Just for a few minutes. But I want to be here when she does. Promise you’ll call the moment—”
“I promise. Now go.”
She quietly left the room, and he leaned his head back against the wall behind him. It was a relief to have her gone. He wanted a moment to be alone with Allie without everyone’s eyes on him. He walked over to the door and pushed it almost closed, then turned off the glaring florescent overheads. His eyes felt immediately better. He walked to her bed and switched on the dim nightlight behind it, the only other light in the room.
Hell, she looked so pale, so fragile.
He reached out to caress the softness of her cheek. She didn’t move. She’d been deathly still ever since he’d found her in that tub. Thankfully, the reassuring beeping of the monitors told him she really was okay. Out of harm’s way.
A few minutes passed, and the fatigue he’d been fighting was taking hold. He eased back down in the easy chair in the corner, his body relaxing despite the discomfort of the chair’s vinyl cover…
A loud crash out in the corridor suddenly jerked Sam awake, and he sat perfectly still for a moment trying to get his bearings. Where the hell was he?
In a rush, it all came back to him. He jumped up and saw Allie, still sleeping soundly in the bed. He shook his head. He didn’t want to go to sleep.
Caffeine. That’s what he needed.
He rose to his feet, unsure of the time, and slipped quietly out of the room. Laney should be back any minute. And he was pretty sure he’d seen a waiting room down this hall with a coffee machine.
The bright familiar florescent lights in the hall greeted him, and he rubbed his eyes as he strode to the coffee machine. There were only a couple of people in the waiting area. A woman in her twenties was leafing through a magazine. A guy close to Sam’s age seated by himself across the room. He looked pensive, his hands in his pockets, his legs jangling nervously.
There was something familiar about him, but the guy averted his gaze, so Sam figured he was mistaken. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out some loose change and went over to the machine. Damn. He was just short. He dug his wallet out and fished out a crinkled dollar, then punched the button for black, no cream or sugar. Unlike Allie who always liked it sweet enough to make him shudder.
The shudder continued, bringing unbidden thoughts of how close he’d come to losing her—
No, he had to stop.
Señora Sanchez was in custody, although, naturally, denying any wrongdoing. Sticking to her story that she was just waiting for her son when Sam had arrived. She claimed she didn’t know that Allie had attempted suicide.
Suicide. As if Allie was capable of that. Not remotely possible, for a multitude of reasons.
But apparently, Señora Sanchez was pretty convincing. She’d pointed out that she, a woman of nearly sixty, could never have won in a struggle with the young, fit Allie, nor could she have carried her to the bathroom and somehow manage to slit her wrists. But the only person who could disprove the lying woman’s claims was Allie. And for that, she’d have to wake up.
Which all brought Sam back to his and Allie’s theory that the killer hadn’t worked alone. Fifteen years ago, Señora Sanchez could not have driven Mr. William’s car to the mountains and walked all the way back—not without attracting attention. She would have needed someone to help her. And also to help dispose of Jackson Williams’s body. Someone strong. But she hadn’t been married. So, who—
Hell. The son.
The one she’d claimed to be waiting for at Allie’s.
Sam had a vague memory of the man from meeting him at the planning meeting a couple weeks ago. What did he look like? Dark coloring, unlike his moth—
Shit. He dropped the coffee, the scalding liquid spraying up and splashing his pants. But he didn’t feel the sting.
The son. That man in the waiting room who—
Was no longer there.
Sam ran like hell.
