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“I’ll call Dr. Ortega and let her know you’re awake,” the older one said, and was stepping toward the door. “She can let the police know.”
The police?
Theyounger nurse, too, turned from the bed, but Kara reached out and grabbed her hand, holding her fast despite the IV embedded near her wrist. “Why are the police wanting to talk to me?”
“I don’t know,” Nurse Rutgers said, and the older one snorted. As she left the room, she muttered under her breath, “Maybe they want to know who murdered that lawyer and what you were doing up there and why an ex-con was in your car.” She glanced over her shoulder through the ever-narrowing space between door and jamb, as if to make sure Kara got the message.
She did.
But the door clicked closed before Kara could respond; her temper was rising, a million questions boiling to the surface. “My brother,” she said suddenly before the younger nurse, too, could leave. “He was with me. Jonas McIntyre. Is he okay?” Oh, God, what if Jonas had died in the accident?
“I really can’t discuss another patient.”
“So he’s here.” And obviously alive. Kara felt a moment’s relief. “I want to see him.”
“That’s . . . that’s not possible,” the nurse said, her eyes kind.
“Why not?”
“Well, first off, you need to stay in bed until the doctor releases you.”
“And when is that?”
“Not sure. Because of the head injury, Dr. Ortega wants you to stay the night.”
“I can’t. I have a dog to take care of.”
“You can call someone. There’s a phone.” She pointed to the tray next to Kara’s hospital bed.
“There is no one.”
Small creases appeared between the nurse’s eyes, only partially obscured by the frames of her glasses. “What about your aunt? She’s been calling and asking about visiting you.”
Faiza. Oh, God. No. Kara’s heart sank. She couldn’t deal with her. Couldn’t imagine the questions—no, accusations—from the aunt who had been named her guardian but basically abdicated her duties to Merritt Margrove. “Where’s my phone?” she asked suddenly.
“You didn’t come in with one.”
Of course not. It had been in her Jeep.
“My purse?” Kara asked, already guessing the answer.
“No.”
She didn’t have to ask what happened to it. The police were involved, they’d no doubt impounded the car and it was at some garage somewhere. The cops had her personal items or the garage did. “I’m leaving.”
“You can’t.”
She wanted to bite out “watch me” but held her tongue. This nurse was still on her side, or so it seemed, and she couldn’t chance her calling someone. She knew she’d have to talk to the police—dear God, hadn’t she all her life?—but right now, she wanted to make sure that Jonas was all right. She thought of Merritt Margrove, lying in a pool of his own blood staining the old carpet of his trailer. Jonas had been there, and some girl . . . God, what was her name? Her head ached as she strained to remember. Mia something or other . . . had Jonas even said . . .
Kara sat up quickly, felt a stab of pain in her neck, but ignored it. “Where are my clothes?”
“In the closet, but as I said, you can’t leave. Not without the doctor’s orders.”
“I think I can. I’ll sign a release. Whatever.” She slid to the side of the bed, felt the IV in her arm tug against her skin. Wincing, she ripped off the tape holding the IV in place.
“What’re you doing!”
“I said I’m leaving, so this”—she held up her arm with the tubing attached—“this needs to be removed and”—she glanced up and hooked a thumb at the monitor glowing over the bed—“however I’m tangled up with that? It needs to come out, too!”
