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“Great.” God, what a mess. “Do you know anything about Jonas?”
“Not really. Just that he’s definitely under guard, and the guards seemed to think he might have a cracked rib, maybe a head injury, but that he was going to be okay.”
“I figured.” Her relief that her brother was still alive washed away as quickly as it had come. “I want to see him.”
“You and the rest of the world.”
“Including you?”
“Oh, yeah. Definitely.”
“Then let’s go.” She pushed herself upright and winced against a sharp pain piercing the back of her neck. “Ooh.”
“Maybe you should rethink that,” he said, concern again visible in his eyes. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Oh—and what is? Running around the hospital in scrubs?” she snapped, then leaned back on the pillows, her frustration intensifying. “Is that”—she pointed at him and rotated her finger to indicate his attire—“your idea of a disguise?”
“It’s temporary.”
“Good.”
“So you drove up to the mountains, to Margrove’s place, and what? Found him already dead?”
“Apparently a habit of mine,” she admitted, flashing back to the horror of that bloody Christmas Eve.
Don’t go there. Do not!
Tate cut into her thoughts. “And Jonas was there . . . at Margrove’s house?”
“Not in the house. Didn’t I just say he was in my—hey wait! What is this?” She stopped before she answered any more of his questions. Wesley Tate was no friend, not a confidante, certainly no one she could trust.
“I just have a few questions.”
“A few?”
“Okay, a lot.”
Her eyes narrowed. He seemed earnest, but then didn’t they all? She’d had her fill of reporters long ago. “I’m not answering any. I think I told you that before.”
“When you almost ran me over.”
“So you think I owe you, is that it? Even though I’m pretty sure we established that you jumped behind my car. Let’s make that clear.” Again she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and gritted her teeth against another stab of pain.
“You’ve had a little trouble behind the wheel recently.”
Quicksilver slices of memories of the accident cut through her mind—massive tires slipping, the huge semi jackknifing and sliding sideways on the icy mountain road. “Bad luck,” she said, and ignored the pang of worry she felt for the truck driver.
For a second she flashed on the two small bottles of vodka she’d downed to fortify herself before discovering Merritt’s body. Alcohol coupled with bad weather and her brother scaring the life out of her, then grabbing the wheel. None of which she wanted to discuss with the police. Not now. Not until she’d talked to Jonas herself. “I need to get out of here,” she said suddenly, wondering if he could be an ally, one she could use. “Can you help make that happen? Give me a ride?”
He hesitated. “Now?”
Footsteps approached in the hallway outside.
Kara froze and waited, her pulse skyrocketing as Tate stepped farther into the room, closer to the window. The footsteps slowed.
Oh. Jesus.
She exchanged a frantic gaze with Tate before the footsteps passed by, moving out of earshot.
