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Maybe she is London.
She’ll prove it and the story will surface.
Now that she’s been attacked, the police might be suspicious about Kat’s death, the ruling of suicide reexamined.
Blood could be washed away but memories couldn’t, and the memory of London Danvers just wouldn’t die. It’s as if over the years both she and her damned mother had been elevated to some kind of sainthood. At that thought, agony ripped through the brain of Katherine’s killer, a pain so severe it cut more deeply than the physical wounds Adria Nash had inflicted.
Saints are usually canonized after they’ve died.
So see to it! Take care of Adria Nash.
Don’t let her slip away again!
Every muscle in her body screamed and her head pounded despite the painkillers the doctor had prescribed. Adria stared out the passenger window of Zach’s Jeep and tried to forget the last few hours. But scenes from the Emergency Room kept recurring while a litany of questions she’d been asked—first from the EMTs, then the nurses and finally the police—played through her mind. She was dead-tired, but figured she’d never fall asleep.
“Do you have any idea who would do this to you?”
“You’re the woman claiming to be London Danvers, aren’t you?”
“Are you allergic to any medications?”
“Did you get a look at the guy’s face or see any identifying marks?”
“Do you have an insurance card?”
“You’ve got a report in with the Portland Police Department about a previous attack? What was the name of the detective involved?”
“Does this hurt?”
“Can you give me a time line? About what time did you leave the restaurant and when did you get back to the motel?”
“Is this your husband?”
Adria squeezed her eyes shut. The night had fled by in a whirl, and it seemed that the police agreed with her that someone from the Danvers family could be involved, although there had also been speculation that she’d collected her own special nutcase, someone who had been following the London Danvers story for years.
Adria had tried to answer all the questions that had been hurled at her. She’d even managed a weak smile at the detectives’ jokes, but by the time the ER doctor had released her and Zach had tucked a blanket around her in the Jeep, she’d felt drained. Weary. And though no bones had been broken and she’d even managed to avoid a concussion, she was sore all over.
They’d spent most of the drive back to the motel in silence, both wrapped in their private thoughts, until Zach turned the final corner to the Fir Glen Motel and spied the media circus.
“Great,” he muttered between clenched teeth.
“Guess I’m suddenly popular.”
“Too popular.”
Rather than stop and deal with the press, he cranked on the wheel and turned the Jeep around to head directly east. The road was steep, winding through the snow-dusted mountains that were already gilded with the first rays of the morning sun.
“Where are we going?” she asked, though she really didn’t care as she pulled the blanket higher under her chin and tried to get comfortable. She wanted to stop running, to end this quest, to quiet the questions that raged through her mind.
“My place.”
“Your place?” she repeated as she stared through the windshield. The Jeep was climbing steadily. Snowcapped peaks of the rugged Cascade Mountains loomed ahead. “I didn’t know you had one.”
He slid her a glance—hard and stubborn, yet laced with worry. “We’re going to the ranch.”
“In Bend?” she said, shaking her head before she sucked in her breath through her teeth and winced in pain from the movement. “I can’t go there.”
