“I knew you didn’t do it.” It’s part of the truth, at least. “As soon as I heard, I knew it wasn’t possible. And I had to do something.”
“Oh.” She pulls her hand back, leaving a cold spot behind. “Okay.”
Then she leans back against the pillows again. Exhaustion washes across her face. “I’m tired. Would you mind…”
“Oh, yes.” I slide off the bed. “Of course. But I’m going to leave the door open this time, just so I can check to make sure you’re okay.”
Bea stares at me for a second. “Or.” She blinks slowly. Heavily. “Could you maybe stay in here? Just for a little while?”
Oh.
“Yes.” I hurry to the corner of the room, where an armchair is tucked into it. Then I carry it over to the bed, set it down, and sink into it. “Of course I will, Bea. I’ll stay as long as you want.”
CHAPTER 6
BEA
There aremoments when I forget why I’m here.
Welcome moments when my brain tricks me into believing everything is normal.
Like when I first woke up this morning, with the rising sun filtering through the curtains and kissing my face, bringing with it a brief burst of optimism. Just for a second, I imagined myself back at home, the much-anticipated weekend stretching out ahead of me.
Then I thought of the 5K. The plans I’d hoped to have. And Jenna.
Oh,Jenna.
Just the thought of her was enough to drag me back to my new reality.
Jenna.Dead.
Sweet Jenna, who never had an unkind word to say about anybody. Funny Jenna, who would mix up her metaphors and make cheesy jokes that her patients couldn’t help but laugh at.
Hopeful Jenna, who dreamed of a husband and kids and the requisite white picket fence and a galumphing dog to romp around inside it.
From there, my thoughts only spiral into worse places.
Me, accused of her murder. A murder I’m certain I didn’t commit.
If not me, then who? A stranger? A fellow employee? Her boyfriend?
Was he violent? Did Jenna want to show me carefully hidden bruises? Was she trying to decide whether or not to press charges?
Or it could have even been a patient. Perhaps one who’d become obsessed with her and lashed out when she gently rejected his advances.
It could have been anyone.
But no. The police think it’s me.
Part of me is angry at Indy for bringing me here without my permission. Sneaking into the hospital in the early hours of morning, disguised as nurses, as he explained yesterday. Coordinating to have the lights shut off on my floor—but not the power, they didn’t want to put the other patients at risk—long enough to spirit me away. Sedating me so I wouldn’t wake up in a panic and ruin their plan.
When I look at it that way, there are plenty of reasons to be upset with him.
As I’ve puttered around my new apartment, checking out the tasteful decorations and comfortable furniture and stacks of books and DVDs thoughtfully left for my enjoyment, I’ve vacillated between anger and gratitude.
I’m upset with Indy, yes. But there’s another part of me that’s incredibly grateful.
If not for Indy, I’d be in jail by now. I’d probably be a complete wreck, huddled in the corner of my cell—me, whoseworst crime is speeding on the Beltway, along with everyone else—facing decades in prison for murder.
