They rode the entire way to the hospital with nothing more than a few comments from Kyle as he checked Mo’s vitals.
When they arrived at the emergency room, he was pulled away from Bronwyn with no ceremony. Before they rolled him down the hall, he called out to her. “Bronwyn?”
“Yeah?”
“If I’d known, I’d have let Cal shoot me a long time ago.”
She half laughed, half sobbed. “You’re an idiot.” They wheeled him away before she could say more. He hoped Cal and Meredith weren’t far behind and would wait with her. The thought of her alone in the waiting area did something unpleasant to his insides.
Not that his insides were particularly happy. He felt a little queasy, and his head was pounding.
He hoped he didn’t have a concussion. He’d had one before, and it made it hard to do his job.
And now, more than ever, he needed to be able to do his job.
As the doctor scanned his head, stitched up his wounds, and then left him to wait for the results of the tests, Mo considered the list of possible suspects and targets.
He couldn’t come up with a solid reason for anyone to target him. Even if they were afraid he would find something in The Haven’s accounts that would expose their crimes—and that was a valid concern—it wasn’t as if he was the only forensic accountant in the world. He could think of at least five others who could do the job. Taking him out of the picture wouldn’t prevent the discrepancies from being uncovered. But it would delay them, and maybe the delay would be reason enough.
Maybe.
It seemed far more likely to him that Bronwyn had been the target.
Take Bronwyn out of the picture, and Nathan would be CEO. And he would be far less likely to dig too deep. Nathan struck Mo as the kind of man who wouldn’t rock the boat.
He might even be the one responsible for the discrepancies. If that were the case, he would carry on as before, with no one to stop him.
Mo shifted on the hospital bed. His head ached. His arm and leg throbbed. He wanted to go to sleep.
But he also wanted to get to the bottom of this whole mess.
An interminable hour later, the doctor came back into his room. “Well, Mr. Quinn, I’m going to discharge you. There’s no sign of concussion, although I have no doubt your head will talk to you for the next little while.”
He dispensed his medical wisdom, told Mo to follow up with his family doctor, and laughed when Mo pointed out that his family doctor would chase him down if he didn’t.
When he walked out with his discharge papers in hand, he found Meredith and Bronwyn huddled together on the plastic seats of the waiting room. They jumped to their feet, but Meredith was the only one who came to him.
Bronwyn hung back and looked like she didn’t know what to do with herself.
“Well?” Meredith asked after she gave him a gentle hug.
“All clear.” He spoke loud enough for Bronwyn to hear. “No concussion. Minimal scarring expected.”
“Thank goodness.” Meredith led him toward Bronwyn, and when they reached her, she gave him an awkward smile, then bolted for the door.
Meredith sighed.
He pointed toward Bronwyn’s retreating back. “What’s that about?”
Meredith shrugged. “She’s embarrassed.”
“Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Meredith said airily. “Maybe because she refused to speak to you for a few years, then when you got shot, she came unglued and, in her words, ‘Made a fool out of herself.’ And now she’s not sure how to act around you.”
Mo waited for Meredith to laugh. She didn’t. “Wait. You’re serious? You aren’t guessing? She said those exact words?”
“She did.”
