The local detective had warned her that it wouldn’t necessarily be a quick process like on TV, and that they might come up empty. Until then, she lived on hope. Apparently, it was a habit she couldn’t shake.
In the lounge, a little redheadedgirl with porcelain skin and freckles played with dolls in the corner set aside for children, while a woman with the same coloring looked on, her eyes red-rimmed. A deeply tanned and wrinkled man with greasy gray hair pulled into a ponytail sat on a loveseat flipping through a magazine while a young blonde with heavy makeup dozed against his shoulder.
A tall brunette holding a soda can stoodin front of two televisions mounted near the ceiling. The local news played on mute, covering the latest politician who planned to announce his candidacy for President.
Hospitals were a study in patience—and fear—everyone stuck in time, waiting for news, waiting for life, death, recovery. Endless waiting with no privacy. One’s most private pain played out in front of strangers.
Tara wouldbe happy to never enter a hospital again. Looking away from the depressing tableau, she made a beeline for a unisex one-holer, but found it locked. She wandered the halls for several minutes until she finally found a multi-stall bathroom in another wing. She might need a map to find her way back, but at least she could finally pee.
After taking care of business and washing her hands, she scowledat the mirror. How long had she been walking around looking like her hair had been dressed by a tornado? Taking down the wild ponytail, she finger-combed the mess and twisted it into a low bun. Good enough.
The door to the restroom opened behind her and the brunette from the waiting room entered, her tall boots clunking loudly on the tile. She pushed up her thick glasses and shuffled towardthe stalls as if weighed down by grief.
Tara could relate. Feeling grody, she splashed water on her face and patted it dry with a paper towel. Best she could do for now.
“You’re a slippery little bitch, aren’t you?” the woman said from Tara’s left.
That voice. Tara swiveled, her heart pounding. “I’m sorry?”
Tara gasped. It washer. The woman who’d tripped over her outside Annette’s house.The short wig and awful glasses were an excellent disguise, but they didn’t hide her bright blue eyes.
With a cruel smile, the woman slid a gun from her jacket pocket. “Not yet, but you will be.”
