He didn’t bother locking up.Didn’t even yank off his helmet until he was already shoving through the sliding doors.
The waiting room hit him bright and quiet, fluorescents glaring down on rows of bolted chairs.A kid with a busted lip sat sullen beside his fretting mother; an old man hacked into a ragged handkerchief.
Nash headed straight for the triage desk.The woman behind it didn’t even glance up, fingers pecking at her keyboard, gum snapping loud between her teeth.
“I need to know who they brought in from Clifton,” he said, voice low.
Without looking, she muttered, “You’ll have to put your name down.”
“I ain’t here for me,” Nash replied, tone clipped.“They pulled somebody outta Sycamore.Where is she?”
She glanced up then, eyes flat and tired.“Not unless you’re kin, you ain’t gettin’ a word outta me.”
“I’m family,” he growled, slapping his hand down on the counter.“Now tell me where the hell she is.”
The woman’s spine went stiff, chin jerking.“You keep on like that, I’ll have security haul you out, ya hear?”
“I don’t give a damn what you’ll do—”
“Nash.”
He spun to find Cassie standing just outside the restrooms, wet paper towels balled tight in her hands.Her curls clung damp to her face like she’d just splashed water on it.Dark stains streaked her shirt and jeans.
His eyes swept her—face, arms—for cuts, bruises, anything worse than the strain in her eyes.Finding nothing, he stepped toward her, stopping himself just shy of grabbing her.
“What the fuck happened?”
Cassie tossed the towels in a bin and blew out a breath.“Some girl I found at my house.She was…seizing, I think?”She shoved a hand through her hair, leaving it wilder.“I don’t know who she is, but when she came to, she asked for Connor.”
Nash blinked.One of Connor’s strung-out hang-ons, no doubt.Back before the bank took the house, he’d walked in on all kinds of shit.But the thought of Cassie stepping into her family home and finding it like that—the garbage, the stink—lit something hot in his gut.
“Dammit, Cas,” he said, voice rough.“You had no business goin’ in there alone.”
Her head snapped up, eyes flashing.“I’m a grown woman, Nash.I’ve been taking care of myself a long time.”
As they stared at each other, Nash’s mouth flattening, the trauma doors slid open and Ollie Caldwell came through, uniform pressed, hat tucked under his arm.
Ollie stopped short when he saw Nash—surprise flashing before irritation set in.And, yeah, the feeling was mutual.
“Cassie,” Ollie said stiffly.“You doin’ okay?”
“Fine,” she said quickly.“How is she?”
“She’s stable.But still unconscious.”
“Was I right?”Cassie pressed.“Was she one of the girls from the Rooster?The ones you were talkin’ to?”
Ollie gave a tight nod, working overtime to avoid Nash’s gaze, much to Nash’s amusement.“Name’s Maya.Been in and outta trouble a couple years now—mostly drug related.”
“Drug related,” Cassie repeated.“So that’s how she knew Connor?”
“I don’t know details.People in that scene…they all know each other.Hell, everyone this side of Charleston knows each other.”
Nash rolled the name around—Maya—until a face stuck.Skinny.Blonde.Hollow-eyed and twitching.He’d seen her with Connor plenty.Never did find out if it was just the drugs between them—or something more.
The emergency doors slid open again, air rushing as Sheriff Tate strode in with another deputy at his shoulder.His beady gaze swept the room—Ollie, Cassie—before landing on Nash, his frown deepening.
“Well, well,” Tate drawled.“Nathanial Walker.Should’ve known you’d be in the middle of this mess.”
