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CHAPTER 19
Kara expected the doctor.
Or the damned police.
But who was it she got? Wesley Frickin’ Tate. Dressed in scrubs, for God’s sake. Like, oh, sure, he was a hospital employee. “I should’ve known,” she said, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.”
“Me? Why? You can’t be in here.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s definitely not okay!”
He held up a hand as if he expected her to scream.
“What do you want? Oh, wait, let me guess. An interview.” She let out a huff of exasperation. “I can’t believe this!”
He didn’t deny it. “How are you doing?”
“How do I look like I’m doing?” she threw back at him as if he were dense. “I’m in the frickin’ hospital! And you didn’t come here in a damned disguise to ask about my health. For the love of God, Tate, I’m not an idiot.”
“Never thought that.”
“Good. And since you asked, I’ll live.” Some of her anger dissipated as she caught a glimpse of what appeared to be real concern on his face. She didn’t believe it for an instant, of course. And she didn’t have time for small talk. Sooner or later a real medical person, nurse or doctor, would slip into her room and she needed information and possibly even help.
“Look,” he said. “I know I’m being pushy.”
“Well beyond pushy.”
“Okay, but you’re not the only one who lost family members that night. My dad didn’t make it either.”
She felt that old, familiar jab of regret, but vowed not to let it slow her down. “So now what? You’re going to try and guilt-trip me into helping you?” Before he could answer, she set her jaw. “No way. I’m sorry for your loss, for your dad dying trying to rescue me,” she said, fighting against a storm of emotions when she thought too long or hard about Edmund Tate and how she’d run from him, how she’d fallen through the ice, how the cop whom she’d thought was a monster had sacrificed himself for her and saved her life. She swallowed against a sudden hard lump filling her throat.
“He didn’t just try. He did save your life.” Tate’s eyes, an intense, deep blue, held hers. For a second too long before she looked away, before a profound sense of guilt squeezed her heart so tight she couldn’t breathe, before that same sense of guilt clouded her thoughts. She cleared her throat before meeting his gaze again. “Do you know where my brother is? A nurse let it slip that he was in the hospital, but I don’t know anything about his condition.”
“He’s on the third floor. Under guard.” For the first time since she’d roused, she felt a moment’s relief.
“ICU?”
“No . . . don’t think so. I overheard some guards talking. It doesn’t look like Jonas’s injuries are life-threatening. At least that’s what they were saying. Something about cracked ribs and a head injury—no, a ‘slight’ head injury, whatever that means.”
“No one will tell me anything,” she complained, frustrated. “They act as if it’s for my own good, but I think it’s because the police have been here and told them to keep quiet.”
“You’ve talked to the cops?”
“Not yet. But I get the feeling that I’m a suspect.”
“Or that you know something.”
“But I don’t! Jonas was hiding in my car; I didn’t even know he was in there.”
“At Merritt’s place in the mountains,” Tate clarified.
“Right, that’s where—” She clamped her mouth shut. Had already said more than she intended, but, at this moment, he appeared to be her only avenue of information, her only ally. “Look, I assume you know about Merritt Margrove, right? That he’s dead? Was murdered?”
“The whole world does.”