Page 43

I opened my eyes slowly, wondering why my air mattress was full of rocks. A giant cowboy hat with blurry outlines did a wobbly dance in front of me, and I let out a little shrieky noise.

"Ah, I told you to get back out of her face, Cowboy. We need to call again and find out when that ambulance is going to get here." Mr. Spicey's worried face leaned into my line of sight.

I blinked twice, and then I remembered. "I'm fine, guys. I'm sure I don't need an ambulance," I said, and sat up. Or, rather, I started to sit up, and then the world went a little foggy, and I felt like I was going to vomit up about a gallon of assorted casserole.

It wasn't a pretty thought.

Cowboy moved in to catch me, and I gratefully leaned back against him.

"What happened? We came out here just a couple of minutes after you and Psychic left, and she was gone and you were here on the ground," he said.

"Did you try to steal her winnings?" Mr. Spicey asked, looking hopeful.

"No!" I said loudly, sending a tidal wave of pain smashing through my skull.

"No," I whispered. "Emily is my friend. After she pulled out of the parking lot, something smashed into the back of my head. That's all I remember."

"And it's probably this," said a grim-faced woman I'd seen at another table earlier in the evening. She pointed at a rock the size of an orange lying on the ground next to me. It looked dark and sticky on one sharp corner, and also had a few strands of what looked like my hair stuck to it.

The hair sent me over the edge.

"I'm going to throw up now," I said, as politely as I could, to Cowboy.

He sat me up a bit more and turned my head in the opposite direction from the rock. "Don't want to taint the evidence. Saw that on CSI Miami," he said, while I threw up tuna casserole and stomach acid.

"This may be the most humiliating moment of my life," I muttered, wiping my mouth on my sleeve.

Mr. Spicey and the others clustered around us had backed off a few paces, but Cowboy just chuckled. "Don't you worry about it, none. The wife and I raised five boys, and a little puke ain't nothing. Why, I could tell you times when?—"

I held up a hand. "Thank you, but please don't tell me. I'm not sure I could take it right now," I whispered.

The shrill of the sirens cut across my words, and an ambulance and an Orange Grove PD car pulled into the parking lot, one right behind the other. "I really don't need an ambulance. It's just a bump on the head," I protested.

"Not with all that blood all over the place," Mr. Spicey said.

I looked down at where he was pointing and saw an enormous, dark splotch on the ground. Then I touched the back of my head, and my hand came away sticky.

That's when everything went fuzzy again.

" I t's a mild concussion. They did their tests and scans, and I'm fine. Nothing to get worked up over," I reassured Aunt Celia over the phone. "I'm only calling because I was afraid you'd learn about it over the scanner and freak out."

I looked around my curtained-off room in the ER, scrunching my nose. All hospitals smell like Lysol and sound like constant beeping.

"I think there is something you're leaving out of this, December. How could you accidentally fall down in a parking lot and hit your head? You are not the accident-prone type, by any means. Is there something you're not telling me?"

Now that she'd calmed down from utter hysteria to mild weepiness, she was asking questions I didn't want to answer. She and Uncle Nathan were already worried about me enough.

"No, absolutely not. And, no, I don't need a ride home. I have a friend right here to drive me," I lied. A taxi would be fine. Then somehow I'd figure out a way to pick up my car tomorrow.

"I don't believe you. You never call for help when you need it. Let me talk to this so-called friend," she demanded.

"Um, my friend just walked down to the coffee machine. But I'll have her call you later," I said, trying to be clever with a monster headache jack hammering my skull.

"No. You let me talk to her right now, or I'm coming to get you myself," she said.

"Aunt Celia! You're being unreasonable. Anyway, I didn't mean?—"

The curtain to the ER bed swung open, and Jake and Max walked in together, leaving me sitting there gaping at them. Max grabbed me in a hug and burst into tears, and Jake took the phone out of my hand.

"Hello, Celia? This is Jake Brody."

He listened for a moment, then grinned. "Yes, it was delightful meeting you, too. Listen, Max and I are here, and we're going to take your niece home right now and put her to bed."

Despite the headache, a little shiver rippled through me at the idea of Jake putting me to bed. I'm so not into the "damsel in distress" role, but if this is what it gets me, I can pretend to be helpless once in a while . . .

Snap out of it. I have more important stuff to worry about right now. Like the savage sinus stalker, who is now apparently trying to kill me.

Jake put the phone down, and the faint smile disappeared from his face. "What happened, Vaughn?"

I sighed. "Police scanner?"

"What happened?" He reached out and lifted a few strands of hair at the back of my head, and I noticed the bloodstains out of the corner of my eye. The room whirled a little, and I clutched at Max, who'd quit hugging me but was clutching my arms.

"Are you okay? How many fingers am I holding up?" she asked.

"You're not holding up any fingers. You're clutching my arms," I pointed out.

Jake moved behind me and looked at the back of my head. "How many stitches?"

There was ice in his voice, and I shivered again, but this time for an entirely different reason.

"Only two. It's really no big deal, except for the part where they tried to STAPLE MY HEAD. Anyway, it looks like somebody threw a rock and it hit me in the back of the head," I mumbled.

Max started crying again, and Jake moved around to stand in front of me, arms folded. "What did OGPD say?"

"They figured it was juvenile delinquents. And before you ask, yes, I told them about the painting incident, but they thought a connection was pretty far-fetched."

Max let go of me long enough to wipe tears off her cheeks. "Did you tell them about the threatening phone call?" she asked.

I winced. "No, I didn't even think about it, to be honest. My head was hurting, and after I practically threw up in Cowboy's lap, I was so embarrassed?—"

Jake cut in, smiling and raising an eyebrow. "Who is Cowboy, and what were you doing in his lap?"

I shook my head, and then stopped, hissing at the pain. "No, no, he was playing cards, but he touches the brim of his left side, well, both sides, but left side for bluffing, and Emily said . . . but, then she left, and I was walking to the car, which, by the way, is gorgeous, but we have to talk about how much I loan you for the owner, I mean owe you for the loaner, and . . ." I stopped dead and looked up at him. "What was the question, again?"

The nurse walked in just then and saved me from whatever he'd been about to say. Tracey Eller was embroidered in flowing script over the pocket of her Winnie the Pooh scrubs. "Okay, dear. You're good to go home, but you need to follow the directions on this sheet. You can take regular-strength Tylenol for any discomfort."

"I'll take her home and take care of her," Max said. She was wearing denim shorts and a ratty old t-shirt, with not a stitch of makeup. She must have been worried about me.

Tracey smiled at her. "Okay, sweetie, but loosen the death grip on her arms."

I signed a few papers and took my copies as Tracey bustled off. Then I gingerly climbed down off of the table. Jake put his hands under my elbows and helped me down, and the temptation to lean against him and close my eyes was nearly overwhelming.

Nobody ever gave me a concussion when I did corporate work.

I stiffened my shoulders and stepped back from Jake, but smiled my thanks at him. I think the smile came out more like a grimace, but all I wanted to do was go home and take a shower and get the dirt and blood out of my hair.

Clean clothes would be nice, too.

I peered blearily up at Jake. "Why does that song about 'you've got to know when to fold 'em' keep running through my mind?"

He put an arm around me and helped me walk out to the car, despite the five times I told him I was fine. Max trailed behind us, carrying my purse and muttering terrible, un-beauty-queen-like words under her breath. When we reached the parking lot, Jake led the way to a late-model silver Mercedes sedan and opened the door. I looked at him and then at Max. "I'm sure Max can drive me home," I said, not really wanting to go through the knight-in-shining-armor routine again, even if Max didn't really look all that stable, what with the hysterical crying and all.

He shook his head. "I called her when I heard the report and picked her up. I figured you'd rather have her spend the night with you than me."

Then he flashed that evil grin at me.

I rolled my eyes, too tired and sick to rise to the bait. "Thanks, Brody. I'm still not really sure why you're playing fairy godmother, but I have to admit I appreciate it."

"You're interesting. Been bored for a while," he said cryptically, opening the door. "But don't call me a godmother."