Page 4 of Crow’s Haven (Savage Legion MC #15)

Sharon

W hen I left the doctor’s office, I didn’t look back.

I shouldn’t have helped that man and his son, but when I saw the boy in pain, I had to do something.

I was there for an interview—I’d seen the ad he’d run looking for an office helper.

It would be doing administrative work, but it would pay the bills. I’d given my cousin’s name.

But I’d blown my chance. When the deputy from the sheriff’s office turned up, I panicked.

I ease the car into a narrow clearing barely wide enough for the Outback.

Branches scrape the roof and sides as a subtle warning that this space is too tight for my vehicle, but I don’t care.

I shut off the engine, and the peaceful silence is enough to make me breathe a sigh of relief.

As long as I’m on the run from the law, I’ll have to seek out places like this or rot in jail.

The past three weeks have been a nightmare.

The car’s interior is a jumble of survival gear packed tightly in a rolling fortress. A faded fleece blanket is draped over the passenger seat, its edges frayed but still soft. I pull it around my shoulders, the fabric warm against my skin.

Next to me, my cheap propane stove sits on the floorboard, looking out of place against the sleek dashboard and windshield with a hairline crack. I’ve cooked more meals on that little flame than I can count.

I reach over to the passenger seat, grabbing a battered pot with a dented lid, its surface mottled with stains and memories.

My initial worries were proven to be correct, an official warrant for my arrest wasn’t issued.

But my employment was terminated, and I was told not to leave town. Someone was trying to set me up.

Make me take the blame for whatever they’d done.

That night I ran, taking what I could. I called the first person I could think of—my cousin.

I couldn’t tell her what happened, but I said I needed to take off for a few days.

Then when it became clear that the nightmare wasn’t going away, I told her everything.

Thankfully, she believed me, but we couldn’t figure out a way to get me out of the mess.

All Ronnie could offer was her identity.

If I needed work I could use her name, maybe find cash-in-hand work to tide me over.

I settle into the passenger seat, pulling the blanket tighter around me as my ramen cooks, slowly heating up the interior of my car.

The phone buzzes with a weak battery warning, the screen dark except for the time. I’ve got no bars. No way for anyone to reach me without a charge, so, I plug it into my battery bank and let it charge.

Breathing in slowly, the warmth of the broth fills my mouth and my chest, chasing the cold and the panic away for a moment. This car isn’t just metal and basic transportation anymore. It’s my shelter, my world compressed into a cramped space that keeps me alive.

I close my eyes briefly, remembering what it felt like to sleep in a real bed. It’s been almost a month since I decided to strike out on my own.

I might have to move again if my hiding place is found by some passerby. If so, I’ll find a new one. But for now, this is enough.

The instant I lean back, trying to get comfortable in the padded seat, my phone vibrates against my thigh as it emits a soft buzzing sound.

It startles me, pulling my attention away from the half-finished bowl of ramen cooling nearby and my attempt to relax.

I reach for it cautiously, already preparing for the worst. The screen glows faintly in the dim car.

The caller ID alerts me that it’s one of my former co-workers from the Twin Rivers Medical Center.

My breath catches in my throat, because why would Sylvia be calling me now?

For several seconds, my thumb hovers above the screen, frozen between impulse and logic.

Sylvia had been one of the few people I trusted at the hospital.

She was the kind of person who remembered birthdays and always joked around to lighten the mood.

We used to sit shoulder to shoulder at the nurses’ station, whispering about patients and weekend plans between the buzz of the patient call buttons.

She was more than a co-worker. I used to think of her as a friend.

But that was before I got terminated. Now, I feel wary of anything connected to that world.

The phone vibrates again in my hand. I exhale slowly and swipe to answer the call.

“Hello?” My voice comes out more hesitant than I intend.

There’s a brief pause, then, she says my name. “Sharon?” Sylvia’s voice is familiar but tinged with worry or concern. I can’t tell which. “God, I wasn’t sure this number still worked.”

“It’s me,” I say softly, adjusting the phone against my ear. I tug the blanket tighter around my legs, suddenly aware of how vulnerable I am, being out here all alone.

“I’ve been worried about you,” she says. “Where are you?”

I hesitate, not wanting to tell her too much. “I left the city. I just needed somewhere quiet to get my head together.”

Her voice softens. “Are you okay?” Her voice is gentler, but there’s an undercurrent of tension running just below the surface.

“Define okay,” I reply lightly, trying to sound strong and upbeat.

She gives a quick, humorless laugh. “Fair enough. I guess that was a stupid question considering the circumstances.”

A short silence spins out between us. Then Sylvia drops a bombshell. “They wrapped the internal investigation on that boy who died.”

Panic lances through my chest. I bolt upright, causing the blanket to slide to the floor. “What were their findings?” I ask, hope welling up in my chest for the first time in weeks.

Sylvia doesn’t speak right away. Her hesitation tells me the news is not good.

“You’re not going to like this, Sharon.” The warning in her tone is unmistakable.

“If you don’t know or don’t want to say, that’s fine. I’m sure they will email me a copy of their findings.”

“You left and refused to come in for further questions, so they’ve been forced to fill in the blanks themselves.”

My throat tightens. “What do you mean? What are they saying?”

“Word on the grapevine is they’re saying you were overwhelmed.

Stressed out and began to lose track of the details.

That you were careless with your medication administration.

That you made mistakes and didn’t document them.

Someone even suggested that you panicked and took off because you knew that you were about to get caught. ”

I’m so shocked that I can hardly manage to keep it together.

The silence on the other end of the line is deafening.

I stare blankly through the windshield, as I try to process this latest turn of events.

I want to tell her what I found. That someone was trying to frame me, but something makes me stop.

“You didn’t do that, did you, Sharon?” Her question catches me by surprise because there is something about the tone of her voice that catches my attention. She sounds almost accusatory.

“No,” I reply immediately. “Is that what you believe too?”

“Dr. Brunell is the only one going against the grain,” she tells me. “Everyone else is convinced you made a horrible neglectful mistake.”

“You never answered my question. Do you think I accidentally or intentionally killed that little boy?” My voice is stern, but I don’t even know why I’m asking Sylvia to take sides.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I think we should all reserve judgment until the police complete a more thorough investigation. You need to come back, you taking off only makes you look guilty.”

My head drops back against the seat. “They obviously forwarded the results of the investigation to law enforcement, right?”

“Of course they did,” she shoots back sharply. “A child under your care died. This is serious, Sharon. The hospital has to protect itself and there is a strong feeling among our fellow employees that Joshua deserves justice.”

“I get that,” I tell her. Because truly I do.

She finally sighs. “There’s something else you should know.”

My body stiffens and I brace for yet more bad news.

“There’s talk of a homicide investigation,” she states, her voice taking on a steely edge.

I press my free hand to my mouth to cover the gasp. I’m panicking on the inside but struggle to stay calm. “Do they think it was neglect or intentional?”

“They’re currently checking into other deaths on your ward,” she replies.

I stare at the condensation forming on the Subaru’s window. “But how could they even think I’d do something like that?”

“They’re scared,” she says. “The board of directors and admin team are all scrambling to manage what they consider a tragic event that’s about to turn into a PR disaster before it explodes.”

My blood runs cold. “I don’t understand how they can come to the conclusion that I’m responsible when I did nothing wrong.”

She hesitates just long enough for real worry to set in.

“They brought in a forensic psychologist to consult. Someone who specializes in criminal pathology. He flagged the pattern of deaths in your ward as consistent with an Angel of Death profile. They are saying it’s a clear pattern that points to a possible serial killer.”

I don’t say anything. I can’t because I don’t have the mental bandwidth to process her words or the ability to even respond. I just let the words hang there, vile and absurd. My stomach roils.

I finally choke on the thought. “Are you seriously telling me they think I killed that child? That I put him out of his misery like I’m some kind of vigilante nurse? That I’ve killed other kids too? That doesn’t begin to make sense. That’s the exact opposite of what our mission is as nurses.”