“Why not?”
“Well, first off, you need to stay in bed until the doctor releases you.”
“And when is that?”
“Not sure. Because of the head injury, Dr. Ortega wants you to stay the night.”
“I can’t. I have a dog to take care of.”
“You can call someone. There’s a phone.” She pointed to the tray next to Kara’s hospital bed.
“There is no one.”
Small creases appeared between the nurse’s eyes, only partially obscured by the frames of her glasses. “What about your aunt? She’s been calling and asking about visiting you.”
Faiza. Oh, God. No. Kara’s heart sank. She couldn’t deal with her. Couldn’t imagine the questions—no, accusations—from the aunt who had been named her guardian but basically abdicated her duties to Merritt Margrove. “Where’s my phone?” she asked suddenly.
“You didn’t come in with one.”
Of course not. It had been in her Jeep.
“My purse?” Kara asked, already guessing the answer.
“No.”
She didn’t have to ask what happened to it. The police were involved, they’d no doubt impounded the car and it was at some garage somewhere. The cops had her personal items or the garage did. “I’m leaving.”
“You can’t.”
She wanted to bite out “watch me” but held her tongue. This nurse was still on her side, or so it seemed, and she couldn’t chance her calling someone. She knew she’d have to talk to the police—dear God, hadn’t she all her life?—but right now, she wanted to make sure that Jonas was all right. She thought of Merritt Margrove, lying in his own pool of blood staining the old carpet of his trailer. Jonas had been there, and some girl . . . God, what was her name? Her head ached as she strained to remember. Mia something or other . . . had Jonah even said . . .
Kara sat up quickly, felt a stab of pain in her neck, but ignored it. “Where are my clothes?”
“In the closet, but as I said, you can’t leave. Not without the doctor’s orders.”
“I think I can. I’ll sign a release. Whatever.” She slid to the side of the bed, felt the IV in her arm tug against her skin. Wincing, she ripped off the tape holding the IV in place.
“What’re you doing!”
“I said I’m leaving, so this”—she held up her arm with the tubing attached—“this needs to be removed and”—she glanced up and hooked a thumb at the monitor glowing over the bed—“however I’m tangled up with that? It needs to come out, too!”
“You can’t just—”
Kara pulled on the needle still stuck in her arm.
“No! Stop! Okay, okay! Don’t rip it out! You could injure yourself. Dear Lord, are you nuts?”
“You tell me.”
Shaking her head, her lips compressed, Nurse Rutgers removed the IV quickly, then dealt with removing the electrodes for the heart rate monitor. “It’s a good thing Dr. Ortega ordered you to be disconnected,” she said a little frostily, all of her earlier friendliness dissolving. “But still the doctor needs to see you.”
“Why?”
“Hospital protocol.”
Kara didn’t have time for red tape. She thought of Jonas possibly near death a floor above. Again remembered Merritt Margrove, lying on the green shag rug, his lifeblood spilled out around him. She felt in her bones that he was killed because Jonas had been released. Otherwise it was too much of a coincidence.
Had the killer known Jonas was going to show up there?
Was Jonas, too, the murderer’s target, or was she jumping to conclusions? Why did she even believe her brother? The most likely scenario was that Jonas had slit Merritt’s throat. But why? And why then steal into her car? Nothing was making sense. And she didn’t feel safe. Not that she ever had, but right now, all the danger she’d felt lurking at the edge of her life seemed to be moving closer. And here, in the hospital, she felt like a sitting duck. If the news teams hadn’t reported that she was a patient, the driver of the car, they soon would. It was only a matter of time. Her throat even drier than before, Kara felt an intense case of claustrophobia.
And now a nurse was telling her she was forced to stay here and offering little information on Jonas.
“Where’s my brother?” she asked. “What room is he in?”
“I can’t say,” the nurse said.
“But he made it? He’s going to be all right?”