“I told you, I really can’t comment on his injuries.” She placed a bandage over the spot on Kara’s wrist where the IV had been inserted.
“What about the other guy?” Kara asked, remembering the accident again, the huge semi roaring toward them, its massive grill looming. “The truck driver?”
The nurse’s jaw knotted as she tossed packaging for the bandage into the trash.
“Is he here, too?” Kara’s stomach twisted at the hesitation. “In this hospital?”
Rutgers shook her head. Her voice was low. “He’s not here.”
“But he’s somewhere. Another hospital?”
Rutgers’s eyes behind the red-rimmed lenses darkened. “In Portland.”
“Is he . . . is he going to be okay?”
“Okay?” she repeated. “It’s really too early to tell.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that. I can’t really say.”
“Oh, God.” Kara let out a breath, stunned for a second, her heart sinking. Obviously the driver of the truck wasn’t in good shape and though the nurse hadn’t said it, there was a chance he wouldn’t survive.
Her heart ached.
There were no words.
Nothing Kara could say.
She had no connection to the driver other than the twist of fate that had caused him to be behind the wheel of the eighteen-wheeler at those crucial seconds. A flood of questions rushed through her, a newfound need to know more about the man who appeared to be holding on to life by a thread. Was he married? Did he have children? God, what was his name? Her heart squeezed and guilt pricked at her brain.
Despite the storm of emotions roiling through her, the guilt, anger, and sorrow, she forced herself to push them aside. She had to think clearly. Keep moving. There was time enough for answers and grief and recriminations and what-ifs later. Right now, she needed to ignore the guilt and focus. On Jonas.
“I really need to see my brother,” she said again. She had to see for herself that he was all right and she had a million questions for him. What was he doing up at Margrove’s mountain place? What were his plans? Who was this Mia woman? How did he think he could wrangle the house away from Aunt Faiza? Did he know anything about the call and text that she’d received? Were they about Marlie? But first and foremost, she had to find out what he knew about the night their family was slaughtered. He was out of prison now, couldn’t be sent back for the same crime, so maybe, finally, he would tell the truth.
If she could just talk to him.
“As far as I know, I’m Jonas McIntyre’s closest relative, so surely someone here should be able to tell me about his condition.”
“You’ll have to talk to his doctor.”
“But . . . he’s not in ICU or anything? He’s going to survive?” she said.
She felt the nurse weighing her options. “I heard his injuries weren’t life-threatening.”
“Good.” Relief washed over her. “So I can see him,” Kara said, her head beginning to throb.
“That’s up to his doctor.”
She checked her phone. “Looks like you’re in luck. Dr. Ortega will be here shortly and then you can discuss your release.”
“Good.” Kara flopped back onto the pillows. “Then maybe she’ll understand that I’m not kidding. I need to leave.”
“I’ll let her know.” Thank God. Finally, the nurse seemed to get the message that she was serious. What Nurse Rutgers didn’t know was that Kara would do it by any means possible.
All she needed was a ride.
CHAPTER 17
Allure Salon was buzzing with conversation as Johnson and Thomas entered. Three of the four stations along the wall were occupied, the acrid scent of some hair dye tinging the air. A manicurist’s chair at a small table was empty, tiny bottles of colorful polish glinting under the lights.
The first beautician was clipping an older woman’s gray pixie cut, the second applying goop to hair that she wrapped in pieces of aluminum foil. Celeste Margrove’s area was near the back of the salon. She was taking payment from a client who was chatting up a storm about her plans for Christmas and what a “nightmare” her sister-in-law’s family was.
“I’m telling you, I don’t know how I’ll get through it.” The thirtysomething with streaked blond hair and tinted glasses was nodding but, as the police approached, glanced nervously at them as she handed Celeste a credit card. “Be sure to put a tip on there—the usual.” She made a sweeping motion with her hand. “Fifteen percent.”