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The Girl Who Survived(73)

Author:Lisa Jackson

Since Jonas McIntyre was the news of the day, Tate was certain to hear something. It didn’t take long.

“It’s flipping chaos out there,” the male nurse was saying over the buzz of conversation and clatter of utensils. “Like this is just what we need—chaos at the workplace.” Tate saw him and the rest of the table from the corner of his eye. The nurse took a bite from an apple. Tall and reedy, with a nest of receding gray curls and thin-rimmed glasses, he was tanned despite the fact that it was the middle of winter in the Pacific Northwest.

“Things will die down,” one of the women replied, brushing her bangs from her eyes. She was a short redhead with freckles and rosy cheeks who opened a small bag of chips.

“Not if that freak show group has anything to say about it. They’ve been calling the hospital ever since the word got out.”

“What group?” The third woman, in her midthirties, Tate guessed, with doe eyes and thin brown hair scraped back into a ponytail, was already picking at a salad and sipping from an oversize cup of some dark soda.

“Some fans, I think.” Male Nurse took another bite of the apple.

“What?” The redhead wrinkled her nose. “Fans?”

“I know. Really? It’s an Internet thing, I think. This group of people—women, mostly—think he was falsely accused and convicted and have been trying to get his conviction overturned. For years. Real nutcases, if you ask me. The guy cut up his whole damned family.”

“Nuh-huh.” Thin Ponytail was working through her mound of greens drizzled with thick dressing. “Imprisoned incorrectly.”

“Yeah, right. Tell that to his dead attorney and the poor bastard driving the semi who has been fighting for his life.” He took another bite of his apple and leaned back in his plastic chair. “The way I figure it, whatever happens, it’s his damned fault.”

“And that doesn’t count his family,” the redhead pointed out as the male nurse tossed his apple core into a nearby bin and the rosy-cheeked nurse with the ponytail mowed through her bowl of limp-looking lettuce.

“A shame, that’s what it is,” Redhead said. “If you ask me, he should never have been released.”

“Lots of people agree.” Male Nurse was nodding as he unwrapped a toothpick and started working on his teeth. “Except for the fan club. They’re all about him being free. You know, for justice.”

“Give me a break.” Redhead crumpled her chip bag in a small fist.

“Tell that to the entire McIntyre family.”

“Uh-oh. I gotta go—duty calls,” the nurse with the ponytail said suddenly. She forked a final bit of her salad into her mouth, then scooped up her tray and scraped back her chair, nearly pushing into Tate.

“Sorry,” she said without even looking in his direction.

“Break’s not over for another ten,” the male nurse pointed out while tapping the face of his watch.

“I know, but I have to call the sitter.” Redhead held up her phone. “Problems at the old hacienda.” Rolling her eyes, she tossed the remains of her salad into a garbage container. “She just texted me for, like, the third time. Jake’s cold is worse. He stayed home from school today and now he’s crabby.” She made a face. “Besides”—she leaned over and stage-whispered—“I need a ciggy. Don’t tell Darlene, okay? She’s already on my case.”

He laughed. He said, “I’ll come with. Trying to quit, but you know. . .” Together they headed out and the redhead managed to say, “See you in a few,” but never looked up from her cell.

Tate felt like a sitting duck as he noticed two cameras covering the wide dining area with people clustered around plastic tables, talking, eating, reading or hooked into the laptops or phones. He caught bits of conversation over the rattling of trays and shuffling of feet, but if anyone was talking about the accident in the mountains and the infamous patient on the third floor, he didn’t catch it.

He was clearing his tray when he spied two security guards file through the line and grab diet sodas and packages of snacks. Both were male, one short and stout, the other a little taller with the physique of a bodybuilder, his shirt stretching at the shoulders, his expression hard.

Tate lingered for a couple of minutes, then stood. He hoped he didn’t appear too obvious sorting his recycling from his trash at the bins as the guards took chairs at a table across the room. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself, but he wended his way through the tables and took a seat nearby, clearing the table of trash someone had left.

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