The Girl Who Survived(58)

“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?”

“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.