A Murder in Time(15)

“Goodbye, Dr. Donovan.” She waited until he left before grabbing the remote for her bed. Her fingers shook as she pressed the button, lowering the mattress so that she could lay flat and stare at the ceiling. She tried to ignore the sting behind her eyes, the pounding in her head, the viselike tightness inside her chest.

Her father was right about one thing.

Life goes on.





4

One month later

“You’re killing me!”

“Don’t be a baby. Two more. Keep your legs up, abs tight. C’mon, Kendra.”

“I. Hate. You,” Kendra puffed. She would have glared at the six-foot son of a bitch who stood over her, but it would’ve taken too much energy. And she needed that to work the Pilates machine with the appropriately sadistic name the Reformer. Her muscles burned and trembled, and for a second, she honestly considered giving up. She wouldn’t do it; she couldn’t do it. She dug deep for her willpower, determinedly pulling her body forward, inch by sweaty inch, with the straps.

“You’re the one who wanted to push yourself,” Brian—a blond-haired, blue-eyed, amazing male specimen, otherwise known throughout the physical therapy department as the Terminator—reminded her cheerfully. “This is the big day, huh? Formal discharge.”

“God!” Kendra groaned, releasing the straps with a rush of relief. For a second she lay there, limp and panting. Then Brian tossed a towel at her. It landed on her face. “I think I’m dead,” she muttered, unmoving.

“You’re remarkably healthy for a dead woman.” He grinned.

Muscles aching, Kendra sat up and swept off the towel. As she used it to blot the sweat streaming down her face, she caught a glimpse of herself in one of the mirrored walls and grimaced. She didn’t look healthy. She looked like a prisoner of war. Her dark eyes were too big in a face now gaunt and pale. The bandage that had swathed her head had been removed a week ago. Her scalp had been shaved for surgery, but a half inch of dark hair had grown in. Better, she supposed, than the bald look, but a far cry from the thick, straight mass that had been long enough to hit the small of her back.

She’d never considered herself a vain woman. But she discovered that she really, really liked having hair.

Turning away from her reflection, she stood on legs that were still wobbly from the aftereffects of the workout.

“How’s our star pupil?” Annie asked as she pushed the wheelchair into the room.

“I’m getting discharged today. Do I really need that?” Kendra glanced at the wheelchair.

“Hospital policy.” The nurse smiled brightly. “And after a session with the Terminator, I’d think you could use it.”

“I hate that nickname,” Brian grumbled good-naturedly, as he watched with sharp eyes as Kendra eased into the wheelchair, her movements slower and more careful than either one of them would’ve liked. Not in a million years would she have admitted it, but Kendra thought that Annie was probably right about the wheelchair.

“We’ll get the kinks worked out with a good rubdown,” he promised when he saw her wince.

“Not today, I’m afraid,” Annie said. “She’ll have to settle for a hot shower. Associate Director Leeds will be arriving shortly.” She wheeled Kendra toward the door. “I believe he’s escorting you home, Agent Donovan.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“Don’t think you’re getting out of physical therapy so easily,” Brian warned, as he walked with them down the hospital corridor. At the elevator, he leaned forward to push the button. “I’m scheduling you for three times a week on an outpatient basis.”

Kendra smiled at him as the elevator doors opened and Annie efficiently swung the wheelchair around, backing into the empty car. “You really shouldn’t worry about being called the Terminator, Brian. By the time we’re finished with those physical therapy sessions, I’ll have come up with a few more nicknames for you.”



Kendra felt halfway human after the hot shower. And she felt nearly human by the time she dressed for the first time in more than two months in something other than hospital-issued cotton gowns or T-shirts and sweats. Since the clothes—black sweater, khaki trousers, serviceable cotton panties and bra, black socks, and brown loafers—were her own, somebody had obviously been to her apartment in Mount Pleasant, Virginia. The makeup case tucked into the overnight bag made her think that the anonymous someone had been a woman.

The feminine tricks inside the makeup case couldn’t quite erase the time she’d spent in the hospital. Still, she felt better when she swiped her mouth with a raspberry lip gloss and dusted her high cheekbones, which jutted out too sharply, with a bronze powder that was supposed to make her look sun-kissed. It fell short of the mark, she thought ruefully.

Stepping out of the tiny bathroom, she gave a start when she saw Phillip Leeds standing beside the window, staring outside. He swung around, his eyes running over her in quick appraisal. “You’re looking much better, Agent Donovan.”

Self-consciously she put a hand up to her severely short hair. “I . . . thank you, sir. I’ll be glad to go home.”

“You’ll be on medical leave until Dr. Campbell signs off on you returning to active duty at the Bureau. But we’ll be looking forward to getting you back. We’ve missed you.”