Dead Girl Running (Cape Charade #1)(67)

Her toes twitched.

She wanted to sit up, to get up, to run away. But she forced herself to remain still, quiescent, until that moment when she knew either she was alone…or she wasn’t.

No way to tell except… She opened her eyes the thinnest slit. Without moving her head, she looked left. She looked right. Pale green walls. A window that looked out to a leafy tree and, beyond that, a gloomy gray sky. That ridiculous plinky-plunky music continued to play, music to soothe a restless mind. She opened her eyes all the way. She was alone in a hospital room. The door was open into a corridor. On one side of the bed, she saw a metal end table; against the wall, a tall metal cabinet, a chair with an open book facedown on the seat, and on a tray hooked to the chair’s arm was an open cup of applesauce.

On the other side of the bed, she saw a shiny chrome IV stand that fed her fluids…and God knew what else.

Drugs. Someone was keeping her drugged. Gregory…

She froze. No. She remembered Kellen, Gregory, the murder, the explosion. She remembered Kellen’s apartment. She remembered fleeing New York… But she remembered nothing else. She didn’t know how she got into this room. Now she was trapped here, tied to an IV tube.

In an adrenaline-fueled fury, she tore away the tape that held the needle and pulled it out of her arm. Blood ran. Pain made her gasp. She used the corner of the sheet like a cotton pad, wrapping it over her wound. She closed her elbow to put pressure on the wound.

Her elbow moved rustily. Her neck was stiff. She felt weak. Every muscle ached, as if she hadn’t moved in days.

God. What had they been doing to her?

And who were they?

Two monitors were attached to her chest with adhesive. She peeled them off with fingernails that were long and—too weird—manicured and painted with a clear lacquer.

Taking a breath, she worked her elbows under her and lifted herself off the pillows. The sheet slid down; she wore a pretty pajama top. She raised herself into a sitting position and pushed the sheet away. On the bottom, she wore matching soft cotton pajama pants.

Nothing made sense. This didn’t make sense.

She was drugged. Yet she was cared for.

Why did she feel as if she’d been sick and in bed a long time? Why couldn’t she remember? The burden of fear and panic was only increasing. She didn’t know why, but she knew she didn’t have much time.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Pins and needles of pain rolled from her toes to her knees, and her head buzzed as if she was going to faint.

She was going to faint.

No! She needed to get out of here. Fast. Now.

She slid off the mattress, put her bare feet on the cool linoleum. The temperature woke her up, erased some of the cobwebs. She put more weight on her legs, pushed off and stood, slid back and rested. Stood again. Rested again. Stood sideways to the mattress and took one step, then another. Rested. Within one minute, she could walk the length of the bed, but as soon as she let go, her knees buckled.

She sat down in the bedside chair and ate the applesauce.

It tasted marvelous, and the half cup filled her up. How long since she had eaten real food?

She stood again, felt steadier and set her sights on the metal cabinet. It looked like a locker or a closet, and she needed clothes.

The IV stand had wheels. Perfect.

Taking it in both hands, she leaned and pushed, leaned and pushed, until she reached the cabinet. Standing there, she stared at the combination lock and wondered—could it be? ECKC. Earle, Cora, Kellen, Cecilia—3, 2, 5, 2. She took her time, rolled through the numbers.

The locker opened.

She stared at the partially open door and realized—she must have set the code. Who else would know about the code?

From somewhere down the corridor, she heard a raucous burst of laughter, hastily muffled.

Hurry. Hurry.

She flung open the door and examined the contents. Clothes: underwear, bra, jeans, a soft button-up shirt, belt, socks, shoes. On the shelf: the same travel wallet Cecilia had worn when she fled Greenleaf. A quick check showed nothing had changed. She had Kellen’s driver’s license, diplomas, passport. She stared at them in her hands, memory stirring. She had taken them from Kellen’s apartment because she was afraid and wanted to get away to…to where?

She didn’t know. Was this a mental institution? Was she committed? Was she crazy?

Get me out.

She had money. A couple of hundreds, a handful of twenties, miscellaneous small bills. If she got away, she could survive. She had survived on less…before…although she didn’t remember when…

She gathered the clothes in one arm. Held the IV pole with one tight hand and pushed it into the bathroom. Locked the door, sat on the toilet and changed.

Her legs and arms were without muscle. The shirt was loose; the jeans required that the belt be fastened, not in the well-worn hole, but one notch tighter. But the shoes fit perfectly.

That made sense of a sort. Her clothes and shoes were hers, kept in a locker that opened with her combination.

If only she remembered.

When she finished dressing, she ran her shaking hands over her face. It was at that moment she found the scar on her forehead. With increasing alarm, she circled it with her fingers, exploring. It didn’t hurt. There was bone under the skin. But when she pressed on it, it felt…weak on the inside. This time she stood easily, without thinking of the effort. She leaned over the sink and looked. Beneath her carefully trimmed bangs, a hard, one-inch round scar shone pink and shiny.