Her Last Word(45)

Frowning, he set the glass down with deliberate care. He laid the back of his hand to her forehead before sitting and scooting forward so they were eye to eye. “You’re damn lucky to be alive.”

She was almost afraid to ask. “What happened?”

“You were hit on the head and stabbed.”

“Stabbed?” Her hand went to her belly, and fingertips gingerly felt gauze and adhesive. “I don’t remember.”

His eyebrows drew together, deepening his frown lines farther. “The doctor said you might have trouble with recollection,” he said. “You have a mild concussion. What’s the last thing you remember?”

She closed her eyes and drifted into the mist. “I was running a study session. The students were prepping for their exam project. Where was I found?”

The lines around his eyes deepened with a frown. “At Erika Crowley’s house.”

She met the gray eyes boring into her. “Why was I there?”

“She texted you.”

“She did?”

“Her number and the text are in your phone. Do you remember the text?”

“Sorta.” She ran her hand again over her stomach and felt the rough texture of the bandage. “I must have driven there.”

“Your car was parked out front, and you were lying in the foyer facing the door as if you were leaving.”

Erika. Puzzle pieces slid closer together. “I saw her on Friday. I went to tell her about Jennifer. She didn’t want to be interviewed. And then she texted and said she would talk to me.”

“That matches the text she sent you at 1:42 p.m. ‘I’m ready to be interviewed, but it has to be today. Come to my house. Now before I lose my nerve.’”

That sounded familiar. “Who found me?”

“Erika’s neighbor heard an alarm and called 911 at 2:17 p.m. The responding officer found you alone at the house bleeding out in the foyer. If not for the call, you would have bled to death.”

Listening to him speak such startling facts with dispassion made it easy to believe he was talking about someone else. “Do you know who stabbed me?”

“No. I was hoping you could tell me.”

It was hard to decipher his troubled, angry expression. Was it worry or suspicion? The last time she’d faced the cops they’d had a similar look. Her chest tightened with fear. She was innocent, but she didn’t know if that mattered to him. “I don’t know. I don’t remember any of it.” She gripped the sheets. “I want to remember.” Sudden tears stung her eyes. “But I can’t tell you anything.”

“Take it easy. It’ll come to you.” His frown softened. “Have you received any threats or had the sense someone was watching you?”

“Like a stalker?”

“Jennifer may have had one.” He expelled a breath. “My gut’s been telling me Jennifer’s and Gina’s cases are linked. Your stabbing is the first solid connection.”

She tried to focus, but her mind was too blurred. The pain was ratcheting up. Had there been someone watching? Was it the paranoia stalking her since she’d run away from her attacker fourteen years ago? “I don’t know.”

He laid his hand on her shoulder. “Okay. Let it go for now.”

“How can I let it go?”

“I’ve got this, Kaitlin.”

His definitive tone added weight to the promise and eased her nerves. To distract herself from the pain and the fear, she shifted to smaller details more easily managed. “Where are my recorder and backpack? Were they taken?”

“No. Both were locked in the trunk of your car.”

Embarrassment barely registered as she imagined this guy rooting through her backpack past tampons, crumpled receipts, and chocolate candy wrappers. She always locked her valuables in her trunk.

“Why didn’t you bring your equipment?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. Where’s my car now?”

“At your apartment. I had an officer drive it to your place. The recorder and your keys are in your backpack, which is in the nightstand by your bed here.”

Not a big deal for someone to drive her car, but she’d grown so protective of her spaces that she didn’t like the idea of anyone in her loft space, especially a cop.

“Is there someone I can call? Someone who can pick up a change of clothes for you?”

She’d let her friends drift away over the last few months. “My boss. Susan Saunders.”

“I’ll call her for you. What about family?”

“Mom’s gone.” She focused on the white tiled ceiling. “Am I going to be here that long?”

“A few days from what the doctor said.”

“I don’t have a few days.” She struggled to sit again but immediately fell back in pain. “I don’t want to be here.”

“The surgeon stitched up your abdomen with over twenty stiches. No matter how antsy you feel, it’s going to have to wait.”

He was right. She’d been stabbed. Someone had tried to kill her.

As if he could read her thoughts, he said more softly, “I’ve been in your shoes. It sucks, but you’ve got to give your body time to heal before they’ll release you.”

She wanted to focus on anything other than herself. “You were hurt pretty bad recently.”