His flashlight. It took a few seconds for him to remember that he had been at the scene of a warehouse fire for a meeting with his boss when he’d been hit from behind.
The side of his neck was wet and sticky with blood. With a groan, he forced himself to his knees, grabbed his fallen flashlight, then staggered to his feet. He had no idea if the person who’d assaulted him was still there, and his instincts were screaming at him to get out.
Now!
He took two steps before he remembered the blue jeans. No way could he leave without knowing if the person lying amidst the rubble was alive.
Sweeping his flashlight around the interior of the warehouse, he didn’t see any sign of anyone hanging around. The blackened two-by-four that had been used to hit him was still on the ground, one edge stained with something dark and sticky, and he assumed it was his blood.
Moving as quickly as he could manage with his head pounding and his neck feeling like it was on fire, he made his way back toward the denim-clad legs. As he came closer, he could see the body was that of a woman with long blond hair. She was only partially covered with debris, so he leaned forward to feel for a pulse.
Nothing. He moved a two-by-four and saw the nasty hole in her chest, likely caused by a bullet. Her skin was cold, as if she’d been dead for at least thirty minutes, maybe more. He moved the hair away from her face and froze.
Janice Valencia?
Horror stricken by the fact that he’d once dated the dead woman, he recoiled from the body. He put his hand in his pocket to get his phone to call the authorities, when he heard the wail of sirens.
And suddenly he knew that whoever had assaulted him must have called the police. Was the intent for Mitch to be found here with Janice’s body? For what purpose?
Nothing good. Mitch left the warehouse, stumbling toward his truck. He couldn’t afford to trust the police, not if there was the slightest chance his boss had set him up. Maybe that sounded paranoid, but that’s what happened when you found yourself alone with a dead body. Waiting for the cops and emergency responders to arrive on the scene wasn’t an option.
Not until he understood what in the world was going on.
* * *
Dana Petrie looped her purse over her shoulder and slammed the small metal door of her locker shut so that she could reconnect the padlock. Exhaustion pulled at her, not uncommon after a long eight-hour shift. The stream of patients hadn’t let up all evening, at least in team one, where she’d been assigned. Honestly, she had no idea what had transpired in the rest of the emergency department.
She left the locker room and crossed back through the department, halting midstride when she saw the familiar name on the ER census board next to room twelve.
Mitch Callahan.
Memories crashed through her mind, reminding her of everything she had lost just under three years ago. Her husband of barely a year, Kent, who’d died fighting a fire, and then her miscarriage on the day of Kent’s funeral. Bile surged in the back of her throat, but she swallowed it down with an effort.
She would never be the same woman she’d been back then. Not that it mattered much; these days she focused her energy on saving lives rather than on her barren personal life.
She stared again at the name on the board. Mitch had been a firefighter, too, at the time. She’d heard the story, even read about it in the newspaper, about how he’d carried Kent’s body out of the burning building and had instantly begun CPR. He’d fought hard to save Kent, but her husband had died in spite of Mitch’s heroic efforts.
She’d never thanked him.
At the time, she’d been too traumatized by the miscarriage, especially on the heels of her husband’s death. Then, months later, it had been easier to simply block the memories of the past, doing her best to move forward with her life, despite the twin gaping holes in her heart.
As the months turned into years, she had decided to leave well enough alone. But now Mitch Callahan was in the ER where she worked and her shift was over. Maybe she’d just take a quick moment to pop in to see him, check if he was awake enough that she could offer her gratitude before leaving for the night.
There was no reason to rush home; there was no one waiting for her to return from work. Not even a pet. Just a big, lonely, empty house.
One she’d grown to hate more and more with each passing day. Each time she wanted to sell, Kent’s parents swooped in, demanding to know how she could leave the house she had once shared with their son.
She pushed the troubling thoughts aside.
Almost against her will, her feet took her toward room twelve, tucked in a small alcove at the end of the hall. Through a narrow opening in the privacy curtain hanging across the doorway, she could see a tall male wearing black jeans and a black short-sleeved T-shirt stretched out on a gurney. His feet, encased in black work boots, dangled off the end of the cart. The man had short blond hair and chiseled features. She easily recognized him as Mitch Callahan, which seemed a little odd since she’d met the man only twice before that fateful night. He appeared to be resting with his eyes closed, so she hesitated, loath to disturb him.
She took a step sideways, intending to leave him to rest, but her nursing shoes squeaked loudly against the linoleum floor. His blue eyes shot open and locked unerringly on hers.
No sense in leaving without talking to him now. She swallowed hard and forced herself to walk forward, entering his room. “Hi, I’m sure you don’t remember me...”
“Dana Petrie,” Mitch interrupted in a hoarse voice. “Of course I remember. How are you?” He moved to sit up, then groaned in pain. She could see that he had more than a half dozen stitches along the left side of his neck; the metal tray with discarded supplies was next to his gurney as if the doctor had left in a hurry.
What had happened to him? The jagged wound looked reddened and angry. She couldn’t imagine what had caused the injury that had apparently brought him to the ER.
“I’m glad you came over to talk to me, Dana,” Mitch said. “I forgot you were a nurse here.”
“Yes, well.” She took a deep breath and let it out in a whoosh. “I—uh—only stopped by to say thank you.”
Mitch’s eyes widened. “Thank me? I...always thought you blamed me for...” He didn’t finish, as if unwilling to say her dead husband’s name out loud.
“I don’t,” she said hastily, already regretting her decision to approach him. The last thing she wanted was to rehash the past. “You should rest. I just wanted to say thank you, that’s all.”
“Wait,” he said, when she turned to leave. “Dana, please. I feel terrible about what happened that night.”
“Don’t.” Her voice held a distinct edge. “I’d rather not talk about it. Just let me say thanks, okay? I hope you feel better soon.”
“I will,” Mitch said. “But will you do me a favor?”
She hovered near the doorway, eyeing him warily. “What?”
“Find out who my doctor is.” Mitch eased himself up onto one elbow. “I really need to get out of here as soon as possible.”
She wasn’t sure why he was in such a hurry, but nodded. “Sure. You’re in team three, which belongs to Dr. Crowley. I’ll get him for you.”
Before she could move, a man with a dark baseball hat pulled low over his eyes, his face covered by a black mask, roughly entered the room, brushing past her with such force he knocked her off balance. Her body smashed into the metal door frame, making her purse slide off her shoulder to bang against her hip.
“Oomph.” Pain radiated down her arm.