“The prints on the weapon match the prints from her left hand. Since she shot herself after she supposedly shot Tomas, she had to have used her left hand.”
“Your point?” Dawson snapped, the smell of disinfectant making him eager to get to the crux of the matter so that he could get the hell out of the hospital.
“She used her right hand to eat breakfast this morning. Ms. Jones is right-handed.” As if sensing the importance of the D.A.'s words, the busy hallway stilled. No nurse pushed through a door, no patient ventured out. Silence filled the space after Young’s announcement.
“She’s right-handed?” Dawson’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the district attorney, the full impact of those words sinking in.
The D.A. nodded. “Exactly. Why would a right-handed person shoot herself in the head with her left hand?”
“You don’t think she shot herself.” It was a statement, not a question. “You think that whoever killed Rodriguez shot the woman and made it look like murder-suicide.” The pulse in his temple throbbed and he pressed his fingers to the growing ache.
“Right.”
“And whoever tried to kill her the first time will most likely try again.”
“Right, again. Murderers don’t normally like loose ends.”
“She’s the only one who saw the crime take place?”
“As far as we know. No one else has stepped forward.” The D.A. nodded toward her door down the hall. “She hasn’t actually pointed any fingers. Since she probably didn’t shoot Rodriguez, I can’t put her in jail.”
Dawson scoped the hallway again with new purpose, his gaze narrowing at every person passing by. “Whoever killed Tomas Rodriguez won’t want to give her the chance.”
A dull ache throbbed against the side of her head. She struggled to open her eyes and adjust to the fluorescent light in the hospital room. She lifted her hand to press against her temple, but her hand was tied to something.
An IV was taped to the top of her hand. She vaguely remembered the tubes from the last time she’d woken, when the nurses had insisted on cranking her bed into an upright position to eat a breakfast she couldn’t taste. What had happened? Why was she lying in a hospital and why did her head hurt?
What else was wrong with her? She tested movement of her toes. The sheet near the end of the bed wiggled and she let out a sigh. She wasn’t paralyzed. She attempted to sit in the bed and made it halfway up before collapsing back. The effort was exhausting.
Again, she tried to remember what brought her here. Had she been in a wreck? Where was her family? A sudden emptiness filled her chest, pressing hard against her heart. Did she have a family? She glanced around at the sterile room. No flowers, no get-well cards, no signs of anyone caring whether she lived or died. She didn’t know which was worse, that she couldn’t remember who should care about her or that she didn’t actually have anyone who cared about her. For the life of her, she couldn’t picture anyone, couldn’t name a name, not even her own.
Her heartbeat jumped, her breath coming in low shallow gasps. The more she tried to remember, the more she realized she couldn’t. Where had she been, what was she doing? How had she gotten hurt?
A violent shiver shook her body, having nothing to do with the temperature in the room and more to do with the fact she couldn’t remember her name or even what she looked like.
She tried again to sit up in the bed, this time succeeding. An uncontrollable urge to run hit her. Before she could think, she yanked the tape off her hand and pulled the IV needle out. Cool air raised chill bumps on her legs as she slid them from beneath the sheets and let them drop over the side of the bed.
She slipped off the mattress, her bare feet touching the cold floor. For a moment, she thought no problem. Then her knees buckled, her muscles refusing to cooperate. With a dark sense of the inevitable, she cried out as she crumpled to the floor.
She lay still for a few moments, willing the air to return to her lungs.
The swoosh of a door opening and closing made her turn toward the sound.
“Help,” she called out.
No one answered.
Irrepressible fear gripped her so firmly she couldn’t breathe. A hospital usually meant a safe place where people went to recover from their injuries. Why then did panic seize her and squeeze the air from her lungs?
Footsteps neared, rounding the corner of the bed.
She shrank back, looking up at a man wearing green-blue staff scrubs.
“Savvy Jones?” he asked through the matching mask on his face, his words heavily accented.
“I d-don’t know,” she whispered.
The man’s dark brown eyes narrowed, his bushy black brows dipping low on his forehead. He lifted a pillow from the bed. “Let me help.” Instead of reaching out to lift her, he bent beside her.
“I can get up myself,” she said, although she doubted she could. “If you’ll just move back. Please.”
The man didn’t move back. He reached out, his dark-skinned arms covered in tattoos of vicious red devils and blue-green dragons.
Alarmed by the violent nature of the pictures on the man’s arms, she scooted backward until her head bumped into the table beside the bed. “Leave me alone.”
“I will,” he said, his voice cold, menacing, “once I take care of you.”
The pillow came down over her face, pushing her head against the cool tiles of the floor.
She fought and screamed into the pillow, her struggles useless.
The man held her down with minimal effort, his body bigger, stronger—his goal, murder.
Chapter Two
“I have a court case at ten,” District Attorney Young said. “I left an officer at her door, but he knows he can leave as soon as you arrive. I’m counting on you to keep the woman safe. Can you handle it?”
Despite his self-doubt, Dawson nodded.
The D.A. handed him a business card. “As soon as she’s coherent, give me a call. I’ll be here. Hopefully she’ll wake up soon, this time with her memory intact so we can get down to the business of catching a killer.”
A killer who could be very anxious to finish the job. Dawson accepted the card and turned it over in his hand as the man in the suit walked away.
Okay, so he had his work cut out for him. One witness to a murder, one drug lord on a mission to kill the person who killed his son. A stroll in the park, no doubt.
He walked to the corner in the hallway. As he turned and spotted an empty chair outside the room Ms. Jones was supposed to occupy, the skin on the back of his neck tightened. Where was the cop? Had he gone in to check on the patient? Had he left his post?
Dawson jogged the remaining distance to the door, his hand raised to knock against the wood. He probably worried for nothing. The cop had to be inside.
A muffled thump carried through the solid door. Dawson shoved the door open and raced inside, his first impression one of an empty bed.
His first day on the job and he’d already lost his client.
Movement caught his attention on the floor around the other side of the bed. A figure wearing blue-green scrubs hunched close to the floor, a pillow in his hands, devils and a dragon tattooed on his forearm. Beneath him slim, curvy legs flailed and kicked.
“Hey!” Dawson grabbed the man