She shivered.
Forced the damned dream away and tried to think clearly.
She was in a hospital bed in a room with stainless steel fixtures and a table at her side. A single narrow window cut into the wall overlooked a near-empty parking lot where security lights offered weak illumination of the rain that poured in gusting sheets while the limbs of the already crooked pine trees twisted in the wind.
The accident. It flooded back in a flash of mental pictures.
Not an accident, though. It had been intentional. Someone had forced them off the road. She could scarcely remember the ambulance ride to Ocean Park Hospital. What had the doctor said about Hudson? “Concussion. Contusions. No broken bones…” That was right, wasn’t it? Her memory was spotty, but she did recall she’d told the medical staff about her baby. Without thinking, she placed a protective hand over her abdomen and remembered the doctor saying there was no sign of miscarriage. But where is Hudson now?
Her heart was pounding irregularly, adrenaline and fear speeding through her bloodstream. She remembered well the feeling of doom that had been chasing her. The reason Renee had been killed was the same as the reason she and Hudson had been forced off the road.
Who is he? How am I connected to him?
She couldn’t just lie here in bed.
He would never be stopped. Not if she didn’t do it.
Though not a wimp, Becca had never been particularly brave, but now she felt a deep anger growing inside her. She had to thwart him. Stop him. Stop his murderous intent or he would eventually win—like he’d won with Jessie.
The answer lies at Siren Song. You know it. You felt it. That’s why you didn’t want to go.
The clock mounted on the wall said it was all of six-twenty in the morning, and from the sounds of rattling trays, carts, and gurneys coming from the hallway, the hospital was stirring. No time like the present.
She threw off the covers and sat up, pulling an IV taut in her wrist, one she hadn’t noticed. Her head throbbed.
“Good morning.” A woman’s voice caught her attention and she looked toward the door. A nurse armed with a stethoscope and thermometer was entering the room. Her name tag read Nina Perez, R.N. Though her dark eyes were kind, there was a presence to her that suggested she was used to being the boss. “How’re you feeling today?”
“I’ve been better.”
“A little sore?”
More than a little. “I’m okay.” Becca slid out of the bed, bare feet hitting the cool linoleum floor. “I need to find Hudson Walker,” she explained. “I…I think he’s here. A patient.” Unless he was taken to another hospital. She had to find him. “He and I were in an accident. That’s why I’m here and—”
“He’s here. Recovering.” Nurse Perez offered a steady, sincere smile and Becca felt a smidgen of relief. “You can see him soon.”
“But I need to talk to him now.” To see for myself that he’s really all right, that whatever horror I led him into, he’s now safe.
“You will. First let’s take your vitals.”
“No!” Becca snapped. “Really, I have—I have to see him.”
“No problem.” But, despite her words, Nurse Perez wasn’t budging. “I just need to check your temp and BP. See if your pulse is normal.”
Of course it’s not normal! I’ve been through hell and back. Someone’s trying to kill me, to kill my baby, to kill Hudson. There is no normal here. None at all!
“And…and the baby?” She needed to be reassured.
“You’re still pregnant,” the nurse said. “No sign of trauma. Your arm wound is the worst of your injuries.”
Becca glanced at the bandage over her bicep. Her arm was sore.
“We do need to monitor you.” Perez’s voice was firm, her hand steady as she shepherded Becca back to the bed and inserted a thermometer under her tongue.
Becca didn’t argue. She wasn’t going to risk the baby’s health, but she felt anxious. Edgy. “I need to see Hudson,” she insisted once the nurse had read the thermometer, then taken her pulse.
“You will.” She slid a blood pressure cuff onto Becca’s uninjured arm. Once she was satisfied that she wasn’t going to stroke out, she unwrapped the cuff, then removed her IV and said, “Okay. I’ll see what I can do. But you have to be careful. A concussion isn’t anything to take lightly.”
Becca nodded, but as soon as the nurse slipped out the door, she searched for her shoes.
Her need to visit Hudson, to see for herself that he was all right, was pressing. She frowned at the state of her clothes, hung in a tiny closet, still damp and stained with mud and blood. Stripping off her hospital gown, she stepped gingerly into her grimy jeans.
But she had no purse.
No makeup.
No ID.
No credit cards.
No cash.
Not a damned thing.
Nurse Perez popped her head through the open door. “Mr. Walker is in room 212,” she said, then eyeing Becca’s outfit, frowned. “No other clothes came with you…”
“It’s all right. But I do need my purse?”
“I think we have that in a locker. Got it from the sheriff’s department early this morning. You can’t leave the hospital until you’re released. I just talked to the doctor and he’ll be by in about an hour, but it looks like you’ll be on your way. I’ve already ordered release papers.”
“Thanks. 212?” she repeated and at the nurse’s nod Becca hurried out, albeit a bit stiffly. Two orderlies pushing patients in wheelchairs were at the elevator, so she took the stairs, wound around the carpeted corridor, then found Hudson’s room. She walked inside and saw him sleeping upon the bed. His head was bandaged, his face already bruising, an IV and some kind of monitor hooked up to him, snakelike tubes running in several directions at once.
“Can I help you?” a tall, lanky male nurse asked.
She introduced herself and explained that she’d been with Hudson in the accident. He took her at face value, giving out some basic information. None of Hudson’s injuries appeared to be life-threatening, though he was still sedated and sleeping. Aside from bruised ribs, a slight concussion caused by the blow over his right ear, and a separated shoulder that had already been reset, Hudson, in time, would be fine. “It’s best if he rests,” the nurse concluded, so Becca only took the time to touch Hudson’s hand and give it a squeeze before leaving the room. “Come back in a few hours.”
“I will,” she promised and, ignoring her own throbbing head, hurried to the discharge desk where she was reunited with her purse. When she asked about her overnight bag and clothes, she was told that everything in the car, aside from the purse, which the police had already looked through, was considered evidence. “I’m sure they’ll get it back to you soon.”
Becca wasn’t about to wait. She couldn’t.
And she wasn’t about to leave Hudson. She pulled out her cell phone, realized it had been turned off, and checked for incoming messages. There were six. All from Detective Sam McNally, all asking her to call him. Vaguely she remembered