The words floated around her, and Ginny tried to grab onto them. She wanted to come back, but she was scared. Too scared.
Because memories were coming with the voices, and as the black faded to gray and the gray gave way to images, she saw what had happened. Right there in her head like a movie. She saw the deer. She saw the car slide in a full circle, then go off the road.
She remembered the sensation of flying. Of being upside down. The expression on Jacob’s face. Shock. Fear.
And then the bright, liquid red that bloomed across his chest.
Her throat had burned, and she realized now it was from screaming.
And she didn’t want to wake up. She didn’t, she didn’t, she didn’t.
Because she knew what she would find when she did.
She knew that Jacob was dead.
Chapter Three
Most days, Sheriff Dillon Murphy loved his job.
Today wasn’t one of those days, and yesterday had been a crapload of shit, too.
He’d been the first on scene last night after a passing motorist had seen the old Toyota upside down in the ditch. He’d been an hour away from going off shift, and he’d been walking around the square, chatting with the local business owners as he did every night before he wrapped up for the day. He’d been just about to pop into his dad’s bar to grab a cup of coffee—the stuff at the station ran toward swill—when the call had come in.
He’d beaten his brother, Patrick, and the rest of the fire and EMT crew there by barely three minutes, and while he’d managed to get Ginny Moreno out of the car, there’d been nothing he could do for Jacob Salt. The poor kid was DOA, and that was a goddamn shame.
As soon as Patrick and the rest had arrived, Dillon took over the duty of determining the cause of the wreck. Not hard to figure out.
A deer and the storm and some bald tires that didn’t surprise him, considering Ginny and Jacob were both college kids.
Christ, he’d known them since they were in diapers, and it had been just over ten years ago on another stormy night that he’d gone to the Moreno house and told Marisol that her parents were dead. Ginny had only been about ten and Luis even younger. They’d sat like little statues at the Formica table. Marisol had looked like someone had ripped her guts out.
He guessed he had.
She’d been barely twenty, and in the space of a heartbeat she’d become a parent to her siblings. And he could remember seeing the spark of youth and innocence fade in her eyes as the news sunk in.
Yeah, that had been a truly bad day.
At least last night he’d been able to tell her that Ginny was alive. With the girl still unconscious, though, that was only a small blessing. She’d suffered severe head trauma, and although Dr. Rush had told him that Ginny had miraculously avoided any serious breaks or internal injuries, until the girl woke up, she wasn’t out of the woods.
But at least with Ginny, there was hope. With Travis and Celeste Salt, the conversation had been much more painful. He’d knocked on their door just after ten and his gut had twisted when Celeste had flung the door open, laughing and saying that it was about time. Her face had turned wary immediately, with that kind of prescient awareness that he’d seen all too often in parents. She’d said nothing, and it had killed him to keep his expression pallid. To ask if Travis was home because he wanted to speak to both of them. And then to deliver that horrible, crushing blow.
It was bad enough for a cop in a big city like Austin to deliver the news of a child’s death. In a town like Storm, where most folks knew each other, it was gut-wrenching.
They’d wanted to see Jacob right away, of course, but Dillon had put them off. Told them there were procedural things that needed to happen, when really he just wanted to give the medical examiner time to make the body presentable.
They’d agreed reluctantly to wait, and had arrived at the hospital just a few hours ago. It was already well past noon, and Dillon couldn’t even imagine the kind of hell they’d been suffering as the hours ticked by.
Right now, he was standing by the admitting desk. Storm boasted an excellent, but small, hospital, and the desk served as a center point for pretty much everything that went on within the sturdy limestone and granite building. The north hall lead to the ER, ICU, and Ginny. The east to the labs and morgue. Rooms for patients not needing critical care lined the west hall. And the southernmost part of the building boasted the vending machines, a small coffee and sandwich cart, and a half-dozen tables where visitors could grab a bite, gather, and catch their breath before going back in to check on their loved ones.
From his vantage point, Dillon could see Marisol sitting at one of the tables. He knew she was a tall woman, but today she seemed small, like a child, as she kept her hands curved around a Styrofoam cup filled with bad coffee.
During the entire time he’d been standing there, she hadn’t taken a single sip. It wasn’t about the caffeine, but the warmth. Marisol, he imagined, was cold to the bone.
His shoulders sagged, and he walked over to her, then took a seat. “Need me to refresh that coffee for you? That stuff you’re drinking looks like crude oil. Hope you didn’t pay too much for it.”
It was a bad joke—the coffee was free, with the pot perched next to a jar labeled donations. The fact that the jar usually had less than five dollars in it was some explanation for the wretched coffee.
She looked up at him, and despite everything, she smiled. That was Marisol—always keeping it together. “It’s fine, thanks. I just wanted something to hold on to.”
“Any news on Ginny yet?”
Marisol shook her head. “Dr. Rush says all her vitals are good. But she hasn’t woken up, and I can’t help but be afraid that—” Her voice broke. “I just hate seeing her in that bed. All small and fragile.”
“She’s a strong girl, Marisol. A real strong girl. How’s Luis doing?”
“He doesn’t know yet.” She licked her lips. “I—I didn’t want to tell him. If the worst happens... I mean, we’ve already lost our parents and—” She sucked in a deep breath. “He’d gone to the movies with Jeffry. I called and asked Payton if he could sleep over. She’d already heard about it from Layla,” she added, referring to Dr. Rush, “but she promised she wouldn’t say anything, and she kept him there today telling him that it was good to give me some time alone.” She made a self-deprecating noise. “Honestly, alone is the last thing I’m needing right now.”
Dillon nodded, wishing there was something tangible he could do for her, but glad at least that she didn’t have to worry about her younger brother. The Rush family was Storm royalty, and Payton Rush was the current queen, being that she was married to Texas State Senator Sebastian Rush, who also happened to be Dr. Rush’s older brother. Jeffry was Payton’s son, and Dillon recalled that he often saw Luis Moreno and Jeffry Rush hanging out on the square or in front of the local movie theater.
“It’s good he has a place to go,” he said. “And soon enough you’ll be able to call him to come see his sister, and you’ll be able to tell him that everything is just fine.”
“Thanks, Dillon.” She took a sip of the coffee and made a face.
“Now I really am gonna get you a fresh cup.”
As he stepped over to start a new pot brewing, he saw Travis and Celeste approaching from down the east hall. Travis had his arm around his wife’s shoulder, and even from that distance, Dillon could see the shock and grief on their faces. They moved past him, holding each other, and he was about to call out to them when Celeste saw Marisol and hurried that direction. Marisol rose, and Dillon’s gut twisted as the dam that had been holding back her tears burst. She clung to Celeste, who held on just as tight, as Travis stood behind them, his face ashen and his eyes rimmed in red.
Finally, they all three sat in their silently shared grief, and as soon as the coffee was streaming into the pot, Dillon snagged three cups. He put them on a tray and headed to the table. He didn’t want Travis driving just yet, and he knew the m
an was too damn proud to leave his car there and accept a lift.
“Thank you, Dillon.” Celeste took his hand. “Thank you for letting us see our little boy.”
“Celeste.” He felt his own eyes sting. “I’m just so damn sorry.”
“He was like a brother.” Marisol’s voice was thick with tears. “I can’t imagine him not being around. Not playing those horrible video games with Ginny or—or—” She closed her eyes, visibly gathering herself. “I’m just so sorry.”
“How’s Ginny?” Celeste licked her lips, and Dillon realized that he’d never before seen her without her lipstick. The woman was always put together, just like her sister, Payton. Not so, today.
“Still unconscious,” Marisol said. “She hit her head pretty bad and has all sorts of abrasions. But she’s alive and the ba—” She pressed her lips together, then took a deep breath. “She’s alive.”
“Thank God.” Celeste released Dillon’s hand to reach out to her. “Can we see her?”
“She’s not awake yet.”
“I don’t care. I need to see her. I need to be able to tell Jacob that she’s okay. She was his best friend. They were so close. Do you remember when she had chicken pox and he snuck over so that he’d get them, too?”
“And it worked.” Marisol actually smiled. “God, they were both pink with Calamine lotion.”
Celeste tugged her hand free and pressed it to her mouth even as Travis slid an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close, then gently stroked her hair.
Dillon hadn’t grown up with either of the Salts. Celeste was a Storm native, but she was almost ten years older. Dillon had been in high school when she’d come back with Travis after college. Even so, Dillon knew enough to know that Travis was always good in a crisis. And he was relieved to see that trait was holding fast today, which was surely one of the worst days of each of their lives.
When they’d first arrived at the hospital and he’d escorted them to the morgue, Dillon had been worried that Travis might pull away. Might close off into himself and not be there for Celeste, who’d always struck him as sweetly fragile in that porcelain doll way that so many wealthy Southern women seemed to project. Some were steel magnolias. But others were brittle twigs, and if bent too far, they really would snap.
His fears about Travis weren’t entirely unfounded. There were two people in every small town who always got wind of the local gossip—the sheriff and the bartender. Dillon had the first locked up. And considering his family owned the local pub, he got a peek at the Storm underbelly from that side too.
So while he knew nothing specific, he’d seen enough to know that Celeste and Travis’s marriage wasn’t the pillar of strength that many in the community thought it was. Travis didn’t talk about himself much, but he did come to the bar just a little too frequently, staying away from home until prudence required him to leave.
Maybe there was trouble between them, and maybe there wasn’t. If he had to guess, he’d come down on the side of financial issues. But he’d never tried to make that guess. At the end of the day that really wasn’t Dillon’s business. But part of his job was comforting victims, and he was glad to see that whatever relationship woes the Salts might be suffering, Travis was still there for his wife.
He looked up to see Francine Hoffman, the attending nurse, hurrying toward them from the north hall. “Marisol,” she said. “Sweetie, Ginny’s awake.”
The relief that swept over Marisol’s face was enough to make Dillon’s chest tighten, and she pushed back from the table, almost knocking over her coffee as she did. Travis grabbed it, then stood up and steadied her. “You’re okay, honey. Go see your sister.”
Celeste rose as well, then turned pleading eyes on Francine. “Can we come, too? I need—I need to see that Ginny’s still here. Jacob needs to know that—”
Francine took her hand. “Of course you can. You may need to go in one at a time, but we’ll talk to Dr. Rush. We’ll make it okay.”
She caught Dillon’s eyes, and he nodded. He’d dealt with Francine more times than he’d like to remember, bringing in accident victims, drunks, kids with playground injuries. She was always steady. Always calm. And Dillon had been relieved when she’d come on duty earlier in the day.
She started to lead Marisol and the Salts away, and he followed, hoping for his own update on Ginny’s status. They were a few yards down the hall when the metal doors that separated the hall from the ER opened behind them.
There was no real reason for Dillon to turn back and glance that direction, but he did. And his breath caught and his heart squeezed just a little.
Joanne.
Her head was bent, her usually gleaming blonde hair hanging limp around her face. She had her right arm clutched to her chest and was holding a tightly wrapped wrist with her left. He couldn’t see her face, but everything about her stooped posture and hunched shoulders suggested that she was in pain.
Her asshole husband Hector had one arm around her waist. In his other hand, he held tight to her discharge papers. They crossed the hall, heading to the small window that served as the service counter for the in-hospital pharmacy.
Dillon froze, his attention entirely on Joanne. His focus on not exploding right then and there.
He didn’t have proof. He didn’t have evidence. But he was goddamn certain that Hector had done this to Joanne. That he’d done it before.
And that the bastard would do it again.
“Sheriff?”
Nurse Francine’s voice drifted over him, and he forced his attention back to the group.
“Are you coming?”
He hesitated, knowing that he should catch up. Instead, he shook his head. “You all go on. I’ll be along in a minute.”
And then, without waiting for Francine’s reply, he turned and started off after Joanne.
Chapter Four
Ginny’s head didn’t hurt, but she felt like it should hurt. Like there was pain hidden underneath all the cotton and fuzz that seemed to have replaced her skin and her blood, turning her into this floating, numb creature with wires taped to her and tubes inserted in her.
But at least you’re alive.
She winced. Because rather than being a comfort, the voice in her head sounded like an accusation.
She was alive, yeah. But Jacob—
God, she hated even thinking it.
She blinked up at Dr. Rush, who was standing beside her looking at a clipboard.
“He’s really dead?”
She knew what the answer would be. She’d asked the question at least a dozen times so far—sobbed hysterically at least as many times—and the answer never changed.
“He died on scene, sweetheart. He didn’t feel a thing.”
Ginny nodded, grateful at least for that small blessing. “I was driving.” Her lips and throat were so dry the words were barely a rasp. “I killed him.” The words hurt—her throat, her head, her heart. “Oh, God. I killed him.”
Dr. Rush hurried to put her clipboard on the bed and take Ginny’s hand. “No, honey, no. I’ve talked with the EMT guys and with the sheriff. It was an accident. A horrible accident. You hit a deer, and with the rain and the slick road it was—well, it was all over very, very quickly. It wasn’t your fault, honey. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. Do you understand?”
Ginny nodded, but only because she knew Dr. Rush expected it. No matter what anyone said, Ginny knew the truth. And the truth was that Jacob was dead.
After that, no other truth much mattered.
“Where’s my sister?” Ginny asked.
“Coming.”
“Coming? When? And Luis?” Panic was rising inside her, and her voice was climbing. And she knew it—she could hear it—but she couldn’t stop it. And her heart was pounding so hard in her chest that all the machines around started beeping louder and faster and—
Dr. Rush took her hand. “I’m right here, Ginny. Marisol’s coming. Luis is coming. You’re safe, and we’re going to get you better. Okay
?”
Ginny just lay there, trying to breathe.
“Can you look at me? I want to see that you’re okay.”
She moved her head to the side, saw Dr. Rush, and managed to nod.
“I need to tell you something before they come in. Your sister knows. We had to tell her in order to take care of you.”
A riff of fear seemed to skitter over Ginny’s skin. “Tell me what?”
Dr. Rush shifted so that she was holding Ginny’s hand in both of hers. “Honey, did you know that you’re pregnant?”
Pregnant.
The word hung meaningless in the air as Ginny tried to wrap her head around it. Pregnant?
“Wait. Pregnant? You mean, like, with a baby?”
To her credit, Dr. Rush didn’t even crack the slightest of smiles. “Yes. With a baby. About nine weeks. You didn’t know?”
“I—no.”
A baby.
“But that can’t be right. I can’t be pregnant.” She was in college. She was a good girl. She never got in trouble—had never gone in the bleachers with boys in high school. And yes, sure, she had maybe done some things she shouldn’t once she moved to Austin and was away from home and in college, but a baby? No. That just wasn’t possible.
“Have you ever had sex, Ginny?”
“I, yes. I mean, I’m twenty-one, so—”
“If you’ve had sex, sweetie, you can be pregnant. And although I can see that this is a shock, I assure you that you are. Trust me. I’m a doctor.”
Ginny swallowed. “I heard—earlier—stuff about fetal heart rates and placentas.” She turned her head and saw the second line showing a heartbeat faster than her own. And when she pushed down her blanket she saw the wire hooked up to her belly. “I’m really pregnant.”
“You really are. And the trauma put the baby at risk. But we’ve run tests and everything looks okay. You didn’t wonder when you missed your period?”
“I—I’ve never been regular.”
“Are you on the pill?”
She shook her head.
“When you had intercourse, did you use birth control?”
“Condoms,” she said, but it was a lie. When she’d slept with the senator in Austin, he’d said he didn’t wear condoms and hadn’t since high school. And Ginny had told him she was on the pill the first time, then after that, she’d used a diaphragm. Mostly. Sometimes he’d grab her the moment she stepped inside the hotel room and insist that he had to have her. Like right then, and he was so hot for her there wasn’t time to go do the whole mess with the diaphragm.