Scared to Death. Debby Giusti

      “Kate, this is my daughter, Heather.”

      Shoulder-length blond hair, petite, big eyes that stared back at her.

      “Heather, Miss Murphy’s staying in the guest room.”

      Kate opened her mouth to say hello, but he rushed her past the girl too quickly.

      A bed, blankets…Kate snuggled down in the warmth, vaguely aware of her host bustling about to get her settled.

      Eventually, he placed a pillow under her left leg and a plastic bag filled with ice on top.

      Cool, soothing.

      “Call me if you need anything,” he said.

      “Thanks.” She tried to smile.

      A light flicked off. Darkness enveloped her. She closed her eyes….

      Later, the door clicked open.

      He bent over her, removed the melted ice bag and replaced it with a fresh one.

      She slept again.

      Her grandfather’s face floated through her dreams. “No coincidences,” he told her. “Only God-incidences.”

      She wanted to laugh.

      Had God brought her to Mercy to find the cross? Or to find Tina?

      Then she remembered.

      Tina’s dead. The words hammered through her brain.

      Her eyes flew open. A girl’s voice cut through the night. Heather sounded as if she was standing directly outside Kate’s room.

      “Is she taking Tina’s place?”

      “I told you, she’s only staying a short time.”

      “But when I tell you something you never believe me,” the girl threw back at her father.

      “You know the rules, Heather. No one comes into the house when I’m not home.”

      “Jimmy stayed outside.”

      “Then why’d he run away?”

      Maybe all families were the same. Kate and her dad had had their share of problems before he’d walked out of her life.

      The irony was she was still waiting for him to return.

      “I love you, honey.” At least Nolan was trying.

      “You didn’t love Mom.”

      “Heather, please—”

      Too private for Kate’s ears. She cleared her throat, hoping they would hear her and take their discussion elsewhere.

      “I told you not to leave.” The girl’s voice was edged with pain. “I knew something bad would happen.”

      “Your mother’s death wasn’t my fault, Heather.”

      “No? Then whose fault was it?”

      THREE

      Tick. Tick. Tick.

      Kate opened her eyes to the gray winter light peering through the curtain, turned her head on the pillow and squinted at the travel alarm perched on the bedside table. Her temples throbbed in sync with the ticking clock.

      Eight-fifteen. Later than she’d slept in the last six months.

      So why’d she still feel groggy? Probably the drugs Dr. Samuels had given her yesterday at the clinic.

      She closed her eyes and started to drift back to sleep. Visions flashed through her mind—the deer, the bridge, the raging water rushing in around her.

      Her eyes jerked open. The water receded, replaced by the memory of Nolan’s powerful arms and warm embrace. If he hadn’t saved her—

      Don’t go there. Nolan had saved her.

      Thank God.

      She shook her head ever so slightly. Far as she was concerned, God had nothing to do with it.

      But Tina? Tears stung Kate’s eyes. She blinked them away.

      Heather’s angry voice echoed in Kate’s mind.

      Had she imagined the father-daughter spat? Maybe a dream?

      A widower trying to raise a teenage daughter had to be tough. Yet, he’d taken Kate into his home.

      As much as she appreciated his hospitality, she needed to get up, assess her situation and head back to Atlanta. Back to—

      She sighed. Back to an empty condo and two weeks of worry. Until the board of review made their decision.

      No telling the outcome.

      Headstrong. That was what Jason had called her. Talking to the reporter had been a foolish mistake. She’d put her position and the lab in jeopardy.

      Don’t cry over spilled milk. Her grandfather’s words flowed through her consciousness. Grandda with his Old World practicality. He’d be the first to tell her to focus on the problem at hand.

      Cautiously, she eased her arm from under the down comforter and rubbed her forehead. If only the jackhammer pounding through her brain would stop.

      Mouth as dry as cotton batting, she ran her parched tongue over chapped lips as her eyes swept the room in the half light.

      Oak dresser. Ladder-back chair. A roughly hewn wooden cross nailed to the wall next to an oval mirror.

      Closet and two other doors. One hung open, exposing a porcelain sink and shower stall, as inviting as a desert oasis.

      She threw back the covers, rolled to her side and gasped. A jolt of white lightning sliced through her left leg.

      “Argh!” Falling back on the bed, Kate fought the wave of nausea that rolled over her along with the frigid morning air.

      An empty stomach and pain medication didn’t mix. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast yesterday—one low-fat granola bar washed down with coffee.

      Sucking in a few shallow puffs of air, she waited until the pain subsided, then slowly rose to a sitting position and examined the immobilizer secured around her left leg with Velcro straps. A torn ACL.

      Kate didn’t have time for another problem.

      Determined to push through the pain, she eased herself to the edge of the bed and carefully lowered her feet to the cold hardwood floor. Putting weight on her good leg, she stood upright.

      The room faded into darkness. Kate grabbed the nightstand and waited for her sudden drop in blood pressure to pass. Poised precariously like a flamingo on one foot, she winced as her hurt leg fought against her effort and blinked the room back into focus.

      She wouldn’t run any marathons today. Five hops to the bathroom might be more than she could manage.

      Trading the support of the nightstand for the dresser, she inched across the room. With every movement, her leg screamed in protest. Finally, she reached the bathroom, slumped against the sink and held her breath until the stabbing pain eased.

      Kate glanced at the face looking back at her from the mirror.

      Sunken eyes. Pale skin. Twisted matt of hair.

      She flipped on the wall switch and sighed when the light failed to work. Electricity must have gone out in the night.

      Reaching for the faucet, she turned on the water, lowered her head and gulped the cool liquid pooled in her outstretched hand.

      A travel kit of wrapped toiletries sat on the basin. She jabbed a fingernail into the cellophane, grabbed a pocket comb and raked it through her hair, then brushed her teeth, scrubbed her face and toweled dry. What she wouldn’t give for a shower.

      Her eyes once again connected with the stranger in the mirror. Not her best day by a long shot.

      A