The Night in Question. Kelsey Roberts
there a third option?”
He read fear and confusion in her eyes as she tilted her face to his. “Like?” He let the word dangle in the air between them.
“I don’t have anyone to call and I can’t go to a hospital, either.”
Matt knew trouble when he saw it and as a rule, did his best to avoid it when possible. One look at the drenched blonde with the wide, frightened eyes and he knew possible had just taken a vacation.
“What boat were you on?” he asked.
“Boat?” she repeated as if he’d spoken in tongues.
He looked down at her pricey-looking stilettos, which had remained on her feet despite what she’d been through, and said, “You aren’t a mermaid. So I’ll assume you ended up in the water the old-fashioned way.”
“Swimming?”
He actually chuckled at her deadpan delivery. “Most women don’t swim in an evening gown and heels. You must have gone overboard.” His mind raced forward. “There haven’t been any reports of a man—person—overboard or vessels in distress to the Coast Guard,” he said. “Did you go out alone? Capsize, maybe?” He grabbed her good hand and turned it palm up. “You’ve been in the water a long time,” he said as he pressed gently to test the loose skin on her uninjured hand.
“How long?” she asked, and then snatched back her hand to cover her mouth as a raspy cough rumbled in her throat.
“You don’t know?”
Her eyes narrowed slightly and sparkled with a flash of what might be anger. “Forgive me, but I guess I lost track of time while I was losing blood, fighting currents and floating in the ocean in the dark.”
She began to slouch and he tightened his arm around her waist. “How about you sit down before you fall down?”
“That might be a good idea,” she agreed, putting up no resistance as he guided her into the car.
Matt lifted her legs and tucked them into the footwell before he walked around the car. On his way to the driver’s seat, he grabbed a fresh shirt out of the back of the Jeep and shrugged it over his head before slipping behind the wheel. He shot her a glance as he stuck the key in the ignition. She looked like a drowned rat.
What do you know? He thought again about Janice.
“Where are we going?”
“You don’t want to go to a hospital. I’m giving you that. But we’re getting you appropriate medical attention.”
“How?”
“A friend of a friend. I’m Matt DeMarco, by the way.”
“Matt DeMarco.”
Again, she seemed to be taking the words for a trial run.
Matt drove quickly back toward Charleston, sometimes ignoring traffic signals and often weaving through cars even if it meant violating no passing zones and rolling through stop signs. “You, ah, seem a little out of it,” he said softly. “Sure you don’t want to rethink the hospital option?”
“Definitely not.” She shifted straighter in the seat. “I appreciate what you’ve done, but you can just drop me at the next corner.”
“Right,” he scoffed. “Do you really want to roam the streets of Charleston bleeding? What do you suppose the folks would make of that?”
Matt veered to the right to cross the Ashley River. On the other side of the bridge, he could see the Battery, a jutting peninsula where the Ashley and Cooper rivers joined. If you were from Charleston—which he wasn’t—you’d smugly proclaim that the Ashley and the Cooper met to create the Atlantic Ocean.
“Are you planning on telling me your name?”
She rested her head on the seat back, “Wasn’t planning on it, no.”
“Are you being mysterious or rude?”
“Neither.”
“Okay, I’ll play.” He took his eyes off the road long enough to catch a glimpse of her. She was struggling to remain conscious. Her long lashes fluttered against her cheeks and her flawless skin had gone pale. “Keep your hand up, the bleeding has started again.” Given the head injury, he decided it was a good idea to keep her talking. “You’ve got the accent, so you’re a native?”
She just shrugged.
“One thing I’ve learned in my short time here is Southerners are rarely rude to strangers and never rude to strangers offering aid and comfort. So what’s the deal? Your ancestors get tossed out of the Confederacy or something?”
“Or something. Who’s this friend?”
“My boss’s niece, actually,” Matt said. “Dr. Kendall Revell. She’s a pathologist and very nice.”
“Pathologist?” She raked her fingers through her damp, tangled hair. “Don’t they do autopsies?”
“Yep.”
“Oh well, I guess that beats a vet.”
Matt smiled as he turned onto Calhoun Street. “Roper Hospital is just ahead, final opportunity to change your mind.”
“No thanks.”
“So what am I supposed to call you?”
“Call me whatever you want. ‘Hey you’ is fine. It doesn’t matter. It isn’t as if we’re about to engage in a meaningful, interpersonal relationship.”
Her choice of language was telling. She was definitely educated. “‘Hey you?’ If you won’t tell me your name, perhaps you’d like to share what you do for a living.”
When he didn’t get a response, he glanced over to find her slumped in the seat, unconscious.
“Freaking hell.”
THE FIRST THING she noticed when she opened her eyes was the smell. A sickly mixture of alcohol, fruity air freshener and formaldehyde. The second thing was the temperature. It was freezing cold. As soon as she opened her eyes, she squeezed them shut again. A large, round reflective light hung from the ceiling just above her bed.
Her entire left side as well as her hand throbbed so she used the tips of her right fingers to explore the bed. Only it wasn’t a bed, it was a cold metal slab. Her fingers grazed her hip under a light cloth and she realized she was naked. No wonder she was so cold.
Turning her head to one side, she peeked through her lashes. Satisfied that she was safe from the harshness of the bright light, she looked around and discovered she wasn’t alone. Nor was she the only one wearing nothing but a sheet. She was, however, the only one not sporting a toe tag. She was in a morgue.
Completely creeped out, she pressed the sheet to her chest and had started to sit up when she felt hands close on her shoulders. At the unexpected contact, she shrieked.
“Calm down, Hey You,” Matt said from behind her.
“Geez, you scared me senseless.” Tilting her head back, she saw Matt wasn’t alone. He was standing next to a small woman wearing surgical scrubs, a badge with her name and photo on it clipped to the shirt.
“I’m Dr. Revell,” she said. “Lie still, I don’t want you to pull those sutures. It took me the better part of an hour to stitch up your wounds.”
“Wounds? Plural?” Her eyes darted between Matt and the doctor.
“It took thirty stitches to close the cut on your hand and another half dozen after I dug the bullet out.”
Matt shrugged apologetically. “Guess I missed it. It was a small-caliber slug that entered near your armpit and lodged just under the skin.”
“Technically, I’m required by law to report all gunshots