“I don’t remember.”
Nash just stared at her for a moment.
“Are you being straight with me?”
“Yessir.”
“Because this is a serious situation we got here. See, I’m what they call at the Bureau, a soft touch. But my partner, Penington, isn’t. He’s, to be blunt, kind of a dick. My point is…you want to be dealing with me, Lucy. And I want to help you, but I can’t if you lie to me. Penington deals with the liars.”
Lucy shut her eyes and thought about her father.
When she opened them again, a sheet of tears had formed across the surface of her eyes.
She waited five seconds, and then blinked.
Two trails started down her cheeks.
It only lasted for a second, but she saw a flicker pass across Nash’s face-a millisecond of softening.
Compassion.
So he had a heart. But then again, most people did.
She had him.
“I’ll be back here tomorrow,” Nash said.
I won’t.
He rose, buttoned his jacket.
“You better start remembering some things, Lucy.”
“I’ll try.”
He gave her a curt nod and strode out the door into the hallway, where he muttered something in passing to the deputy. Lucy let her mind drift.
Donaldson.
She smiled, wondering how badly he’d been injured. God, she hoped he wasn’t in a coma. That would be absolutely no fun at all. Vegetables didn’t feel fear. You couldn’t look in their eyes and watch the life leave or the pain come.
Lucy thought about her guitar case, wondering if they’d found it. If she had any luck at all, the thing had been destroyed in the wreckage. Under the velvet lining, there were photographs-she was even in a few of them. Then there was that weathered copy of Andrew Z. Thomas’s novel, The Passenger, signed to her and referencing that Indianapolis mystery convention she’d attended fourteen years ago as a young girl.
Great convention-she’d met Luther Kite and Orson Thomas there, two men who’d forever changed her life.
If a smart lawman saw that book, they’d make the connection.
She had to get out of this room.
Deal with Donaldson.
Escape.
Lucy pressed the NURSE CALL button, and fifteen seconds later a rail of a woman breezed into her room.
She checked the IV bags and heart monitor before turning her attention to Lucy.
“I’m Janine Winslow,” she said. “What’s going on, sweetie? You in pain?”
“My catheter hurts.”
“Really?”
Lucy nodded.
“You’re staying on top of your morphine pump?”
“Yes, but it really hurts,” Lucy lied. “It burns.”
Winslow furrowed her brow. “Dr. Lanz gave you your nerve block less than two hours ago. You shouldn’t be feeling anything at all.”
“What’s a nerve block?”
“A combination of lidocaine, corticosteroids, and epinephrine. Without a shot every twelve hours, you’d be in agony.”
“I thought that’s what the morphine pump is for.”
“That’s just to take the edge off. The nerve block is what’s keeping you from screaming hysterically.”
“Can you take it out?” Lucy asked.
“Take what out?”
“The catheter. So I can use the bathroom.”
“You can’t walk to the bathroom with the condition your legs are in.”
“I’m sure I can make it.”
The nurse swept her hair out of her eyes. “Lucy, you haven’t seen your legs yet, have you?”
“No, why?”
Winslow bit her lip.
“Why?” Lucy asked again.