Angel?
“Not when we’re talking assault and murder,” Sloane said. “Maybe I haven’t always drawn enough lines in my life, but that one is huge and in permanent marker. Underlined.” She thought of her whispered conversation with the office assistant at the state prison. “I’ll leave the ‘angelic’ TLC to you.”
“You’re making that Misfit bar sound better and better. Happy hour munchies, ocean breeze . . . free cookies?”
“Your misfit is waiting in trauma room 9. And I still have my would-be kidnap victim. She needs a champion. That’s where I’ll be.”
“Right.” Harper lifted a brow. “After your chat with marketing.”
“Huh?”
“Over there, signaling to you. Maybe we’ll be seeing you on a billboard?”
Sloane turned.
Micah Prescott.
Great.
She had no illusions that the man wanted her image on a freeway sign. This had to be about their exchange at the parking lot curb when she’d basically told him to butt out. That’s why he was standing in the corridor, ridiculously good-looking and foolishly well-dressed for a department that prided itself on blood spatter and worse. No sunglasses, no easy smile, but definitely an expression of cool control. As if Micah Prescott, assistant director of marketing and public relations, had just taped a sign to the ER wall that read, Keep Calm and Play the Game.
Fat chance.
“I’m too busy,” Sloane told him, her dismissal saying it didn’t matter what Micah wanted; she wasn’t going to be part of it. “No time to talk,” she added, glancing past him toward a patient room. “I need to finish up with a patient.”
“Zoey Jones?”
Sloane’s small frown confirmed it.
“She’s exactly why I wanted to speak with you,” Micah explained, struck again by the nurse’s physical presence. Attractive, but more than that—a powerhouse in a small package, with those compelling eyes . . . “Zoey Jones,” he explained. “And what happened in the parking lot.”
“If you’re expecting an apology, you’re wasting your time. And mine.” A small pinch of Sloane’s dark brows hinted she regretted the words. Maybe. “Look. The last thing that kid needed was a crowd of gawkers. Or worse, being manhandled by media. Just because she needed help doesn’t mean she’s fair game. A person’s private life isn’t up for grabs as some kind of spectator sport. And if you’re going to argue that HIPAA rights don’t apply until—”
“I’m not.”
Her lashes, black as newspaper ink, flicked, but she held his gaze.
“I’m not here for an apology. Or to argue,” Micah insisted, caught off guard by her preemptive hostility. Best to temper that with some praise—easy enough since she more than deserved it. “I only wanted to say what you did out there was impressive. Not many people would.” She swallowed, but the blue eyes didn’t blink. “People pull out their phones and snap pictures first, think of calling 911 second. Or third, after posting to social media. They’re not willing to wade into the mess of someone else’s life. They watch.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I noticed, that’s all. I respect what you did. Admire it.” Micah was sure he saw wariness in her eyes. He was probably laying it on too thick. And she was smart, maybe even street-smart. There was something beneath the beauty that hinted at it. “Who knows what might have happened if you hadn’t stepped up. It took courage. I think everyone out there would say that. It’s the reason the reporters—”
“Stop. I don’t want to talk about reporters or rehash any of this. It’s over and I have work to do.”
“So do I,” Micah countered, his patience wearing thin. “And right now you’re making it a lot harder. Maybe you’re not ready to give a statement, but just so you know, it might not be over. People will talk. Someone will ask for the name of the nurse who—”
“No.” The frosty eyes held his, fully armed. “That’s not okay. Not happening.”
“It hasn’t happened,” Micah told her, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. He was getting nowhere and had a hunch she was a split second from sprinting away—or lashing out. Her expression made him think of warnings about cornered animals. “No one’s been given your name.” He looked down the hall toward the trauma rooms. “It’s possible media inquiries will be focused on the gang incident now.”
“Yes.” There was more than a hint of relief in Sloane’s expression. “Murder always gets top billing.”
Micah knew better than to ask, but this meant at least one of the gangsters was dead. His crisis team would be handling a death notification.
“I need to get back to Zoey,” she announced as a trio of police officers strode by. They were accompanied by a man in a suit, most likely a detective. “If she wants someone with her when they take the police report, I’ll do that.”
Once again, Micah had the sense this woman’s compassion sprang from more than her training. Not that she’d ever reveal it, and getting to know her wasn’t part of his plan. Good thing to remember.
“So . . . we’re done here,” Sloane added, taking a step away.
“Right,” Micah said finally. “I’ll see you around.”
Sloane’s expression said she couldn’t imagine why. And wouldn’t want to. “Probably,” she conceded. “Small medical world.”
As she walked away, it occurred to Micah that maybe he’d lied about no one asking her identity or having it. Coop had asked and Micah had readily supplied Sloane’s full name. Friend to friend, not official. But he’d done it. And the eager reporter would be back any minute with a sack of Taco Zone specialties. Unless he’d been sidetracked by a phone alert regarding the gang incident. In which case Coop would already be outside the ER, vying with other reporters for details on the story. Sloane was right: murder trumped attempted abduction. And heroism.
Still, there had to be a way to spin Sloane Ferrell’s selfless good deed into a hefty plug for the hospital. Like it or not, it was his job.
Sloane covered the short distance to Zoey’s exam room, trying to convince herself she’d kept her cool with the marketing man. Too many times in the past she’d gone all bristly-ballistic and struck out, losing her credibility and once, in San Diego, very nearly losing her job. It had been ugly and the lead-in to things she’d rather forget. The fact was, no one would ever understand her need to protect and defend people who’d been kicked around and victimized. But she had to. Anything else would be a denial of where she’d been and who she was. She was tap-dancing as fast as she could to present herself as someone else in this confusing new life, but though her name tag said otherwise, not so deep down she was still Ronda Sloane Wilder—and everything that came with that.
She pasted on a smile for a police officer passing by, at the least the fourth she’d seen. Here to interview the other gang member probably. Or . . .
She hoped he hadn’t already been in to talk with Zoey. Pink hair and tough attitude aside, the girl was dealing with a world of hurt. So young to have to accept those kinds of realities, but Sloane understood and then some.
Happiness was a fairy tale. She couldn’t afford to waste time mooning over it. Or believing men like Micah Prescott. His words about courage, that fleeting sincerity in his warm brown eyes . . . For a short moment it had almost felt good. But it was a lie, not that different from the kindness of the man who’d given Zoey Jones a ride. Then pegged her as suitable prey.
“Zoey?” Sloane knocked on the door, knocked again, and then opened it. “I’m back and—” The exam table was empty except for the discarded patient gown. “Zoey?”
Sloane whipped around and peered down the hall toward the bathroom.
“Looking for that young lady from the parking lot?”
“Yes, I . . .” Sloane recognized the fiftysomething maintenance worker who’d helped Harper with the wheelchair. Jerry. Round face, graying temples, earnest eyes, always a pencil wedged over one ear and always smiling—except right now. “Have you seen her?”
“Maybe a couple of minutes ago. She came out of her room, looking sort of nervous. I asked if she needed a nurse. She said no, she was all finished here.”
“Which way did she go?”
Jerry pointed.
“Thanks,” Sloane told him, beginning to jog down the corridor toward the exit. Nervous. Sure she was. Sirens, the whole department swarming with cops—Zoey would absolutely be finished with that. Sloane couldn’t blame her a bit. But the girl still needed those bandages and instructions.
She pushed through the double doors, strode past the visitors’ tables, scanned the parking lot and the busy, palm-lined street beyond. No sign of—
“Ma’am?”
Sloane turned, startled for a moment. A man in a suit. Badge on his belt.
“Detective Mendoza, LAPD,” he said, his gaze flicking to her name tag. “You’re Sloane Ferrell?”
Her pulse hiked. “Uh . . . yes.”
“Good.” The detective offered a reflexive smile. “I’ll need you to answer some questions.”
4
SAFE.
Sloane slid the chain into place, its brass still shiny against the oily-dark surface of the front door. It was an arched wooden door, stained walnut with black iron fittings, forged nail heads, and a small, square window protected by a matching iron grille. The kind of door that belonged in a castle, not a tiny rental cottage tucked beside a retiree’s Los Angeles garage. Sloane had never cared about doors, never given them much thought beyond what they locked out, but this one had enchanted her the moment she’d seen it. Sort of an Old World welcome to a new life. That her landlady, the owner and occupant of the main house, had been okay with Sloane’s Home Depot security chain—even loaned her a flower-embellished hammer to install it—made this dwelling choice seem fated somehow. Three locks, a landlady who respected privacy, a short drive to the hospital, and . . .
“Hey, you,” Sloane said, smiling as the black cat—still a kitten, really—trotted toward her, springy, ballet-light, and uttering a raspy meow with each footfall. She laughed as Marty’s yellow eyes blinked up at her, then bent down and scooped him up. He butted his velvety head beneath her jaw and nipped playfully at Sloane’s chin before settling against her scrub top with a rumbling purr. “You don’t fool me, mister,” she told him, walking toward the kitchen. “All I’m worth to you is a three-ounce can of Grilled Chicken Feast.”
An image came to mind: Zoey wolfing down those turkey sandwiches. At least the girl had gone AWOL with a full stomach. Her tetanus shots were up-to-date—if she’d told the truth. Sloane felt certain the few bits of information she’d shared about herself were mostly fictional. Because it takes one to know one? Probably. She shouldn’t have been surprised Zoey took off; when the clerk said something about a police detective wanting to interview witnesses, the girl’s eyes had gone wide. California had laws against hitchhiking, but Sloane would bet it was more than that.
“Fine. Be that way,” she chided as Marty sprang from her arms to the dark hardwood floor, collar tags jingling. “But see if you can be patient while I get your food into the dish.”
The detective had been patient interviewing Sloane, though her answers were far less helpful than he’d hoped. Yes, she’d seen the incident in the parking lot—some of it, not all. She didn’t know cars well enough to ID the make or model. She’d been looking at the girl. The driver, the man, had been in shadow for the most part. Late thirties, maybe; white probably. Sunglasses, knit hat pulled down over . . . blond hair?
She’d danced around the questions as best she could.
“Yes, Ferrell. F-e-r-r-e-l-l.” She didn’t tell the detective it was newly changed. Or that she’d chosen it because of its similarity to feral, another word for wild. It had seemed clever at the time. Now it was just one more sandbag in a bunker of lies.
Sloane didn’t tell him, either, that she’d changed her name because she didn’t want her ex-fiancé, Paul Stryker, to track her down. Or, worse by far, for his former associates—mobsters, she’d been horrified to discover—to find her. And use her, Paul had warned a dozen times, to exact revenge for his unpaid gambling debts. It had seemed surreal initially, darkly laughable and so much like any number of Paul’s whopper tales. Then the threatening phone calls started and Sloane’s car was forced off the road—and over a cliff. Though her vehicle seemed the primary target, the incident had occurred in rush hour traffic and involved other cars. Two people were killed. They’d never identified the driver of the at-fault vehicle, a stolen car. It had been found abandoned. And set on fire.
“Arson . . . it’s their trademark,” Paul’s last phone message had warned. Sloane knew him well enough to recognize the fear choking his usual cocky bravado.
She’d never admitted her unwelcome connection to organized crime to the accident investigators, still hoping against reason that it had been coincidental. But when the calls started again—and she’d recovered enough from extensive injuries—Sloane packed up her cat and fled San Diego. The last she heard, the incident was still being investigated as a joyride gone bad. She wanted it to stay that way, unsolved and unconnected to her. It gave her at least a small sense of peace. These last months, Sloane was sleeping better. Going about her life with less fear that someone would show up on the porch and—
A rap at the door made her drop the cat food can.
“Sloane? It’s Celeste. You’ve got mail.”
“Coming!” Sloane peeled off the can lid, filled Marty’s dish, and set it on the floor. “Be right there.”
Door lock, dead bolt, brass chain. Slow breath. Better.
“Hey, Celeste.” Sloane found a smile, easier because her landlady’s six-year-old granddaughter was also there. Big eyes, bigger grin, and masses of taffy-colored curls. “And heeey, Piper.”
“We brought your boxth,” the child announced, lisping a little after her double donation to the tooth fairy. She pointed to the cardboard carton lying on the steps and her big eyes got bigger. “The one with the Lucky Charms lepper-kon on it.”
“Not quite the first of the month,” Celeste confirmed, swiping at her unruly hair—a gray edition of the family curls. Her plump face lit with a teasing smile. “General Mills is more punctual than Social Security.”
“Never miss a month.”
It wasn’t true; they still owed Sloane a shipment—there had been some initial confusion when she changed her name. The company would eventually make it right, and Celeste would dutifully walk the rainbow-colored box back to Sloane’s porch. A necessary arrangement, Celeste had explained at their first meeting, since the cottage didn’t have its own address. Mail was delivered to the main house. In truth, Sloane had been relieved at this added privacy. And that Celeste had said, “No problem” when she explained there would also be a monthly delivery of a box filled with assorted cereals, toaster pastries, and lately, some new “natural” and gluten-free products.
The landlady listened to Sloane’s offhand explanation of having won a lifetime supply of Lucky Charms as a child and never questioned it. The same way she hadn’t questioned Sloane’s name change since the initial lease application, or why she preferred to pay rent in cash, or why, in nearly five months of living here, her tenant never had a visitor. Celeste didn’t pry, snoop, or hover. The fact that she was an LA Hope retiree, after forty years as a PBX operator, even gave them something in common. And made it unnecessary for Sloane to explain her odd hours, overtime shifts, or emergency calls.
“Which one is your favorite?” Piper asked, squatting down to tap her finger over a neon-bright image of the leprechaun’s cereal bowl. “Of all of them.”
“I don’t know,” Sloane told her, suddenly uncomfortable. Why on earth did she still have these delivered? Twenty-six years . . . “Maybe the breakfast bars.”
“Not that.” Piper’s doe eyes peered up at Sloane. “I meant your favorite Lucky Charm. The hearts, shamrocks, moons, or—”
“I hate marshmallows,” Sloane interrupted,
instantly ashamed when the child’s brow puckered. “I mean . . . I try to be careful about sugar.”
“And so do we,” Celeste said gently, taking her granddaughter by the hand. “Which reminds me, I promised your mother I’d feed you dinner, sweetie. Mommy has her new class after work tonight.” Celeste handed Sloane the small stack of envelopes. “You, too?”
“Me?”
“Class.” Celeste smiled. “Is this a class night?”
“My evenings are pretty booked. . . . I’m taking some classes.”
“No,” Sloane said, shame taking a second swipe. “Tomorrow night.”
“Good. Maybe you can put your feet up and relax a little. I know how hard that hospital can work a person.”
“Yes.” Sloane sighed. “It’s been a long day.”
She thanked Piper for her offer to carry the General Mills box inside but said she could manage it herself. She watched the two walk back toward the main house, stopping briefly beside a small, raised garden bed so the little girl could perform what appeared to be some of her Kids’ Karate moves—with an added double pirouette. Her innocent, happy giggles floated back on the breeze. A child free to be a child. An ache crowded Sloane’s throat.
She carried the cereal carton into the house, closed the door, and locked it.
“But it’s not quite Lifestyle copy,” Micah said, watching as Coop munched through the last of an enormous stack of fried onion rings. He’d actually made good on a rare offer to buy Micah a burger. Something about gas prices being down and an incredible deal on clumping kitty litter having put extra cash in his pocket. Micah wasn’t going to question it, but sharing two meals with Cooper Vance in the same day said too much about his meager social life. “You’re working up a feature on prisons?”
“Yep.” Coop’s shredded-wheat beard was littered with crumbs. “Very popular.”
Micah stared at him.
“I’m serious. Reality TV, movies. Anything ‘prison’ is an instant hit.” Coop grinned. “Add a mob element, pure gold.”
Maybe It's You Page 3
