Laura Scott - Primary Suspect

The throbbing in his head hurt the more he considered the various scenarios, none of which sat well.

And how did Janice fit in? He felt sick that she’d been killed. They had broken up a year ago, after he’d found her in bed with another guy, Simon Wylan, also a firefighter. But that seemed to be a weak motive to set him up for murder.

“Well?” Dana demanded, looking madder than a queen bee.

“Yes, I’m afraid it is possible he could track you down. And that’s a risk I’m not willing to take.” He reached out to lightly touch her arm. She was still wearing a pair of bright green scrubs, the color matching her eyes, topped with a thin scrub jacket that was white and decorated with shamrocks. “Please, Dana. I need you to go along with me on this. We’ll get adjoining rooms. I just need a little time.”

“Time for what?” she asked, her voice brittle. She didn’t look toward him at all, but kept her gaze focused on the road.

He hesitated, considered how to best encourage her to go along with his plan. “Time to make sure that you’re safe.”

There was a long pause as a full minute went by. Then another.

Finally she let out a heavy sigh. “Fine. I’ll agree to this crazy madness for now. But not one second longer than necessary, understand?”

“I do. Thank you.” He dropped his hand from her arm, relieved that he didn’t have to fight with her anymore. “Do you know where The American Lodge is? I know the owner—he’s a retired firefighter and a friend of mine.”

“Yes.” She didn’t say anything more and he didn’t push her. Right now, he was satisfied to have a destination in mind.

Mitch put his hand to his neck in an attempt to assess the damage he’d done to the wound. It throbbed painfully, as did the lump on his head.

“Don’t touch it,” Dana said, her sharp tone making him quickly drop his hand. “Check inside the glove compartment, I have tissues and hand sanitizer in there. We’ll take them inside with us so I can clean up that incision.”

He found the items and set them in the empty cup holder in the console between them.

Ten minutes later, Dana pulled into the parking lot of The American Lodge. He slid out of the passenger seat, wishing there was a way to hide the bloodstained shirt he was wearing. Thankfully, The American Lodge was used to dealing with the Callahans; in fact, Matt had recently paid for extensive repairs several months ago, which had given them extra brownie points. The damage hadn’t been entirely his brother’s fault, but they’d pooled their money to pay for it anyway. So when he presented himself at the front desk, the woman behind the counter didn’t give him any trouble, obviously recognizing his name. She took his offered cash and slid two plastic key cards across the counter.

“Thanks.” Mitch walked back outside and found Dana standing near her compact car, her arms crisscrossed over her chest. “Here, you’re in room three. I’ll be next door in room four.”

She took the card, slipped it into the pocket of her scrub jacket and got back in behind the wheel. He reached in to take the tissues and sanitizer, then walked over to the motel door, leaving her to park the car.

He unlocked his side of the connecting door and then sat down in a chair at the small table to wait. A few minutes later, Dana unlocked her side and stepped through the opening, carrying an ice bucket full of warm water and towels tucked under her arm.

“I need to cut part of your T-shirt collar out of the way,” she said, pulling a pair of bandage scissors out of her pocket. He wondered what else she had in there and counted his blessings that she was a nurse capable of providing care.

“Have at it,” he said.

She didn’t hesitate, and he found himself mesmerized by the intensity of her green gaze as she worked on him. After cutting away the bloodstained fabric of his shirt around his neckline, she began cleaning the wound. Then she tsk-tsked under her breath.

“Three stitches need to be replaced,” she said, taking a step back. “Leaving it open will only increase the risk of infection.”

He didn’t like it, but nodded. “Okay. Can you do it?”

“Me?” Her eyes widened comically. “Are you crazy? I need a sterile needle, suture, instruments...” Her voice trailed off. “No.”

“Come on, you can improvise. I saw a small sewing kit in your glove compartment,” he said. “There’s a book of matches in the lobby, too.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “You really won’t go back to the hospital?”

“No, I can’t. It’s too dangerous.”

She sighed again and tipped her head back to stare at the ceiling, as if she might find answers written there. “You understand the risk of infection? And how much this will hurt? I’ll need to clean the area with the sanitizer, which will burn like mad.”

“Better pain than infection and death.”

Her lips thinned; she was clearly not happy with his suggestion, but then she abruptly turned and went back outside to find the sewing kit and matches.

Another hurdle cleared. But he had no idea how many other barriers he’d have to navigate before getting to the truth of who’d killed Janice and why.

And even more important, who hated him enough to frame him for her murder?

* * *

Dana tried not to think too much about what she was about to do as she gathered everything she needed to replace the three sutures in Mitch’s incision. How had this happened? How was it that she had ended up here, providing care to Mitch Callahan while he hid from the law? This kind of thing didn’t happen to her. Her life was boring—well, other than the variety of patient scenarios she encountered at work.

Oddly enough, her earlier exhaustion had vanished, leaving an unusual sense of exhilaration in its wake. She told herself it was because she was just as crazy as Mitch for agreeing to his harebrained scheme, but deep down, she knew that wasn’t really the source.

The sad truth was that she’d been living by rote. Work, eat, sleep and work. Volunteer at the local food pantry, then go back to repeat the process all over again.

Giving herself a mental shake, she focused on the task at hand. First she used a match to sterilize the needle, then threaded it with black thread. She washed her hands with the antimicrobial solution.

“This is going to burn,” she reminded him, before pouring a dollop of hand sanitizer on his neck. Using the tips of her fingers, she cleaned the area around the incision. To Mitch’s credit, he held himself perfectly still and didn’t utter a sound.

“Okay.” She took a deep breath and picked up the needle and thread. She’d learned how to suture in nursing school, during a rotation in the operating room, but that was different. The patients were under general anesthesia and couldn’t feel the needle poking through their skin. And nurses didn’t place stitches in the ER, doctors did.

She braced her hip against Mitch’s chair, taking another couple of deep breaths. For some odd reason she was far too aware of the scent of his skin, something pine beneath the faint smell of smoke.

“Are you okay?” Mitch asked.

He was the patient, asking her if she was okay. Pathetic. Enough of being a wimp about this.

“Fine. It’s going to hurt,” she said, pressing the tip of the needle against his skin.

He sucked in a breath but didn’t move or make any other sound of distress. Sweat beaded at her temples and the room felt impossibly warm. She passed the needle through the other side, then used the thread to pull the edges of his skin together. She tied the knot, cut the thread with the bandage scissors and released her pent-up breath. “One down, two more to go.”

“You’re doing great,” he encouraged, as if this whole thing was harder on her than it was on him.