Liz Johnson - Code of Justice

Yet.

But she would figure it out. Kit was far too special to just let go without a reason.

Reining in her emotions, Heather cleared her throat. “I’ll bet my parents told you not to tell me all of that.”

“They said they weren’t sure you could handle it just yet. I knew otherwise.”

“Thank you, Nate. It’s better to know. Right?”

“Right.”

A yawn caught Heather off guard and made her two friends smile.

“We better get going and let you get some rest. We’ll see you tomorrow,” Nate said before squeezing Heather’s hand and standing at the same time as Nora. Hand in hand they took a step toward the door before Nate suddenly stopped.

“Heather, I need you to promise me something,” he said over his shoulder.

“What?” The word was more of a croak than anything else, but he seemed to understand.

“It’s going to take you a while to recoup. Give it some time.” His brow furrowed, his mouth turning stern. “Don’t try to push yourself too hard.”

After a long pause, she conceded. “I won’t.”

He nodded and gave her a knowing look. “And let the police do their job. Stay out of this investigation.”

Nate’s face softened.

She didn’t respond, and he took a firm step toward her, his face a concoction of sharp angles. “I’m not kidding, Sloan.” He didn’t usually call her by her last name unless he was tired or she was being obstinate. “I need you to focus on getting better. Nothing else. You won’t get involved in this case beyond answering whatever questions the investigator has. That’s a direct order. Understood?”

She had no other choice but to agree. “Yes.”

“Have the nurse call me if you need anything,” Nora called from the doorway just before they disappeared. “See you tomorrow.”

The way Nate had rested his hand on Nora’s back mirrored the familiar actions of Clay Kramer, Kit’s fiancé. Except now he wasn’t engaged to her anymore. Because she was—

Heather closed her eyes, willing the image of Clay and Kit laughing together the night before the crash to vanish. It faded slightly, leaving only an imagined likeness of the pain Clay was enduring, his handsome face twisted in agony. How could he survive with the love of his life gone? How could she ever think of having a happy life with her sister gone?

Beyond questions of her own happiness lay more sinister inquiries that were painful just to ponder. Had someone really wanted to hurt Kit? Why would they want to kill someone everyone loved? Was it possible that Heather’s own life could be in jeopardy, too?

These questions haunted her as she fell into a fitful sleep.

Heather heard the rattle and click of the turning door handle before she was consciously awake. Her brain still foggy from sleep and the pain medication, she struggled to open her eyes, wondering if she was having another visitor. Her parents had been by earlier, but she’d insisted they go back to the hotel. She could see how drained they were after the funeral.

At the same moment that the door opened, her eyelids raised enough that she could see through her lashes.

A short, round man ducked into the room, looking over his shoulder as though confirming that he wasn’t being followed, before silently closing the door behind him. When he turned to face her, she could make out only his ratty, gray jacket and violently shaking hands. She’d never seen anyone’s hands shaking that badly—except drug addicts going through withdrawal.

But what was an addict doing in her hospital room?

He spun around slowly before shuffling toward her bed. She flexed her hand, feeling around for her gun. Which Nate still had. Maybe she could reach the call button on the side of the bed without tipping him off that she was alert—if somewhat groggy. Before scaring him off, she needed to know what he wanted.

A wave of body odor nearly sent her to the floor gagging, and she quickly adjusted to breathing through her mouth.

“Put the tube in the line,” the man mumbled. “Put the tube in the line. Then get the fix.”

What tube? What line?

The fix was easy enough to understand.

Suddenly he grabbed the IV line attached to the back of her hand, almost tugging it out. She forced her eyes to open all the way, looking into the face of a man with glassy eyes, long white hair and several days of patchy beard growth.

“What are you doing?” she asked, carefully keeping her tone soft, if scratchy.

He didn’t look at her, just continuing his chant. “Need to put the tube in the line. Then I get a fix.”

“What are you doing?” she asked again, putting more force behind her words as she reached for the call button, praying it would bring help right away. Her words made him glance at her, but it didn’t make him pause, as he pulled a small medical vial from his pocket and tried to connect it to her IV. “Stop! Don’t do that!”

Even with the tremors in his hands, he moved quickly, slipping the vial into place to feed whatever was in it into the line. She tried to roll to the side to stop him, but the sudden burning in the back of her hand was excruciating.

The man shuffled a step toward the door, as she clawed at her hand, trying to pull the tubing out.

“What is this?” she cried as the fire raced up her arm.

It took her another moment to realize that the blood-curdling scream filling the room came from her own throat.

Even after Jeremy Latham flashed his Sheriff’s Deputy badge at the pretty blonde nurse at the station next to the elevator, she wouldn’t tell him the exact condition of the survivor of the helicopter crash that had claimed two lives. Something about confidential patient records. No matter. If she was conscious, he would get Heather Sloan’s statement and piece together the events leading up to the crash. But as he approached the door he’d been directed to, a scream sent him running toward the very room the nurse had indicated. As he neared it, a woman shouted again.

Hoping the door was unlocked, he crashed into the solid wood. It flew open as he twisted the handle, sending him to his knees on the slick floor.

A pair of very old shoes and an unpleasant odor shuffled past him as he scrambled to his feet. He caught only a glimpse of the back of the man’s head before screams from the bed grabbed his attention.

“Get it out. Get it out! It burns!”

The cries from the woman on the bed made it clear what took priority. She needed help. Now. Jeremy ignored the other man as he scrambled to her side.

Putting one hand on her forearm, Jeremy said, “Where does it burn?”

“Right arm,” she managed between gritted teeth, her eyes rolling back in her head.

This was no time to pretend he had the kind of medical training needed to help. He pounded the call button over and over, following it up with shouts of his own. “Nurse! Nurse! I need help in 411!”

The young woman screamed when he picked up her arm, but he had to get a closer look at the crimson stripes making their way toward her elbow. She must have pulled the dangling tube from the back of her hand, but the redness definitely started beneath the tape still holding an IV needle in place.

The red lines were nearly to the crook in her arm when he realized that he had to stop whatever was causing them from getting any farther. Yanking the IV cord from its bag he wrapped it around her biceps and jerked it into a crude knot. The slick plastic didn’t want to stay in place, so he held it there, calling again for help. “Nurse!”

The woman whimpered, and he put his hand back on her forehead.

“It’s going to be okay. You’re all right.”

Just then, the same blonde nurse who had told him Heather was in room 411 entered at a run, and her presence made Jeremy breathe a little easier, despite her curt tone. “What happened in here?”