“One of the best-looking men I’ve seen around here in a long, long time.”
Peter?
Why would Peter be coming to see her? He could barely handle her on the phone.
Mary/Marion gestured for her to hurry up.
“Come on, girl. Trust me, you don’t want to keep this one waiting.”
Curious now, Beth followed her out the door.
61
It wasn’t Peter.
Mary/Marion led her back into the dayroom and pointed through the glass doors toward the courtyard, where an athletic-looking man with dark hair stood with his back toward them, a backpack slung over his shoulder.
“He says he’s an old friend from USC.”
Beth had been an SC undergrad, courtesy of her college trust fund, but hadn’t really kept in touch with any of her classmates.
“He just heard about what happened to you and wanted to come by and see how you’re doing. Isn’t that sweet?”
Beth stared at him and, for a brief, panic-filled moment, thought he was Rafael Santiago.
But then he turned, looking through the glass at the other patients and their families, and while he might have given Rafael a run for his money in the looks department, she didn’t recall the face.
“My, my, my,” Mary/Marion said.
Beth wondered if she should order the woman a drool cup.
“Did he give you a name?”
“You don’t recognize him?”
“You may not realize this,” Beth said, “but my brain is a bit scrambled.”
Again, the words came out harsher than she’d meant them to be. But, honestly, if you work in a TBI rehabilitation clinic, shouldn’t you know the territory?
Mary/Marion was as oblivious as ever.
“He says his name is Nick. Nick Vargas. Does that ring any bells?”
Beth ran the name through her head, straining to come up with a memory, but found nothing. Which was a bit odd, since the only memories she seemed to have problems with were post-Jen. Her college years had never been an issue.
She stared at the man, wondering for a moment if he drove a dusty Lincoln Town Car.
Then, at Mary/Marion’s urging, she went out to the courtyard to greet him.
Closing the doors behind her, she said, “Mr. Vargas?”
He assessed her without apology, his eyes clear and direct-and mildly surprised. But in a good way. As if he liked what he saw.
“That’s right,” he said. “Ms. Crawford?”
“Beth,” she told him. “Please call me Beth. Nobody else seems to want to.”
“All right, Beth it is. And I’m Nick.”
He offered a hand to shake, and she must have looked unsteady on her feet, because when she hesitated, the hand went directly to her elbow and guided her to a nearby chair. Then he set his backpack down and pulled up a chair next to hers.
He winced slightly as he sat down, as if he were in some kind of pain. “Now that we’re on a first-name basis, I have to be honest with you. I lied to the nurse. We’ve never met before.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“My brother had an injury similar to yours, and I know how difficult dealing with TBI can be. I don’t want to confuse you.”
“I appreciate that,” Beth said. “So why are you here?”
“I’m a reporter. Or at least I used to be. Now I’m writing a book.”
She frowned. She’d dealt with enough reporters in her time to know when to be wary. The majority of them were bottom-feeders.
“What kind of book?”
“True crime.”
“And what does it have to do with me? Is this about one of my old cases?”
“It could be,” he said. “But I’m not sure.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m pretty much running blind at this point. And I’m hoping you can clear some things up.”
“Clearing things up is not exactly my strong suit these days. What about?”
“About what happened in Albuquerque.”
Beth stared at him. She couldn’t fathom why anyone would be even remotely interested in what had happened to her. There was nothing exciting or sexy or book-worthy about it, and she wondered if this was some kind of reporter’s trick. Was he trying to play her?
But to what end?
Feeling anger start to burn inside her chest, she said, “Why are you doing this? Why did you come here?”
“I just told you-”
“Can’t you see that I’m in recovery? Was it really necessary to invade my privacy for whatever it is you’re looking for?”
“I’m sorry. I have a story to write. I’m just trying to get to the truth.”
“Then you’re out of luck, because I have no interest in talking to you.”
She started to rise, but he reached a hand out and touched her forearm.
“I didn’t mean to upset you.”
She pulled away. “Oh, I’m sure you didn’t.” This time she intended the words to sound harsh. Hoped the sarcasm was clear. “It was bad enough dealing with people like you before I got shot. I don’t see any compelling reason to deal with you now. So if you’re thinking the lady with the brain damage is gonna spill some confidential tidbit about one of her old cases, you’re shit out of luck.”
She started for the glass doors, and he stood, wincing again as he moved after her.
“At least let me explain.”
“Why? What difference would it make?”
“I just got back from Mexico,” he said.
“How nice for you.”
“And I know how you wound up in that Taco Bell parking lot.”
This stopped her. She turned.
“What?”
His dark eyes didn’t waver. “I know the man who shot you.”
62
Beth wasn’t quite sure she’d heard him right.
“How could you possibly know who shot me? The police can’t even figure it out.”
“Until yesterday, the police didn’t know what I know. So why don’t we sit back down and I’ll lay it all out for you.”
Beth had half a mind to suggest he go fuck himself, but what if this wasn’t a ruse? What if he was telling the truth?
