Shadows of the Past (Logan Point Book #1): A Novel (30 page)

T
he parking lot was like a sauna, but for the moment, it felt good as she thawed out. Hospitals were so cold. Nick unlocked the door to his Mustang, retrieved an envelope, and handed it to her.

“You went to a lot of trouble. Thanks.”

He touched her cheek, stroking it. “I hope it’ll help you find him. Then you can live a normal life, maybe even give up profiling—just teach and write about it.”

She tried to ignore how his touch ignited a fire in her. Nick didn’t understand. “Finding my father won’t change who I am. Sheriff Atkins told me once that I have a cop’s heart. I think he was right.”

“Come on, Taylor. A cop? I thought you wanted a husband and babies.”

“Why can’t I have both?”

The color drained from his face. He dropped his hand and stepped back. “You can. Just not with me.”

Her hands curled into tight balls. “Don’t confuse me with what happened to your wife.”

Nick palmed his hands up. “I’m sorry, Taylor, but when I thought you were dead . . . I can’t do that again.”

It started with a crack, but his words ripped through her chest, shattering her heart like the window of her car the night before. Taylor backed away.

“Wait.”

“No, I think I’ve heard enough.”

Scott followed the second hand as it made another sweep around the clock. It’d been his only entertainment since he woke up. Except for the nurse that just shot out of his room. She talked to him even though he couldn’t respond, telling him that since he was able to open his eyes, soon he’d probably be able to talk and to move his arms and legs. She didn’t tell him what had happened to him, and he couldn’t ask.

But at least he could stay awake, and he was breathing on his own now and didn’t have to deal with that ventilator tube. Swallowing was next to impossible the way his throat hurt, and the thirst . . . it was worse than after a three-day drinking spree. Ice chips. He’d give anything for ice chips.

If only he could piece together the events that put him in this hospital bed. Something about Ethan, but he couldn’t pull it together. He tried again to move his hand, but he couldn’t even manage a twitch. He only managed to exhaust himself.

Scott had felt God’s presence as he drifted in and out of consciousness.
This sickness is not unto death.
He knew those words were in the Bible . . . somewhere.

In his peripheral vision, the door eased open. Maybe his nurse had come back.

No, a man in green scrubs. Probably another doctor. Hopefully, he’d be more positive than the last one. The doctor approached his bed silently. Odd . . . the way he walked, throwing his foot out. Just like Ethan. The man waved his hand in front of Scott’s face.

“Ah, so you can see. Can you hear?”

Ethan? Why was he here dressed like a doctor? The beeps on Scott’s heart monitor increased.

Ethan touched where the catheter was inserted in his right hand,
sending a tremor up Scott’s arm. Then Ethan slipped a syringe from his pocket and inserted it higher up, near the drip bag.

“Don’t worry. It’s just a little insulin. You’ll simply go to sleep.”

The morning came roaring back. Ethan. In his law office. The drink. Ethan standing over him, doing nothing. The paramedics. Every nerve in his body screamed.

“I would like to stay and chat, but I really don’t want to be here when the alarms start going crazy,” Ethan said. “Besides, Taylor is waiting . . .”

The door closed with a click. Scott strained to see the IV bag. He couldn’t tilt his head back, couldn’t see the drops releasing into the IV tubing.
Please let
it be dripping slow.
The needle . . . had to get it out of his hand.

Scott concentrated his energy on moving his hand, but it would not budge. He riveted his eyes to the IV tubing. The insulin dripped slowly, infiltrating down to the catheter. He shifted his gaze back to his hand.
Move!

Did his thumb twitch? Maybe. He redoubled his efforts. His left hand moved. Wrong hand! Maybe not. Exhausted, he regrouped and focused on his left hand. Move! Now! Seconds passed. Muscles in his left arm trembled. Sweat drenched his face. Slowly, his hand inched upward and over his chest.

Time was running out. He was so hot, like his blood was on fire. With one last effort, Scott’s fingers closed around the IV tubing. He pulled.

Nothing happened. He didn’t have enough strength to yank it out.

His chest fell in exhaustion.
Can’
t give up.
Scott inched his right hand toward the edge of the bed with the left.
Push.
He grasped the tubing in his left fingers.

Once more.

His right hand flopped off the bed. Scott held fast to the tubing.

Alarms howled over his head. The door flew open, and nurses descended on him. Their voices swirled through his head.

“He’s pulled out his IV.”

“Heart rate’s over two hundred. Who’s watching the monitors?”

“Must’ve happened when that other patient coded. Get the IV started again. Prepare to shock him.”

Scott fought to keep from losing consciousness.
Gotta tell them about Ethan
.

He felt himself slipping away.

She would not cry.

She. Would. Not. Cry.

Taylor had been doing fine before she met Nick Sinclair. She would do fine again. She turned into the Martin drive, waving to the deputy who had followed her from the state line.

Taylor slammed her car door and climbed the steps to her childhood home. Scarred and bruised by the years, the stairs still held steady. Safety and comfort waited behind the door.

Her mom stood in the foyer. “Three hours. That’s what you told me when you left this morning, and now it’s been eight. I was worried sick about you.”

“I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to track me down.” Taylor’s voice cracked, and she choked back the lump in her throat. She hadn’t meant to worry her mom. “There were a few unexpected bumps. Like Scott.”

Like Nick breaking her heart.

The frustration in her mom’s face transformed into concern. “How is he?”

“Not good. The doctors aren’t sure he’s going to make it.” She sighed. “I think I’ll go up and rest.”

She turned, and the sight of Nick’s Bible on the foyer table stopped her. He must have forgotten it yesterday when he came to eat after church. That meal seemed like a month ago. Taylor carried the black leather Bible up the stairs, wishing he had
it with him. Maybe she’d drop it off tomorrow on her way to Livy’s office.

Why? So her heart could bleed some more?

A tap roused Taylor from a deep sleep, and she glanced at the clock. Nine-thirty? Had she slept five hours?

“It’s open.”

Her mother came in with a tray. “Your light was on, so I thought you were awake. I made you a sandwich and chamomile tea.”

Taylor sat up in bed and stretched. She was starved. “Thank you.”

“Do you think you could drag yourself away from Livy long enough to spend some time with me at a spa tomorrow? Ethan’s treating. He’s called and made all the arrangements. He’s even going to chauffeur us. It would do you good.”

“Oh, Mom, I’m sorry, not tomorrow. Maybe Wednesday?”

“The appointment is for tomorrow.”

“Mom, I’m sorry.” She hadn’t spent nearly enough time with her mother, but she’d told Livy she’d be there early. “I promise, we’ll do something later this week.”

Mom sighed. “I plan to hold you to that. Now, try to get some more rest.”

“I will.”

After her mom left, Taylor wolfed down half the sandwich. Maybe since she’d rested, her mind could piece together two thoughts. She unplugged her phone and checked it. Two texts from Livy, the last one sent an hour ago.
Call me.

Taylor dialed Livy’s number as she climbed back in bed.

“I just woke up,” she said when her friend answered.

“Good. I’m on my way home—Mac’s orders. Almost to my car now. Are you feeling better?”

“Still feel like I’ve been hit by an eighteen-wheeler.” She heard the seat belt warning as Livy started her engine. “Do you . . .”

“Do I what?”

Taylor took a deep breath. “You don’t really believe my father could be a murderer, do you?”

Livy answered slowly. “I don’t know, Taylor. If he’s alive, he’s a pretty good suspect. And if he’s not alive, then someone is going to a lot of trouble to make you think he is. Mac is going to run that computer-aged photo of your dad on Crime Stoppers. We’ll see if anyone recognizes him.”

“Thanks for telling me.” Taylor needed to warn her family.

“Have you heard from Nick?”

Taylor hesitated. “Not since I left the hospital.”

“Scott crashed this afternoon, almost died. Mac found out when he called Nick to see when his brother could answer a couple of questions. The doctors shocked him back.”

“I didn’t know.” Taylor struggled to keep her voice from cracking. Nick didn’t call and tell her. He really must not want her around.

“What’s going on? I saw the way he looked at you Saturday and the way you light up when you talk about him.”

“I don’t want to discuss it.” She couldn’t admit, not even to Livy, that once again someone had dumped her.

“Come on, this is me, your best friend.”

Sniffing, Taylor swiped a tear from her cheek. “Then drop it. Please.”

“Are you crying?”

“Of course not.” She squared her shoulders. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Taylor stared at her phone long after they’d hung up.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall . . . and all the king
’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again . . .
She didn’t know why the silly little children’s poem popped in her head. Yeah, right. Even so, she hated that Nick stood vigil at the hospital alone. She dialed his number but ended the call before it rang. Who was she kidding? She was too high risk for Nick.

Taylor padded to her dresser and found a pair of pajamas. When she crawled back in bed, she took a notepad with her. She couldn’t do anything about her love life, but maybe she could figure out who was trying to kill her. And why.

She leaned against the headboard and propped the pad on her bent knees, wishing she’d written down her thoughts this morning. Starting with a time line, she recorded the nightmares about her dad, the “gifts” from her stalker, then the Coleman case, and Lieutenant Wilson’s death. She wrote down Allen Yates’s name as well because he was connected to Wilson. It was all about connections.

Connections. She went back and added Jonathan’s name beside the nightmares since some of them included a clown.

An hour later Taylor didn’t know any more than when she’d started. She was missing something. The shadow of a thought nagged at the back of her mind but wouldn’t materialize. Sighing, she turned out the light. But it was a long time before sleep came and the nightmares that accompanied it.

Q
uiet settled over the ICU waiting room, leaving Nick alone with his thoughts. His brother had almost died this time, and the doctors had no answers for why, only that his blood sugar had dropped dangerously low. They’d had to shock him back when his heart stopped. No one seemed to know how or why Scott had pulled out his IV.

He’d seen Scott once, but the nurse wouldn’t let him stay. Now Nick stared up at the white ceiling and waited, his legs hanging over the arm of the short couch as others around him slept.

What if Scott died? The thought, never far from his mind, slithered down his spine like the cold underbelly of a snake. If he lost Scott . . . Nick’s breath caught in his chest, remembering when Angie had died. He didn’t want to go through that again. It was why he let Taylor walk away earlier. He couldn’t risk his heart with a woman who wouldn’t let him protect her, who wouldn’t listen.

Nick jumped at a slight touch on his shoulder. Scott’s nurse put her finger to her lips and motioned for him to come out to the hall. Scott was dead. He felt it. His feet didn’t want to move, but as quietly as he could, he slipped on his shoes and followed her.

When they were in the hall, the nurse turned to him. “Scott came around, and he keeps asking for you.”

Nick’s knees almost buckled. The adrenaline rush made his head light. “He’s able to talk?”

“A little.”

In the ICU cubicle, he sat by Scott’s bed as his brother slept. He looked so vulnerable, so thin. Nick remembered the sweet kid Scott had been. His gentleness. His concern for others. There had to be a way to help him. He squeezed Scott’s hand. No response. He rested his head in hand and waited.

Scott’s hand moved, and Nick raised his head. “Hey, buddy. About time you woke up.”

A look of panic clouded Scott’s face. He gripped Nick’s hand and tried to speak, but only groans slipped from his lips.

“Take it easy, Scott. You’re going to be all right.”

Scott fiercely shook his head. He struggled to speak again. “Mm, mm huh—”

Nick drew closer. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say.”

Scott’s eyes closed, and Nick rocked back in the chair. What if Scott had brain damage? He hadn’t even considered that possibility.

“He-l-p!” Scott worked his mouth. “Ta—ta—” He sank into the mattress, panting.

“Can you write it?”

Hope flickered in Scott’s eyes, and Nick scrambled to find a pen and paper.

The heart monitor screamed. He turned just as Scott’s eyes rolled back in his head. The door flew open, and nurses surrounded the bed.

“He’s in atrial flutter.”

One of the nurses saw Nick. “I need you to clear the room.”

“I can’t leave. He’s trying to tell me something.”

“If you don’t leave, he may die!”

The glaring florescent light cast a ghostly pallor on Scott’s face. Nick eyed the monitor. His heart rate had soared over two hundred. Reluctantly, he backed out of the room.

Angie and the memory of screaming monitors sent his heart into a downward spiral.

Nicholas
Sinclair.
Taylor brushed her finger over the lettering on the black leather-bound Bible in her hands as the pink rays of the dawn etched the sky outside her window.
The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want
. . .
Verses learned so long ago. Nick’s peace came from giving God control over his life, trusting him no matter what. The part of her that was tired of fighting her own battles wanted what Nick had, but . . . she’d been burned so many times when it came to trusting.

She placed the Bible on her nightstand beside the picture Abby had colored of David and Goliath, and a memory came flooding back . . .

“I want Jesus in my heart.” With trembling legs and a racing heart, she’d spoken those words to her pastor when she was eight. Even now, she remembered the pull on her heart, that hard first step, then almost running down the aisle to warmth and safety.

Accepting Jesus had been real that Sunday. With childlike faith she had placed her trust in him. Then, when her dad left, he took her faith with him. Could she get it back? That was the question. One she needed to answer.

But not today. Today, answers to who wanted to kill her waited to be found, answers that she was almost certain lay in her recent past. She set the Bible on the bedside table and picked up her notepad, wincing at the slight movement. Her body wasn’t recovering nearly fast enough.

Taylor read the notes she’d written last night. The sense that she’d missed something worried her brain like a dog worried a bone. She turned to a blank page and started free writing, letting her hand write whatever popped into her mind.

Hurting
. Body. Heart. Nick. Why Beth Coleman? Dad alive? Dead? Was
he trying to kill me? Why? Clowns nightmares daddy
death
Wilson why didn’t Jonathan and Ethan want me to
find dad? Guns. Andy dead Dead Dead DEAD.

With a jolt she paused and looked at the last line. She’d thought the nightmares started when Michael dumped her, but they’d returned earlier, right after the hostage situation that went bad. Had that day of violence triggered the nightmares?

She flinched at the images that bombarded her. Andy Reed, pulling the trigger, his stepfather falling to the ground, a hail of bullets hitting the boy. The memory returned as fresh as the day it’d happened, just before Thanksgiving. And that night she’d had the first nightmare about her dad and the clown chasing her. Everything else happened in sequence afterward.

Taylor glanced at her free writing again. Why did everything start with the Reed shooting? And why didn’t Jonathan want her to find her dad? Even Ethan opposed her search. She closed her eyes and let her mind roam.

They didn’t want gossip stirred up . . . they were protecting Mom’s feelings . . . her feelings . . . they did something wrong that day . . . her dad was dead . . . Yates knew and blackmailed them twenty years ago . . . her father died and they covered it up.

No.
No!
This was her uncle and Ethan she was thinking about. And wouldn’t she have known somehow that her father was dead? Besides, she had his letter. She stilled in mid-thought.

Taylor jerked the nightstand drawer open and took out the packet of letters her mom had given her, then found a copy of the letter from her dad in her purse. Side by side, the two appeared to be written by the same person. She peered closer. The
s
was off, and the
t
wasn’t quite right. Wait. There was one more letter, the one he’d mailed right after he left. She sorted through her files, found it, and compared it to the one that came yesterday. Maybe . . . no, there was no maybe about it. The handwriting in the last two letters was identical.

“With Ethan’s talent for
forgery, there’s no telling where he could be.”
Jonathan’s words at dinner that night. And if the letter was a forgery, then her dad didn’t send it.

She tried to dismiss her suspicion.

And couldn’t. Including herself, Ethan was connected to at least four people in the case. Her dad, Scott, Yates. Which meant he probably knew Yates’s partner, Lieutenant Wilson. Maybe Yates had been blackmailing Ethan, and her uncle had nothing to do with it.

Stop it!
Ethan Trask was a respected lawyer, recently appointed to a judgeship.
Scott was in Ethan’
s office when he collapsed.
But there was no way Ethan was her stalker—whoever sent the gifts and photos, whoever hurt Beth Coleman was in Newton.
He could’ve
hired someone. Scott. Or maybe Zeke Thornton
. Zeke had opportunity—both in Newton and here in Logan Point . . .
No, not
Zeke.

Taylor squeezed her eyes shut against the chaos in her head. This was crazy
.
She pressed her fingers to her face. She needed a break—maybe bounce some ideas off Livy.

The faint aroma of coffee tickled her nose. Mom was up. She slipped out of bed. A cup of coffee, breakfast, and then she’d come back with fresh eyes. Maybe she could even patch up things with her mom about the spa and set a time to go shopping later this week.

She picked up her cell phone, and her yearning to hear Nick’s voice blindsided her. She could call . . . just to see how Scott was. Taylor scrolled to his name and clicked on it. While it rang, she sorted through her bag and came across the articles he’d given her before everything went downhill. She pulled out the envelope and laid it on her bed as the call went to Nick’s voice mail. Taylor hung up and tossed her phone on the bed.

He most likely saw who was calling and didn’t want to talk to her. Not today. Probably not ever.