He agreed completely with what Riley had said about privacy. She deserved hers. And he felt the same way about his.
* * *
Safe . . . I’m safe here.
Vesta lowered the binoculars and set them on the windowsill beside a tulip-shaped sherry glass. She scanned the view unaided, willing its familiar peace to wash over her. It was only a modest one-third acre, tucked between her cozy guest cottage and the owners’ much-larger home, but it held a treasure trove of foliage. Cedars, live oaks, mesquite, several crepe myrtle, a young redbud, an old hollowed-out black walnut stump—destined for destruction by the eager ladder-back and golden-fronted woodpeckers. As well as an array of wispy Texas grasses and flowering sage and salvia, jewel-bright splashes of color irresistible to the native black-chinned hummingbirds and several other species that migrated through south Texas on their way to Mexico.
The Bluffs cottage was a balm for Vesta’s soul in every season. A peaceful, private haven. And her fourth lease in the fifteen years since she’d sold her own home . . . and begun to hide.
I’m safe here. Even though . . .
She picked up the binoculars again, adjusted the focus, and strained to see the slice of San Antonio Street visible beyond the trees. A few cars. None of them police or fire vehicles, though they could have used the Crockett Street route; construction for The Bluffs’ security gates had a good section of the road in upheaval. The evening news assured viewers that the routine investigation was winding down. But was it routine? Or was it . . .
arson
?
Vesta’s throat tightened. The video of the man on fire in the clinic parking lot had been horrific, his screams for help desperate, chilling. Far too much a reminder of . . .
No, don’t think about it.
Her hands began to tremble and she set the binoculars down, reminding herself to breathe slowly.
I’m home. Safe. It’s long past time to let it go.
She had made some progress toward that in recent months. No panic attacks, only rare nightmares. She’d even ventured farther into the wooded yard to hang hummingbird feeders on the redbud tree. Then laced on her hiking boots to make cautious loops around the small property, leaving a worn path—proof she was better. It had begun to feel like she could finally breathe again, that perhaps there was hope. Until the news started to report suspicious fires in neighboring New Braunfels. Then today . . . The familiar mix of shame and fear brought a wave of nausea. The same as when she’d cowered in that hospital chapel, paralyzed and gasping like a bird that had struck a windowpane—helpless, terrified, and certain she would suffocate and die.
Vesta reached for the glass of pale, straw-colored fino sherry and used both hands to steady it as she raised it to her lips. Crisp, nutty, strong—always better at calming her nerves than any prescribed medication, but something she enjoyed only rarely because of her diabetes. And shouldn’t be touching tonight because of the danger of it leading to another deadly plummet in her blood sugar. Dr. Travis would absolutely disapprove, but then . . .
Vesta took another sip, closed her eyes, willed her heart to stay steady, her breathing to cooperate. The irony was that Jack Travis was the reason she needed this forbidden remedy. Because seeing him—meeting him finally—brought the awful memory back as if it had happened yesterday, not nearly fifteen years ago.
Please, God, have mercy. Spare me this.
Vesta downed the last of the sherry, eyes watering, then picked up the binoculars and glanced toward the street in time to catch a glimpse of Andrea Nichols’s white Lexus. Stirring things up, no doubt. Andrea was after Dr. Travis’s clinic like a woodpecker on that walnut stump. Even though it was suspected to be accidental, the fire at the clinic had already prompted the media to repeat statistics about suspicious fires in neighboring communities. And with Jack Travis’s name in the news, how long could it be before they dug into much older cases?
An unsolved arson-murder would be far more interesting.
Vesta shivered.
I’m safe . . .
* * *
Riley pulled her sun-faded Honda Civic into her condo’s driveway at dusk, watching as the garage door opened to reveal the quartz-blue Mercedes E550 parked inside. She knew she should drive the coupe around the block once in a while to keep the oil from settling. Her trips to Houston had been less frequent lately, and she only drove the car there to please the man who’d gifted it to her. Grandfather Hale—
Poppy
. She smiled, thinking of him.
He’d surprised her with the convertible when she graduated with her bachelor’s degree in nursing. And was the one relative who’d always applauded her attempts at independence. From the days she climbed out onto the highest branches of the pecan tree to when he saw her in that hospital after the assault, bruised and battered with a halo brace bolted into her skull. Even then, he’d leaned close and whispered, “You’re still my brave little tiger. Remember that.”
Brave . . .
Her gaze swept over the letters on the car’s vanity plate—
TYGRR
—and to the Scripture reference on the silver frame holding it: 1 Corinthians 16:13.
“Be on your guard; stand firm in the faith; be courageous; be strong.”
Her grandfather’s favorite Scripture . . . locked in the dark. Guilt jabbed. She eased the Honda into the garage, reminding herself that she didn’t drive the coupe because flaunting wealth had always made her uncomfortable, because driving a luxury car invited vandalism and theft, and because the Honda was less conspicuous, more gas economical.
Riley frowned with impatience at her fumbling attempt to turn off the car’s ignition, then yanked her purse from the passenger seat. The TYGRR-mobile was a moot point; Kate was moving in soon and she’d need the parking spot. Riley would have to find a place to store the Mercedes until she could figure out how to tell her grandfather that she couldn’t keep his generous gift. It might be harder than telling her parents that she wasn’t moving home. But both things had to be done. The fact was that she was staying in San Antonio and resuming her nursing career at Alamo Grace Hospital. Moving on with her life at long last, and—
“Hi there!”
Riley whirled toward the driveway, body tensing, and then felt immediately foolish. She managed a casual smile. “Hi, Wilma.”
Her next-door neighbor clutched a handful of envelopes against her purple blouse, the other hand holding fast to the leash of her rambunctious border collie. “Got some of your mail delivered to my box.” Wilma stepped closer, blinking as Riley’s string of motion sensor floodlights lit her hair like moonlight on Colorado snow. “My goodness, you’ve certainly got wattage. Between those and your walkway lights you could land a 747 here.”
“I’m sorry,” Riley said, embarrassed. “I hope the lights aren’t a problem for you.”
“No. No problem—I understand.” Wilma held out the mail, her kind eyes showing compassion. “I remember how hard it was to come home to an empty house when Gene was traveling for work.” She glanced down at the dog. “And now we have Oreo, of course . . . not that she couldn’t be distracted with a Milk-Bone. But these days, it’s wise to be cautious.”
For some reason, Riley thought of Jack Travis. “Right. Better safe than sorry.” She took the mail from her neighbor. “Thank you, Wilma. I appreciate this.”
“You’re more than welcome.”
Riley closed the garage door and entered the condo before the last of the daylight dwindled. She tapped in the code on the security alarm system, triple-locked the door behind her, and then leaned back against it. She hated that her knees still felt rubbery from an everyday encounter with a friendly, helpful neighbor. In a community tucked behind security gates. She shook her head, recalling Wilma’s remark about her garage lighting, then glanced down the hallway of the condo toward the interior lights timed to switch on at dusk—along with the TV, to sound as if she were home. She supposed most people would call those things overkill, paranoia even. But how could Riley explain the helplessness she’d felt that night in the hospital parking garage?
She closed her eyes and flattened her palms against the locked door, unable to stop the collage of images, textures, sounds, and smells that had repeated over and over in dreams this past year. Her quick glance at the parking garage clock—past midnight, into overtime. The
brrring
sound of the bell on the always-sluggish elevator. Her decision to take the stairs instead. The rustle of her scrubs and the hollow slap of her Crocs against the cement stairs as she descended two levels. The dim, bluish blink of fluorescent lights. Cold, dank air. Faint, distant squawking of grackles. Then a sound behind her and a sudden stomach-dropping sense that something wasn’t right. Her hope that it was the security guard. Rising panic, thoughts of what-if tumbling in her brain. Then a confirming deep, feral grunt . . .
Her hair yanked from behind. Confusion as she staggered backward. Her gargled scream as strong fingers found her throat. Ski mask, foul breath . . . her frantic prayer. Followed by a desperate thought:
rape
. . . was that better than death?
Poppy, help . . .
Her head whipping side to side, teeth catching her tongue, a coppery taste of blood. Her rasping, futile struggle for breath. Legs giving way . . . the eerie, quiet sense of floating . . . and the final, brutal shove that sent her down the stairs, each agonizing cement step taking its toll on knees, ribs, shoulder, and hip. Then her skull smashing against the oily, cold garage floor—and blackness.
Riley opened her eyes as the memory faded, feeling the prickle of anger that had finally replaced the tears. A confusing new hostility that seemed to shift trajectories, constantly searching for another target: her parents’ expectations and influence, her own limitations, this demoralizing fear, the uncertainty of her nursing career, and ridiculously, even the sight of that license plate on the Mercedes. Because of the way it taunted her to be a “brave tiger” and because of the Scripture, too.
Because I can’t seem to “stand firm in the faith”?
Riley’s stomach twisted. Was that it? Was it possible that the bull’s-eye for her confusing new anger was God himself?
* * *
Kate pushed a damp chunk of hair away from her face and sat up on the exercise mat. She pressed a button on the remote, switched from the
Pilates for Dummies
DVD to the evening news, knowing that she was stalling. She’d packed three boxes of shoes, brushed her cat’s teeth, and sweated through forty minutes of exercise, all to keep from calling Riley. It was wrong; telling the truth was a valued part of their friendship. She took a long swallow of her vitaminwater and hit the speed dial on her cell phone, wincing as her friend answered. “Hey, Rah-lee.”
“Kate, how’s it going in the ER?”
“I’m home, actually. Char wanted a few extra hours on this paycheck, and I needed to pack.” Kate smiled. “My new roommate’s hounding me to get it done. I left right after the charge nurse meeting.” She held her breath, anticipating the next question.
“And how’d that go? Did you test the water about me?”
Kate swallowed. “It didn’t go too well.”
There was a short silence. “Meaning?”
“Meaning Lil, from nights. You know how she is. She brought up the fact that there’s never been a permanent triage nurse, and . . .”
“And never an ER trauma chaplain before me. She made it about my family?” There was no mistaking the frustration in Riley’s voice.
“It’s a fact, Riley.” Kate took a soft breath, continued. “And it wasn’t only Lil. You know how fast war stories start flying. Someone mentioned an incident that happened because a tech was allowed to work in a walking cast; then the oxygen tank fiasco from today came up.” Kate sighed. “It dissolved into a whole ‘who’s got your back?’ safety issue. So I didn’t push it further. But then it’s up to administration to accept or reject your proposal, anyway.”
“They’d listen to the charge nurses.”
Meaning me.
“Probably, but the final decision will depend on your performance of skills.” Kate glanced down at her bruised arm.
“Which I’m not allowed to practice. But I’ve requested a medical clearance from my doctors. That should help things along.”
Kate plunged ahead. “Jack told me about the tetanus shot. And about asking you to volunteer at the clinic.” There was a silence so long that she was certain Riley had disconnected. “Riley?”
“He said that you told him about my injury.”
Kate’s throat tightened. “No—I mean, yes. But only that you’d had an accident. Not about the assault; I would never do that. I just told him that you wanted to be back in the ER as a nurse.”
“Did he tell you that he threw a manikin at me?”
“What?”
“Completely out of the blue. He shouted for me to catch and hurled that CPR toddler dummy at me.”
The toddler. Because I told him I was worried about . . .
Kate squeezed her eyes shut against a wave of guilt. “So you . . . ?”