Chapter 2 - Waking in the Lion's Den
When Evelyn woke, she was lying in a bedroom larger than her entire apartment.
For several seconds, she was convinced she'd been taken to an expensive private hospital.
Then she noticed the fireplace.
The polished hardwood floors.
The enormous windows looking out over dark, wooded hills.
And the armed man standing quietly outside the half-open door.
Right.
Not a hospital.
Dominic Valtieri's home.
Her ribs had been wrapped.
Her injured wrist was stabilized.
Someone had cleaned the cut near her eyebrow.
A gray-haired doctor sat beside the window reading from a tablet.
The moment he noticed her awake, he stood.
“Evelyn?”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Who are you?”
“Dr. Samuel Mercer.”
“Which hospital?”
The doctor gave her a faint smile.
“You really are a nurse.”
“Which hospital?”
“Former trauma surgeon at St. Catherine's. I'm in private practice now.”
Evelyn didn't relax.
“Did you perform a CT scan?”
“Yes.”
“Results?”
“Grade-two concussion. No intracranial bleeding.”
He glanced at the tablet.
“Two fractured ribs, neither displaced. Severe sprain to the wrist, but no fracture. Twelve stitches near your hairline.”
He lowered the tablet.
“You're lucky.”
Evelyn stared at him.
“No.”
She shifted slightly.
“I'm alive.”
Dr. Mercer studied her for a second.
“Fair distinction.”
She looked toward the doorway.
“Where is Valtieri?”
“Working.”
“Doing what?”
The doctor smiled faintly.
“I'm his physician, not his confessor.”
“That wasn't reassuring.”
“It wasn't intended to be.”
Twenty minutes later, the bedroom door opened.
Dominic walked in alone.
He had changed clothes.
Dark trousers.
A white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms.
No jacket.
Evelyn noticed the faint old scars crossing his knuckles.
He stopped several feet away from the bed.
“You look better.”
Evelyn looked down at herself.
“I look like I got hit by a truck.”
Dominic's expression remained calm.
“You looked like you got hit by three trucks yesterday.”
“Progress.”
He pulled a chair closer.
But he didn't sit too near her.
There was enough distance between them for Evelyn to breathe without feeling trapped.
Dominic's gaze remained fixed on her.
“Tell me why someone tried to kill you.”
Evelyn's expression immediately hardened.
She studied him.
“Why?”
“Because,” Dominic said, his voice level, “men don't usually send thugs to beat an ICU nurse half to death on a rural highway unless she found something she wasn't supposed to see.”
“And what makes you think I'll tell you?”
“Because,” he replied, leaning forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, “those same men are currently scrubbing every traffic camera between St. Catherine's Hospital and County Route 17. They know you survived. They know you were picked up by a convoy. Which means within twelve hours, they're going to come looking for you here.”
Evelyn felt a chill run down her spine, completely unrelated to her injuries.
“You don't know who you're messing with,” she whispered. “Grant Holloway owns half the state judiciary, three state senators, and the entire executive board of the health system. If you harbor me, you're bringing a war to your front door.”
Dominic let out a low, humorless laugh.
“Miss Whitmore,” he said softly, standing up and smoothing his shirt sleeves. “People have been bringing wars to my front door for twenty years. They usually regret it.”
May you like
He turned toward the door, pausing with his hand on the frame.
“Rest. When you wake up, we'll talk about your grandmother's bracelet. And then you're going to tell me every single name on that list you were carrying.”
