Chapter 6
BEA
There are moments when I forget why I’m here.
Welcome moments when my brain tricks me into believing everything is normal.
Like when I first woke up this morning, with the rising sun filtering through the curtains and kissing my face, bringing with it a brief burst of optimism. Just for a second, I imagined myself back at home, the much-anticipated weekend stretching out ahead of me.
Then I thought of the 5K. The plans I’d hoped to have. And Jenna.
Oh, Jenna.
Just the thought of her was enough to drag me back to my new reality.
Jenna. Dead.
Sweet Jenna, who never had an unkind word to say about anybody. Funny Jenna, who would mix up her metaphors and make cheesy jokes that her patients couldn’t help but laugh at.
Hopeful Jenna, who dreamed of a husband and kids and the requisite white picket fence and a galumphing dog to romp around inside it.
From there, my thoughts only spiral into worse places.
Me, accused of her murder. A murder I’m certain I didn’t commit.
If not me, then who? A stranger? A fellow employee? Her boyfriend?
Was he violent? Did Jenna want to show me carefully hidden bruises? Was she trying to decide whether or not to press charges?
Or it could have even been a patient. Perhaps one who’d become obsessed with her and lashed out when she gently rejected his advances.
It could have been anyone.
But no. The police think it’s me.
Part of me is angry at Indy for bringing me here without my permission.
Sneaking into the hospital in the early hours of morning, disguised as nurses, as he explained yesterday.
Coordinating to have the lights shut off on my floor—but not the power, they didn’t want to put the other patients at risk—long enough to spirit me away.
Sedating me so I wouldn’t wake up in a panic and ruin their plan.
When I look at it that way, there are plenty of reasons to be upset with him.
As I’ve puttered around my new apartment, checking out the tasteful decorations and comfortable furniture and stacks of books and DVDs thoughtfully left for my enjoyment, I’ve vacillated between anger and gratitude.
I’m upset with Indy, yes. But there’s another part of me that’s incredibly grateful.
If not for Indy, I’d be in jail by now. I’d probably be a complete wreck, huddled in the corner of my cell—me, whose worst crime is speeding on the Beltway, along with everyone else—facing decades in prison for murder.
And it’s not like Indy hasn’t been taking care of me.
He set me up in this cute apartment at one of the Blade and Arrow Security headquarters, which I confirmed is a reputable company after some online research.
He’s been checking on me nearly every hour since I woke up yesterday, doing whatever he can to help me feel better.
Plus, he took a huge risk bringing me here. If he’d been caught, Indy and his friends would have been arrested, just like me. And his new life out on the West Coast could have been ruined.
So I’m grateful for that.
As I wander through the kitchen, my conflicted thoughts on a dizzying loop, I come to an abrupt stop by the coffeemaker.
It’s one of those dual-purpose ones, with the single pod dispenser on one side and a traditional drip-style maker on the other.
But the coffeemaker isn’t what draws my attention. It’s the selection of coffee beside it.
There are two bags of ground coffee, one blueberry crumble flavored, and the other, glazed donut. And next to the bags are two boxes of coffee pods to match.
They’re my favorite flavors.
Are they there simply by chance? Or did Indy remember?
Because I’m sure I must have mentioned it to him before.
He was often my first appointment of the day, so I’d arrive with my coffee still unfinished, the rich aroma of blueberry or buttery donut wafting from the travel mug.
And Indy would sometimes tease me; his somber expression shifting to a more light-hearted one, even if only for a few seconds.
He’d ask why I needed all those fancy flavors when a true connoisseur drank their coffee without.
“You’ve got to try a good Kenyan blend,” he’d tell me, “Or Ethiopian. Black. Without anything to taint the flavor.”
Another thing he shared with me back then was where his coffee snobbery came from.
His old Green Beret teammate, Rhiannon, would buy the most expensive blends and share them with the team.
“I thought it was silly at first,” Indy admitted.
“Spending that much on coffee when I could buy it from the grocery store for a quarter of the price. But it really is better. Though I’ll never tell Rhi she was right. ”
I stare at the coffee selection, my fingers grazing the lettering scrawled across the bag, wondering.
Coincidence? Or did Indy arrange for it to be here for me?
A chord in my heart twangs.
The feelings I buried deep make a bid for the surface.
Why did he bring me here?
Why take such an enormous risk? And for someone he hadn’t seen in years?
I don’t know. And I’m not sure I have the mental capacity to examine it further.
Not now, when I’m still reeling from the news of yesterday and the side effects of my concussion.
Not when it was exhausting enough just to take a careful shower and get dressed in the clothes Eden thoughtfully left for me.
Not when the discovery of the blood in my hair made me cry for ten minutes straight and I still can’t stop wondering if it came from me or Jenna.
Still. I open the box of coffee pods and take a blueberry crumble one from it. And before I put it into the coffeemaker, I wonder again.
Did Indy make a special trip to the store to get these for me?
Does he remember as much about me as I do about him?
Just as I’m about to start the coffee brewing, a quick series of knocks sounds at the front door. The sudden noise makes me jolt, and I whack my hand on the edge of the counter, yelping at the flare of pain.
“Bea.” The voice on the other side of the door is laced with worry. “Are you okay in there?”
Indy.
My poor, muddled emotions jump into battle with each other.
Am I glad he’s here? Or irritated?
“Bea?” His voice is louder now. “Are you hurt? I don’t want to come in without… But, shit. If you don’t answer…”
I clasp my aching hand with my other and hurry across the open living space to the front door. “I’m fine,” I call out. “Just give me a second…”
Or more like, thirty seconds. Because there are three complicated locks on the door, and since I haven’t left the apartment since I got here, I’m not used to unlocking them yet.
When I finally open the door, I’m met with an extremely worried-looking Indy.
And an extremely attractive one, not that I’m trying to notice.
But he is. Not just attractive, really, but mouth-wateringly handsome.
Dressed in athletic shorts that drape over his muscled legs and a grey T-shirt that clings to his broad chest and exposes the intriguing tattoos decorating his arms, Indy meets the very definition of sexy.
And with his striking blue eyes and those tempting dark waves framing his angular features, it’s pretty much impossible not to admire him.
Indy looks at me for a few seconds, his gaze sweeping across my face first, and then down my body. But it’s not an appreciative look; more assessing, like he’s checking to see if anything’s wrong.
Which shouldn’t be a surprise, with the whole concussion and being unconscious for nearly twelve hours thing. But still. I’d be lying to myself if I said I wasn’t a little disappointed.
“Are you okay?” he asks again. “I heard you cry out.” His hand moves towards the bandage on my forehead, stopping inches away before pulling back.
I haven’t missed how he always uses his left hand to examine me, whether it’s replacing my bandage or taking my pulse. Most of the time, he keeps his right hand—his prosthetic one—held slightly behind his back or shoved deep in his pocket.
Which makes me sad. And it messes with the whole being angry with Indy for effectively kidnapping me, even if he had good intentions.
I don’t want him to be ashamed of his prosthetic.
He has nothing to be ashamed of.
If anything, he should be proud of himself—volunteering to put himself in such dangerous situations to begin with, surviving a terrible injury, sticking with months of intensive therapy, and learning how to use a high-tech prosthetic, which isn’t an easy thing.
But I can’t say all that. Not to a guy like Indy, who never, ever talked about his feelings.
So I force a weak smile and say, “I’m fine. I just bumped my hand is all.”
His eyebrows jump up. “Your hand? Did you hurt it? Can I take a look?”
“It’s really fine.” I wave my sore hand at him. There’s a tiny red mark on the back of it, but nothing more serious. “See?”
Indy gives my hand a suspicious look, like it’s about to fall off. “Okay,” he replies slowly. “But if you need ice…”
“It’s okay.” Taking a few steps back, I ask, “Did you want to come in?” Because, really, what am I supposed to say?
Go away? When I’m staying in the apartment on his company’s property?
In an apartment right down the hall from Indy’s, as he told me last night, emphasizing that I could come get him anytime if I needed something.
I thought about it. More than once. While I was tossing and turning in bed, trying to ignore the images of a lifeless Jenna behind my eyes, I thought about going to Indy’s apartment. For what? I don’t know. Just to see a familiar face? To feel less alone?
But I didn’t. I stayed here, driving myself crazy with unanswered questions and memories I wish I could forget, and responding to Indy’s frequent texts so he knew I was still alive and not dead from an undiagnosed brain bleed.
That’s another lovely thought to add to the rest of them.