Chapter

28

I woke to a not-so-gentle tug on my eyelids, followed by a bright white light. Not the kind you ran into. This one scorched my irises, sending a wave of pain shooting through my head. I tried to pull away, to stop the burning intensity. But something or someone held me fast. I struggled, lashing out.

“Take it easy, Charlotte.” The firm but calming voice eased some of my panic. The light faded, and slowly my gaze focused on Lester’s thin face, his lips pinched with concern. “Do you know where you are?” he asked. “What day it is?”

Did he think I was stupid? I knew exactly what day it was …

Except when I went to tell him, I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember. What day was it? Tuesday, maybe? I rubbed my head, concerned when it came away flaked with dried blood. Numbly I stared at the blood staining my fingers. “Was I in an accident?”

His head nodded in the affirmative. “Good girl. Do you know who I am?”

“My brain’s a bit scrambled, but not that badly.” I licked my dry lips, wincing when I tasted coppery blood. “How did you find me?”
I asked, the hazy memory of flipping over and over, glass breaking and the sound of crushing metal. Then, for some reason, I remembered a glowing set of red eyes.

Panic threatened again.

I took a deep breath. My heartbeat failed to slow.

Lester must’ve disliked the look on my face. “Don’t you dare pass out again.”

“I won’t,” I lied, feeling as if I would do just that. “I’m all right. Just a little bruised.”

He snorted, an unpleasant sound against the pounding in my brain. “You’re still going to the hospital.”

I now had the where question answered. I was in Lester’s ambulance, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, Lester in front of me as his co-paramedic drove with lights and sirens to the county hospital. The vehicle smelled of disinfectant and the grease of grilled cheese—much like Lester himself. “I don’t …” I frowned. “Did the other vehicle call for help?”

His face darkened. “What other vehicle? Was someone there with you? Did they see you wreck?”

Was there another car? I couldn’t quite remember. I thought so. I remembered seeing headlights looming larger. Bright ones. Then the sound of metal against metal …

“I … yes.” I snapped my fingers, causing the bones to ache. Who knew a thumb held so many bones? “There was. It ran me off the road.” My gaze flew to Lester’s as realization dawned. “Someone tried to kill me!”

This time it was Lester’s face that looked not so good. “Get the sheriff on the radio,” he said to his partner. “Have him meet us at the ER.”

“Can’t say I’m real surprised by this.” Danny Gett stood over my hospital bed in his off-duty uniform of Levi’s, a t-shirt, and a backwards ball cap. For the life of me I couldn’t figure out the need for men to wear backwards ball caps all the time. Even those who were actual ballplayers.

I glowered up at him. Hard to do while wearing a hospital gown, my bare butt exposed, but I managed. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Had Danny had a hand in my current condition? Even as I thought it, I dismissed the possibility. For one thing, I was pretty sure he would’ve used his gun rather than chancing an accident if he wanted me out of the way.

But what about his brother? The bright glow of a Jeep’s headlights flickered through my mind.

“Not what you think it does.” His face pinched and then flattened. “The legend is true.”

“What legend?” I asked, though I knew exactly what he would say. I’d heard it all my less-than-charmed life.

He confirmed it. “That you, Charlotte Lucky, like the rest of your clan, were born under a bad sign.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m alive, aren’t I? That proves I’m lucky.”

The grim look on his face suggested otherwise. “You’re lucky to be alive, I’ll give you that.” He paused, chewing on his bottom lip. “I took a look at the scene,” he said.

“And?”

“Seems you went off the road and flipped three times before landing in the ditch.” His shoulder lifted and then fell. “That damn road needs better lighting. I’ve told the county a million times. Someone’s gonna die.” He glared down at me. “Once a week I get a call about another tourist driving too fast …”

“Excuse me?” I pushed my body up, regretting it instantly. Every muscle ached. I ignored the tourist dig to focus on his real insult. “Did you just imply the accident was my fault?”

His dark eyebrow rose. “Are you saying it wasn’t?”

“Yes! Many times now.” I threw my legs over the edge of the bed, swallowing back a wave of bile tempting to erupt from the back of my throat. Parts of my body I never knew existed suddenly declared their presence, and not at all politely. “Someone smashed into me. On purpose.”

He held out a hand to stop me from rising. “Take it easy.”

“I will not.” My voice escalated into a shout. “Someone tried to kill me, and you sit there, holier than all Getts, saying it was my fault.”

“I was at the scene,” he said, like a genuine know-it-all. “The damage is consistent with the driver overcorrecting, resulting in the vehicle flipping.” He hesitated, as though weighing my mental state. His voice softened, and for a brief second he sounded like a human rather than a mouthpiece for the Gett family. “Trust me, Charlotte, I’ve seen it a hundred times.”

My head began to pound. Rings of silver light flickered in my vision. I took a gulping breath. When the wave of dizziness passed,
I said, “I don’t understand … Someone hit me. I swear it.”

He drew in a long breath, letting it out deliberately. “Listen,
I know it’s hard to remember in cases like this …”

“It was a Jeep.” I rubbed my hands together. I couldn’t get the image of Brodie’s Jeep out of my mind. The small, round, close-togetherness of the headlights. It had to be a Jeep. Had to be.

All warmth vanished from Danny’s face. “What are you implying?” His eyes smoldered much like the gator’s in the ditch had. “Are you saying my brother had something to do with this?”

I wasn’t sure what I was saying. One thing was sure: I hadn’t accidently flipped my car three times. Someone had hit me. If it wasn’t Brodie’s Jeep, then whose was it? And why had they tried to kill me? Was it due to my investigation into Roger’s murder? Or something more personal, like the damage to my windshield?

I started to stand again, unhooking the machine tethering me to the bed.

I had to see Brodie’s Jeep.

See if it had any damage from crashing into my Prius. I had to know the truth. Know if he’d tried to kill me. The very idea was crazy. And yet, someone had run me off the road.

“You aren’t leaving this hospital,” a man in a white lab coat said without looking up from the clipboard in his hand. A man I’d failed to notice before. “Get back in bed or I’ll have the nurses restrain you.”

When I opened my mouth to argue, he added, “You’re also not wearing any pants.”

With great reluctance, plenty of annoyed grumbling, and red cheeks (upper, not lower), I laid back in bed under the covers. Once I was settled back in, he grabbed my wrist, checking my pulse.

He released my arm, then nodded to Danny. “As shocking as it is, her tests have come back negative,” he said. “No internal injuries or broken bones. Not even a concussion. We’d like to keep her overnight for observation—”

“No,” I said though the tremble in my voice suggested otherwise. “I want to go home. Now.”

He ignored me as if I hadn’t spoken. “Her core temperature is a bit low. She must’ve laid in that ditch for at least an hour before someone came across the accident to call 9-1-1. She’s damn lucky to be alive.”

An hour? Really?

“Have you checked her blood …?” Danny asked sheepishly.

I leaned forward again. “Are you kidding me? You think I’m drunk?”

“Relax,” the doctor said, “please. The test came back clean. No alcohol or other substances in her bloodstream.”

Danny nodded, tilting his head, eyes watchful. “Do you still believe that someone ran you off the road?”

“On purpose.” Tears gathered in my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I would hardly give Danny Gett the satisfaction. “Someone tried to kill me. And why do you think that is, Sheriff?”

He shrugged, but I didn’t buy it for a minute. Danny knew as well as I did why.

“Because I am making them nervous. Whoever killed Roger knows I’m on to them.” I wanted to say Brodie’s name, but something held me back. I was far from certain it was Brodie’s Jeep that forced me off the road. Now that I took a moment, I was sure I’d seen other Jeeps around town. Furthermore, it could’ve easily been a case of road rage. Some drunk targeting a small Prius.

If so, why hadn’t they called the police right after the accident?

What kind of person just walks away from a scene like that? A killer. Of that I was sure.