Part 7 (1/2)

”Why was I framed?” She choked out a humorless laugh. ”Because the real murderer needed a fall guy, that's why.”

For the first time, he looked puzzled. Abby fought down a rise of desperation. She told herself it didn't matter if he believed her. This man's opinion didn't count in the scope of things. It didn't matter what he thought of her. And there was still time for her to get away if the opportunity arose....

”I didn't think you would believe me,” she said.

”I'm looking for logic. You know, motive, means and opportunity.” He sipped some of his coffee. ”Who would have something to gain by killing a patient?” he asked.

When she didn't answer right away, he gave her a hard look. ”You don't have anything to lose by talking to me.”

The knowledge that he was right made her s.h.i.+ver. Scooting closer to the fire, she felt the memories drifting through her like clouds in the sky, gossamer and surreal and so intangible she wanted to cry out with the need to change what had happened. Lord, she'd been so naive.

”Tell me about the patient that died,” he said.

”A homeless man was brought in at about two in the morning one night,” she began. ”He'd been drinking, fell down in the rail yard and cut himself on some sheet metal. He was in good physical condition and just needed a few st.i.tches. Nothing major. It was a weeknight, so things were relatively quiet. His name was Jim.”

Her voice sounded like a stranger's voice, recalling scenes from the latest medical thriller. She was keenly aware of Jake watching her, her heart pitching in her chest like a small boat in a turbulent sea. She looked down, saw that her hands were clenched into fists. ”Jim was a little down on his luck, but he was a nice man. He was funny and...” The old guilt twisted in her stomach. ”I put him on a gurney, and wheeled him into a treatment room. He kept cutting jokes while I took his vitals and put eight sutures in his right hand. He seemed fine when I left him.”

She closed her eyes, the memory pounding her. ”About twenty minutes later I heard one of the other nurses call Code Ninety-nine-”

”Code Ninety-nine?”

”That's the code we use when a patient's heart stops.”

Jake nodded, his expression grim. ”Jim?”

”By the time I finished with my other patient, he'd already been intubated and put on life support. But the doctor believed he'd suffered serious brain damage. He died a few hours later.”

To this day, no matter how hard she tried, Abby couldn't get the sight of that man's face out of her mind. The sound of his voice, his jokes, his laughter. She didn't think she ever would, knew they would haunt her for the rest of her life.

”How did that turn into murder, Abby?”

”When Jim signed in to the emergency room, he wrote on the form that he was indigent and temporarily homeless and without family. Well, that wasn't true. He had a family. They were estranged, but they evidently cared about him because a few hours after his death, two of his grown children showed up at the hospital, asking questions, demanding answers. It was a terrible, terrible scene....” Her voice broke, but she trudged on. ”At first, his death was ruled the result of natural causes. But the man's family had the body s.h.i.+pped home to Dallas and autopsied. The autopsy revealed he'd been injected with a lethal dose of Valium.”

Jake's brows pulled together. ”Why would someone inject him with Valium?”

Abby looked over at Jake. He looked interested. She wondered if he would believe her if she told him the truth. If she told him that it was, indeed, her own mistake that had cost her so dearly. Only it didn't have anything to do with a dose of medication, and everything to do with trusting the wrong person.

Hope coiled in her chest. She closed her eyes against it, felt a wrench of despair nudge it aside. Right. Like Mr. By-the-Book was going to believe her. Crazy Abby. She wondered how he would react when he found out she'd lied to the police. When he found out about all the other things she couldn't bring herself to tell him.

There was no way he was going to believe her. He was too strait-laced. h.e.l.l, after she'd told the last public defender the truth, he'd recommended a psychological evaluation and a mental health facility instead of prison.

The memory sent a chill through her.

”I don't know,” she whispered. ”All I know is that I didn't kill him.”

”Who did?”

”Someone who was there that night. Someone who wanted me to take the fall. Someone who knew I would be easy to frame.”

”Why would they think you would be an easy frame?”

She swallowed a bubble of panic, looked over where her cuffed hand trembled against the chair back and concentrated on stilling it.

”Why would someone think you were an easy frame?” he repeated.

With some difficulty, she met his gaze. ”Because of my past.”

”What past?”

When she didn't answer, he scrubbed a hand over his face, glanced over at the fire. ”Are you talking about your emotional problems?”

The words speared her like a saber. Because she was a convicted felon, her health records were no longer confidential, but fair game to just about any official who needed access. ”So, you know about that.”

”The corrections officials put out a profile on you to local law enforcement. That was part of it.”

Shame and pain mingled and became a single, profound ache that spread into the deepest reaches of her heart. Abby knew most people equated emotional problems with insanity. She'd heard it a hundred times over the years. They'd called her Crazy Abby. First in high school. The name had surfaced again after her arrest. Crazy Abby. The high school senior who wigged out after her mama pulled the plug on her old man. The troubled teenager who didn't speak for six months. The young woman who spent her seventeenth birthday locked in a mental inst.i.tution.

Abby closed her eyes tightly, blocking out the pain.

”What past?” he pressed.

She wanted to answer, longed to get the truth out in the open. The anguish and betrayals lay like sour food in the pit of her stomach. But with the truth lay the revelations. Revelations she wasn't ready to share.

Especially with such an honorable man as Jake Madigan.

Jake wasn't sure what was going on with this woman. For a man who prided himself on his ability to read people, he was having one h.e.l.l of a time figuring her out. One thing he did know for sure was that it was hard to sit there and watch her hurt.

He shouldn't have let it bother him. He'd seen plenty of suffering in his time. h.e.l.l, he'd been on the receiving end a few too many times himself to let it get to him now. But the pain s.h.i.+mmering in her eyes was raw and soul-deep and touched him in places he'd just as soon keep off limits.

He did not want to deal with this. Abby Nichols was turning out to be bad luck piled on top of bad luck. He knew better than to let himself get sucked into the maelstrom that was her life. d.a.m.n it, he knew better.

But as the firelight reflected in her eyes, he felt himself drawn to her in the most fundamental ways. Ways that went against everything he'd ever believed possible about himself. Jake trusted his instincts. As a lawman, he relied heavily on those instincts to guide him through a complex world full of good and bad and a vast gray area in between. And while those very same instincts were telling him to beware, something deeper and not quite so black and white was telling him she wasn't a cold-blooded killer.

Jeez, this was a mess.

”All I can tell you is that I didn't kill that patient,” she said after a moment.

”The police thought differently. So did a jury.”

”That's because they were presented with false evidence.”

”What false evidence?”

”A syringe with my fingerprints on it.”

”Why didn't your lawyer get to the bottom of it?”

”Because she was fresh out of law school and didn't have the experience for a case like mine.”

Jake thought about the syringe and frowned. ”That syringe with your fingerprints on it is physical evidence. Physical evidence doesn't lie, Abby.”