more, then, as if he’d decided I hadn’t figured out what he’d done, nodded and left.
I went right back to that website and started skimming, looking for information on blood tests.
I didn’t find a precise answer to my question, but I located an article suggesting I had as many as seventy-two hours. I grabbed the hotel’s phone and called down to the lobby, asking for a cab. Then I hung up, threw on some clothes, and headed down. Within ten minutes I was sitting in the back of a grungy taxi, purse in my lap, heart in my throat.
If that man had drugged me . . .
God, what would I do? If I tried to sue him, he’d probably go to the police and report what he’d been told about my brother. Could I blackmail him into letting me free of our contract? What good would that do? At best, I’d be knocked back down to purchasing administrator, making a wage that didn’t come close to paying our rent. At worst, I would be let go for some fictitious failing on my part.
Dammit.
The taxi jerked to a stop. “St. Joseph’s Hospital,” the cab driver said with a heavy accent.
Now conflicted, confused, I didn’t move.
What the hell was I going to do?
6
“M iss? We’re at the hospital,” the cab driver repeated. A hospital security guard, pushing a wheelchair, approached the car. The driver said through the open window, “She’s not moving. Maybe you need to help her?”
The guard opened the door and peered in at me. “Miss? Are you okay?”
I shook myself out of my stupor and nodded. “Yes, I’m fine.” Still not sure if I wanted to know the results of the test, I sat in the wheelchair and let the guard wheel me inside. He parked me in front of a registration desk, wished me luck, and returned to his post.
That left me to try to explain to the woman at the registration desk why I was there.
“I . . . I think I may have been drugged,” I said, feeling the backs of my eyes burning.
The woman’s expression softened slightly. With a gentle but professional voice, she asked me all the pertinent questions, had me hand over my driver’s license and insurance card, and then wheeled me into a waiting area.
I sat. And sat. And sat.
Over an hour later, my phone rang.
I checked it. Kameron.
Oh, damn.
I hit the button, answering, “H-hello?”
“Abigail? Where are you? I checked with the front desk, and they told me you left in a taxi?”
Should I lie? Tell the truth? “I’m . . . at the hospital.”
“Why?”
“The dizziness came back. The doctor who saw me this morning told me to go to the hospital if it came back or worsened. So, here I am.”
“Which hospital?” he asked, sounding anxious.
“St. Joseph’s.”
“I’ll be up there in a few minutes.”
“You don’t—”
“Of course I do,” he interrupted.
Click.
He was gone.
He was coming to the hospital.
I panicked for a moment. But then logic prevailed when I reminded myself that it wouldn’t be a big deal if he came. After all, he wasn’t my husband. The hospital would have to protect my privacy. They wouldn’t be able to discuss any test results with him.
He’d have to wait out in the lobby.
Everything is going to be okay.
I sucked in a deep breath and let it out.
“Abigail Barnes,” a nurse announced from an open doorway. I’d watched her call a few dozen names. The patients followed her and then were gone, probably escorted to a bed, diagnosed, treated, and sent home. Finally, it was my turn.
Moving carefully, I stood, smiled to let her know I was Abigail Barnes, and approached her.
“What are we here for today?” she asked as she led me back to a curtained-off area with a bed.
I waited until she’d closed the curtain before I explained, “I—I have reason to believe I was drugged. I want to know what it was.”
“What makes you think you were drugged?” she asked as she wrapped a blood pressure cuff around my left arm.
I rattled off my symptoms while she checked my blood pressure, pulse, and
I went right back to that website and started skimming, looking for information on blood tests.
I didn’t find a precise answer to my question, but I located an article suggesting I had as many as seventy-two hours. I grabbed the hotel’s phone and called down to the lobby, asking for a cab. Then I hung up, threw on some clothes, and headed down. Within ten minutes I was sitting in the back of a grungy taxi, purse in my lap, heart in my throat.
If that man had drugged me . . .
God, what would I do? If I tried to sue him, he’d probably go to the police and report what he’d been told about my brother. Could I blackmail him into letting me free of our contract? What good would that do? At best, I’d be knocked back down to purchasing administrator, making a wage that didn’t come close to paying our rent. At worst, I would be let go for some fictitious failing on my part.
Dammit.
The taxi jerked to a stop. “St. Joseph’s Hospital,” the cab driver said with a heavy accent.
Now conflicted, confused, I didn’t move.
What the hell was I going to do?
6
“M iss? We’re at the hospital,” the cab driver repeated. A hospital security guard, pushing a wheelchair, approached the car. The driver said through the open window, “She’s not moving. Maybe you need to help her?”
The guard opened the door and peered in at me. “Miss? Are you okay?”
I shook myself out of my stupor and nodded. “Yes, I’m fine.” Still not sure if I wanted to know the results of the test, I sat in the wheelchair and let the guard wheel me inside. He parked me in front of a registration desk, wished me luck, and returned to his post.
That left me to try to explain to the woman at the registration desk why I was there.
“I . . . I think I may have been drugged,” I said, feeling the backs of my eyes burning.
The woman’s expression softened slightly. With a gentle but professional voice, she asked me all the pertinent questions, had me hand over my driver’s license and insurance card, and then wheeled me into a waiting area.
I sat. And sat. And sat.
Over an hour later, my phone rang.
I checked it. Kameron.
Oh, damn.
I hit the button, answering, “H-hello?”
“Abigail? Where are you? I checked with the front desk, and they told me you left in a taxi?”
Should I lie? Tell the truth? “I’m . . . at the hospital.”
“Why?”
“The dizziness came back. The doctor who saw me this morning told me to go to the hospital if it came back or worsened. So, here I am.”
“Which hospital?” he asked, sounding anxious.
“St. Joseph’s.”
“I’ll be up there in a few minutes.”
“You don’t—”
“Of course I do,” he interrupted.
Click.
He was gone.
He was coming to the hospital.
I panicked for a moment. But then logic prevailed when I reminded myself that it wouldn’t be a big deal if he came. After all, he wasn’t my husband. The hospital would have to protect my privacy. They wouldn’t be able to discuss any test results with him.
He’d have to wait out in the lobby.
Everything is going to be okay.
I sucked in a deep breath and let it out.
“Abigail Barnes,” a nurse announced from an open doorway. I’d watched her call a few dozen names. The patients followed her and then were gone, probably escorted to a bed, diagnosed, treated, and sent home. Finally, it was my turn.
Moving carefully, I stood, smiled to let her know I was Abigail Barnes, and approached her.
“What are we here for today?” she asked as she led me back to a curtained-off area with a bed.
I waited until she’d closed the curtain before I explained, “I—I have reason to believe I was drugged. I want to know what it was.”
“What makes you think you were drugged?” she asked as she wrapped a blood pressure cuff around my left arm.
I rattled off my symptoms while she checked my blood pressure, pulse, and
Similar Books
