Destiny Mine (Tormentor Mine #3)(15)
I don’t want to spend what little time I have here in jail.
Marsha comes by Mom’s room after getting off her shift, and after verifying that Mom is sleeping deeply, I let Marsha talk me into going to Patty’s to catch up.
“So,” she says as we take a seat at the corner table. “You’re back.”
“I’m back,” I confirm, then wave for the waiter to come over. I’m running on almost no sleep, and I’m craving something really greasy and unhealthy. In general, I feel like I’m falling apart, my whole body aching with exhaustion and my lower back killing me from spending the night curled up on the hospital cot.
“Burger and fries, with extra cheese and pickles,” I tell the waiter when he comes over. “And make it fast, please. I’m starving.”
Marsha raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t comment on my upcoming greasefest. Instead, she orders a Greek salad and two beers, one for each of us.
“So we can celebrate the prodigal daughter’s return,” she says, and I attempt to match her grin as guilt floods my chest again.
“Thank you for keeping an eye on my parents while I was away,” I say when the waiter leaves. “Dad told me how helpful you were with Mom, and I’m hugely grateful. If there’s ever anything I can do for you…”
She waves away my thanks with a perfectly manicured hand. “Oh, please. It was my pleasure. I like your folks, and I’m really sorry that happened to your mom. I hope she recovers soon.”
“Me too.” I attempt another smile. “So tell me… how have you been? And Andy and Tonya? Is Andy still with—”
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Marsha folds her forearms on the table and leans forward, skewering me with her gaze. “We’re not going to talk about any of that until you tell me where the hell you’ve been, who this man that you ran off with is, and why the fuck I didn’t hear a peep about him until you disappeared off the face of the Earth.”
“I didn’t disappear. I called my parents all the time and—”
She cuts me off with another wave. “Semantics. You were gone. Not a word to anyone beforehand, no notice to your practice, left all your patients hanging—including that one girl who needed a C-section the next day, mind you. Oh, and the FBI hounded us all about you for weeks. If that’s not a disappearance, I don’t—”
“Okay, okay, fine. You win.” I grab my beer from the waiter as he approaches the table, but I don’t drink it beyond wetting my lips. Not only am I jet-lagged and sleep-deprived, but there is a chance I might be pregnant.
Putting down the glass, I stare at the brown liquid, forcing all thoughts of a potential pregnancy away so I can focus. I don’t know which version of the story to give Marsha: the one for the FBI, in which I’m Peter’s victim all the way, or the one I’ve been feeding my parents, in which I’m in love with a man who’s embroiled in something shady but is, for the most part, wrongly persecuted by the authorities.
“You’re stalling,” Marsha says, and I sigh, looking up from the beer.
“You’re right: I did disappear,” I begin slowly, still trying to decide what the best story for Marsha would be. “You talked to my parents, though, right? They must’ve told you what happened.”
“What they knew, which wasn’t much.” Marsha picks up her beer. “Nor did it make any sense, what with the FBI sniffing around us like bomb-detecting dogs.”
“Uh-huh.” I instinctively glance around and see two of the men who’ve been following me around the hospital at a table on the opposite side of the bar. Three tables over are two more of my stalkers, and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen the guy at the bar before as well.
Well, that decides it. The “bomb-detecting dogs” are out in full force, and I have no doubt Marsha will be questioned shortly after our conversation.
In fact, there’s no guarantee she’s not working with them right now.
As soon as the thought occurs to me, I feel like a horrible friend, but that doesn’t make the suspicion go away. It makes too much sense. We’ve known each other for a number of years—I met Marsha when I started my residency at the hospital—but we’ve always been more work friends than anything else. For one thing, Marsha’s always been single and on the hunt, whereas I was married and working eighty-hour weeks. I could never accompany her on the girls’ night outings she loves, and she found sedate activities like family dinners boring, so our friendship tended to revolve around the hospital and our conversations rarely ventured beyond the superficial. She was kind and supportive after George’s accident, always ready to lend a sympathetic ear on a coffee break, but she never went out of her way to involve herself in the messier aspects of my life.
Marsha is a good friend, a fun friend, but not the kind of friend who’d take to calling my parents every week—not without a nudge, at least.
A nudge that could’ve easily come from the FBI.
Of course, it’s just as possible that I’m way too tired to think straight—either that or being with Peter has made me far too paranoid. Still, on the off chance that my suspicions are right—or on the far more reasonable assumption that I can’t expect Marsha to lie to the FBI for me—I decide to go with the victim version of the story.