shook his head. “Name sounds familiar.”
“I suppose the border troubles don’t always make national news. Make no mistake, though, people around here know the name.” The D.A. looked left then right before going on. “Tomas Rodriguez was the son of Humberto Rodriguez, one of the most powerful leaders of Nuevo Laredo’s drug cartel.”
Dawson stared at the closed door. “Which paints a bright red bull’s-eye on Ms. Jones.” Great, he was in for a rough time of protecting a potential murder suspect from being killed by an avenging father with an army of mercenaries.
“Exactly. Once word gets out that Tomas is dead, which it probably has by now, Rodriguez will be gunning for her and I’m not so sure the police force will stand in the way.”
“Are they that corrupt?”
“No, it’s just that they have families to worry about. Some of them have family on both sides of the border. If they want their loved ones to remain alive, they have to stay out of it. Anyone standing in the way of Rodriguez’s desire for vengeance on the person responsible for killing his only offspring will suffer consequences.”
The woman had her death warrant signed before Dawson had even shown up for work. “If she killed Tomas, why don’t you lock her up?”
“Another fact I just learned a few minutes ago when I talked to one of the nurses has me worried, something I haven’t shared with the press or anyone else.”
“I thought you said Ms. Jones doesn’t remember anything.”
Frank Young gave a mirthless laugh. “She doesn’t. But some things you don’t forget even when you forget your name.”
Dawson crossed his arms over his chest, impatient with the other man’s dramatic pause. “Enlighten me.”
“The prints on the weapon match the prints from her left hand. Since she shot herself after she supposedly shot Tomas, she had to have used her left hand.”
“Your point?” Dawson snapped, the smell of disinfectant making him eager to get to the crux of the matter so that he could get the hell out of the hospital.
“She used her right hand to eat breakfast this morning. Ms. Jones is right-handed.” As if sensing the importance of the D.A.'s words, the busy hallway stilled. No nurse pushed through a door, no patient ventured out. Silence filled the space after Young’s announcement.
“She’s right-handed?” Dawson’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the district attorney, the full impact of those words sinking in.
The D.A. nodded. “Exactly. Why would a right-handed person shoot herself in the head with her left hand?”
“You don’t think she shot herself.” It was a statement, not a question. “You think that whoever killed Rodriguez shot the woman and made it look like murder-suicide.” The pulse in his temple throbbed and he pressed his fingers to the growing ache.
“Right.”
“And whoever tried to kill her the first time will most likely try again.”
“Right, again. Murderers don’t normally like loose ends.”
“She’s the only one who saw the crime take place?”
“As far as we know. No one else has stepped forward.” The D.A. nodded toward her door down the hall. “She hasn’t actually pointed any fingers. Since she probably didn’t shoot Rodriguez, I can’t put her in jail.”
Dawson scoped the hallway again with new purpose, his gaze narrowing at every person passing by. “Whoever killed Tomas Rodriguez won’t want to give her the chance.”
A dull ache throbbed against the side of her head. She struggled to open her eyes and adjust to the fluorescent light in the hospital room. She lifted her hand to press against her temple, but her hand was tied to something.
An IV was taped to the top of her hand. She vaguely remembered the tubes from the last time she’d woken, when the nurses had insisted on cranking her bed into an upright position to eat a breakfast she couldn’t taste. What had happened? Why was she lying in a hospital and why did her head hurt?
What else was wrong with her? She tested movement of her toes. The sheet near the end of the bed wiggled and she let out a sigh. She wasn’t paralyzed. She attempted to sit in the bed and made it halfway up before collapsing back. The effort was exhausting.
Again, she tried to remember what brought her here. Had she been in a wreck? Where was her family? A sudden emptiness filled her chest, pressing hard against her heart. Did she have a family? She glanced around at the sterile room. No flowers, no get-well cards, no signs of anyone caring whether she lived or died. She didn’t know which was worse, that she couldn’t remember who should care about her or that she didn’t actually have anyone who cared about her. For the life of her, she couldn’t picture anyone, couldn’t name a name, not even her own.
Her heartbeat jumped, her breath coming in low shallow gasps. The more she tried to remember, the more she realized she couldn’t. Where had she been, what was she doing? How had she gotten hurt?
A violent shiver shook her body, having nothing to do with the temperature in the room and more to do with the fact she couldn’t remember her name or even what she looked like.
She tried again to sit up in the bed, this time succeeding. An uncontrollable urge to run hit her. Before she could think, she yanked the tape off her hand and pulled the IV needle out. Cool air raised chill bumps on her legs as she slid them from beneath the sheets and let them drop over the side of the bed.
She slipped off the mattress, her bare feet touching the cold floor. For a moment, she thought no problem. Then her knees buckled, her muscles refusing to cooperate. With a dark sense of the inevitable, she cried out as she crumpled to the floor.
She lay still for a few moments, willing the air to return to her lungs.
The swoosh of a door opening and closing made her turn toward the sound.
“Help,” she called out.
No one answered.
Irrepressible fear gripped her so firmly she couldn’t breathe. A hospital usually meant a safe place where people went to recover from their injuries. Why then did panic seize her and squeeze the air from her lungs?
Footsteps neared, rounding the corner of the bed.
She shrank back, looking up at a man wearing green-blue staff scrubs.
“Savvy Jones?” he asked through the matching mask on his face, his words heavily accented.
“I d-don’t know,” she whispered.
The man’s dark brown eyes narrowed, his bushy black brows dipping low on his forehead. He lifted a pillow from the bed. “Let me help.” Instead of reaching out to lift her, he bent beside her.
“I can get up myself,” she said, although she doubted she could. “If you’ll just move back. Please.”
The man didn’t move back. He reached out,
