Once there, she’d park and either go straight to her dorm to finish up her assignments or trek across campus to play a few hands of cards with her friends. On those days, she’d still be back in her room by two; it was only Fridays that she stayed out all night for her weekly poker marathon.
Tonight would be a dry run. I’d follow her back to her campus, and make sure every detail was just as I’ve recorded it. Any adjustments had to be made now.
I had only a few days left.
And so did she.
Best Western Garden State Inn
Absecon, New Jersey
9:20 P.M.
Sloane rolled over and opened her eyes.
She blinked, totally disoriented, wondering where the hell she was. Darkness shrouded the unfamiliar room, although a single lamp cast enough light to tell her she was on a king-size
bed covered by a bright blue-and-orange-print bedspread.
She propped herself up on one elbow, stared blankly down at the institutional-blue carpet as she tried to clear the cobwebs from her head. She hated this feeling—nauseated, headachy, and like her brain was filled with cotton. It brought back unwelcome memories of coming to in a recovery room after surgery.
No way she was feeling that way again.
She raked a hand through her hair, wincing as a twinge of pain shot through her palm, together with an unnatural stiffness and limited tactile ability and freedom of motion. She glanced at her hand, saw that it was bandaged and taped.
Abruptly, she remembered.
She was in Derek’s hotel room. He’d driven her here after the nurse practitioner at Stockton’s health services had treated her hand and given her some heavy-duty painkillers.
Sitting up, Sloane examined herself, noting that she was wearing an oversize olive sweatshirt with the Colorado State insignia on it. Derek’s alma mater. She vaguely remember changing into it, peeling off her wet Tahari suit—now fit for kitty litter—and pulling on the warm sweatshirt.
The clock on the night table said it was after nine. Sloane’s scrutiny said she was alone in the hotel room.
Beside the clock was an uncapped but unused bottle of springwater, and she reached out to get it—this time with her left hand. She gulped down half a bottle, partly because she was thirsty and partly to rehydrate her muscles and kick-start her brain.
She’d put down the water and was trying to piece together the events of the last four hours, when the door opened and Derek stepped in. He’d changed into jeans and a royal-blue fleece sweatshirt.
“You’re awake. Good.” He went over to the desk and set down two Burger King bags and a cardboard tray with two sodas in it. Sloane’s stomach growled at the aroma.
Derek chuckled. “Awake and hungry,” he amended. “No problem.” He carried the food over and set dinner up on the night table. “I got you your favorites—a Whopper with cheese, a large fries, and a Diet Coke with lemon. I assume that hasn’t changed?”
“No.” Sloane’s voice sounded raspy, probably from all that time spent in the pouring rain. “That hasn’t changed.”
“Good. Then we’re all set to eat.” He frowned, seeing how green around the gills she looked. “Is the Whopper too heavy? Because I also got a salad and a roll if you want something lighter.”
“No way. I never turn down a Whopper. I’m starving. My nausea’s from the Vicodin. It’ll disappear as soon as I eat.”
“It says on the bottle that it should be taken with food. But you fell asleep before I could get anything substantial into you.”
“Not a problem. I know the drill. Vicodin and I are old friends. I keep our reunions short, because it’s a narcotic and because it knocks me out. But it’s also a hell of a painkiller.”
“The nurse practitioner said she got you to eat some crackers when you took it.”
A mental flash, and Sloane nodded. “She did. I ate four saltines.”
“You need a solid meal. Here.”
“Wait.” Sloane reached out to stop him, frowning as she felt the nerves in her palm tingle. If she’d undone any of Dr. Houghton or Connie’s hard work, she didn’t think she could bear it. Not again.