Other times she knew that if she really loved him, she would have told him the truth already to prevent things going the way they had with Marcus.
She turned off the engine and wrenched off her seatbelt, following after Nate as rapidly as she could without actually breaking into a run and thereby potentially running into someone in the hospital or causing some kind of accident. Where did he get off telling her what to do with her life, anyway? Just because he’d been mostly single for all the time she knew him, barring one serious relationship that also ultimately went nowhere, did he think he was qualified to give relationship advice?
Laura found herself storming through the hospital with an angry stomp—angry at Nate for trying to make her break up with Chris, angry at herself because she had to keep lying, angry at Chris for being a doctor and a man of reason, angry at the Sheriff for not doing his job right, at the killer for taking these lives, and at herself again for not catching him and stopping him before this victim was injured.
At everything and everyone, but most of all at herself, and on top of all that—angry that she was an alcoholic and so still could never, even at a time of this much stress, have another drink again.
She found Nate already moving away from the front desk, clearly having been given instructions on where to go. Laura jogged slightly to catch up with him. He glanced over his shoulder to check that she was there and then sped up. Laura appreciated the urgency of the situation—she’d almost crashed the car to get here faster, after all—but the fact that he sped up when she was clearly already struggling to catch up just irked her more.
She arrived breathlessly at the doors of the ward at the same time as him, and he pushed through, holding one of them open for her.
Nate was the kind of person who made it hard for you to stay mad at him because he was always so fair and consistent, but that also only served to make you feel even more mad.
“She’s in a private room down here,” he said. “Out of the way of the press, they said at the desk. You know, you’d have to be kept out of sight as well if they wanted to study you. They would have to make sure no one knew where you were at all, to avoid accusations of violating your human rights.”
“Stop,” Laura told him crossly, shaking her head. “You’re basing this on nothing.”
“I’m basing it on knowing what it’s like to be a minority,” he said. “To be treated like a freak.”
Laura shook her head. “Don’t be melodramatic. Being Black is nothing like being psychic. There’s a lot more people like you, for a start.”
“That makes it worse,” Nate insisted. “When there’s only a few of you and no one even knows you exist, they could get away with doing anything to you. Anything at all.”
Laura shook her head. “I’m not talking about this anymore,” she said. “Stop trying to scare me for no reason. We’ve got a job to focus on.”
Nate looked like he wanted to say something else, but he looked past her, and his gaze changed, his features becoming more professional, smoothed, less frustrated. “She’s there,” he said, nodding at the room they were just about to pass.
Laura spun. Through the small window in the door, she could see the patient with a couple of doctors working around her. Someone else rushed by, and Laura took advantage of that moment to step inside the room after her.
“Family members need to wait down the hall,” someone said without really looking at her or Nate.
“Not family,” Laura said, holding up her badge in case anyone wanted to look at it. “FBI. We need to speak with her if she wakes up at all, even if it’s just for a moment.”
“Fine,” one of the team around the bed, probably a senior doctor given his age, barked. “But for now, get out. Go down the hall to the waiting room. We’ll call you.”
Laura didn’t need to be told twice—not if her staying there was going to interfere with their efforts to save her. She backed out of the room and moved down the hall instead, casting around until she saw an overhead sign which indicated a door that led to the waiting room.
“Over there,” Laura said. She glanced over her shoulder, seeing Nate hesitating.
“We can’t just sit and wait all day,” he said.
“No, but if her family are in there, then we can get some interviews done while staying nearby,” Laura replied. “Come on.”
Nate gave a shrug of his shoulders in agreement and began to lope after her, catching up so much easier than she had. She was the one to push open the door this time, studiously making sure that he could come through after her without needing to touch it at all.
The scene that greeted them was one of obvious anxiety: fear and worry were carved deep on the faces of all three people in the room, each of whom looked up as they entered. They had that strange mix of hope and terror that settled on those waiting for news of their loved ones. They welcomed news and progress, but at the same time did not want to hear the worst news that was possible.
“I’m Special Agent Laura Frost,” Laura said, since she had all of their attention. “This is my partner, Special Agent Nathaniel Lavoie. I believe you’re the family members of Alana Garland?”
“We are,” someone else spoke up. A man in a long trench coat who had obviously not yet had the presence of mind to take it off, slightly balding on the top of his head. “I’m her brother, Andrew. This is my wife, Maggie.”
“I’m Andy and Alana’s sister,” the other woman in the room, who looked maybe five or even as many as ten years younger than Andrew. Laura quickly worked out the order of the siblings: Andrew was the oldest, then Alana, and then… “I’m Alexis.”
Laura stifled a smile at the naming conventions of families, which were often more predictable the more children they had. It was far too serious a situation for her to smile now. She would give the wrong impression. “We’re trying to find out who did this to your sister, but it’s going to require your cooperation. Will you all be able to answer some questions right now to help us get to the bottom of this?”
“Fine,” Andrew said, with a kind of resigned determination—which was an odd mix, but then, these kinds of situations were always odd all around. “At least we’ll be doing something and not just sitting here and waiting.”
“It’ll be alright,” Maggie murmured, squeezing her husband’s hand. She looked a little younger than him, too, with blonde hair worn in a just-so style that must have taken a lot of time and expensive treatments to perfect. She was carrying a designer purse and her shoes were stiletto heels, which was the kind of morning hospital trip choice you didn’t expect. It was clear that her husband had money, and Maggie didn’t mind spending it.