Page 117 of The Last Close Call

Why had he come here?

Her stomach clenched, and she sank back against the pillow. She wanted to die. Every bone in her body hurt.

The thermometer beeped, and he pulled it out.

“One hundred.”

She sighed and turned onto her side. “It’s down.”

“Are you sure you don’t need to go to the doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Want me to call your mom or your sister?”

“No.”

She closed her eyes as a wave of nausea washed over her.

Please please please don’t let me puke on him.

The mattress shifted, and she felt a rush of relief. He was leaving. She heard his boots on the floorboards in the hallway and then the kitchen.

What time was it? She groped around the rumpled bedding beside her and found her phone. She tapped in the passcode and stared at the screen.

It was 5:40 p.m. She had a bunch of text messages, including several from him, but just looking at them made her head throb, and she tossed the phone aside.

Jack was back. “There’s some ginger ale here by the bed.”

“Thank you.”

“And some Ritz crackers, if you’re up for it. I couldn’t find any saltines.”

“Thank you.”

“Rowan.”

She opened her eyes.

“I can’t stay here,” he said. “I have to get back.”

“I know.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“Yes.”

She opened her eyes fully and looked him over, taking in his clothes, his boots. There was a brisk tension about him, and she knew he was on his way to work. More surveillance? Just the thought exhausted her.

He reached over and picked up her phone. “You’ve got half a battery left. I’m going to put this here.” He set it on the nightstand beside the ginger ale.

“Thanks.”

He gazed down at her, and guilt swamped her. She’d been such a bitch to him back at the motel. She should probably apologize, but all she could focus on right now was how desperately she wanted him to leave.

He leaned down and kissed her forehead.

She groaned. “Don’t, you’ll get sick.”

---