Page 3 of Wrecked for Love
“She died in a car accident last week.” His words were blunt, but the pain behind them was unmistakable.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
For a moment, I hesitated, unsure of what to say next. But then I just went with what was on my mind. “Are you going to call the cops?”
“You’d probably be gone before they showed up,” he replied, a small smirk pushing his lips upward.
I felt a little absurd. If Rick had wanted, I’d already be in a hospital, cuffed to a bed, with the authorities on high alert.
“I should go,” I muttered, forcing my body upright. This time, I managed to stay sitting.
“I won’t stop you,” he said, perhaps with a hope I wouldn’t leave.
“I don’t want anyone to see me here.” I caught his stare. “Please, tell me no one knows I’m here.”
“Just me and Bobo,” he replied, as Bobo’s ears twitched at the mention of his name. Rick handed me back my wallet. “Your name is Claire Magnussen?”
“Yes.”
“Everything from your car is over there.” He gestured toward a table in the corner.
There it was—the bag stuffed with cash. No doubt he’d seen it. My phone and Ruger lay on top. If he’d inspected the gun, he would’ve noticed the three spent chambers. Maybe the scent of gunpowder still clung to it when he found it.
“Why didn’t you call the police?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he muttered, like he was searching for the answer himself.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Each breath felt like it was tearing my raw skin open all over again. Only when the pain subsided to something bearable did I try to stand and walk.
Bobo whined as if telling me not to push too hard.
“Looks like you’re his new favorite,” Rick said, giving the husky a few pats as if telling him he was a good boy. “He wasn’t always this gentle. My daughter adopted him from a shelter in Chicago. He was on the list to be put down—sick, angry, wouldn’t let anyone near him. They said he’d been badly abused by his last owner. But with her…it was different. They just clicked.”
I reached down to stroke Bobo’s massive frame, leaning on him for support and stealing a moment of rest. As I passed the dresser, my eyes caught on a collection of Chicago Cubs memorabilia.
Rick noticed. “All hers. One of the reasons she moved to Chicago. Watching the Yankees versus Cubs games? Let’s just say it was never quiet.” He chuckled softly at the memory. “She went to study at the Feinberg School of Medicine.”
What a loss. I could tell she was brilliant. Too much talent, gone too soon.
I picked up the Ruger and sensed the doctor’s tension behind me. Was he afraid of me? Or was he preparing to spring whatever plan he’d been hiding?
The dog stood calmly next to me, and there was no sign Rick was about to pull anything. I checked the chamber—still loaded.
“I hung your coat there.” He motioned toward the back of the door.
I gave a nod, studying him closer. He was dressed in a T-shirt and home shorts, and there was no way he had a weapon on him. If he’d planned an attack, he would’ve done it while I was out cold.
Carefully, I slid the Ruger into the bag, signaling I wasn’t looking for a fight. My gaze lingered on the zipper, my thoughts scattered. Then, I shifted to my phone—its screen was beyond saving, smashed to hell.
“Found it under the gas pedal. Must’ve dropped and crushed when you hit the brakes,” he said.
Did I slam on the brakes? The memory escaped me.
Noticing my confusion, he added, “You were inches from a power pole. Lucky break number three. Might want to buy a lottery ticket.”
