Page 75 of The Girl Who Survived

“Not yet, but it’s iffy. None of them are in great shape, of course, but for the most part lucked out. The guy with Kara?” she said. “No ID. Bruised and battered but miraculously not critical, at least that’s the report at this time.”

Thomas felt a deep-seated and dreaded certainty that he knew the answer when he asked the question, “Who is he?”

“They’re not sure. He hasn’t come around.”

But he read the answer in her eyes. “They think it might be Jonas McIntyre.”

“That’s their best guess. Right height and build. His face has been plastered all over social media and the press. Super recognizable. Except right now, the guy thrown from the Jeep’s face is kind of a mess, scratches and bruises, and enough of a jolt to knock him out. Like I said, it’s a miracle he survived or isn’t clinging to life in ICU.”

“I heard he found religion. Seems like God was looking out for him.”

“Or he just got lucky. Either way, until they take his prints, or he wakes up and tells them who he is—or Kara does—they’re not saying for sure.”

“It’s Jonas.” Thomas was certain of it. “Damn it.” He eyed the trailer where the crews were still working. “Somehow he’s involved in this.”

“Looks like,” she admitted.

He started for his SUV, but her phone jangled again. “Wait,” she said, and answered, her face growing grim. “Shit.” She let out a slow breath and shook her head. “I knew it. I just knew it!!”

Thomas paused, the wind whipping through the canyon, shaking snow and ice from the branches of the surrounding trees, the cold sinking deep into his bones.

“Yeah, yeah, fine. I know . . . we’ll meet you at the hospital ASAP,” Johnson said, then cut the connection.

“What?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“I lied,” she said, her expression grim as she pocketed her phone. “I told you there were no serious injuries in the accident. Well, that just changed. One of the victims went into cardiac arrest on the way to the hospital, but they managed to revive him. For now. But it doesn’t look good.”

* * *

Kara opened a bleary eye.

Dim lights.

Hushed voices.

She tried to focus but failed.

All she knew was that she was lying on a bed. A narrow bed.

“. . . when she wakes up, she could be released,” a soft female voice said. “All her vitals are normal.”

“Even with that gash on her head and a concussion.”

Concussion?

“That and a few contusions and that bruise where the seat belt held her.” A harsher voice. “That’s going to hurt.”

They were talking about her. Again, Kara tried to wake up.

“She’s coming around,” said one of the whispered voices, belonging to an older woman, it seemed. A shadowy image approached the bed. “Kara?” she said a little more loudly. “Ms. McIntyre?”

Kara couldn’t answer.

She tried. Moved her lips, but her tongue wouldn’t comply and she couldn’t force any breath to form the words.

“You’re here. In the hospital. Whimstick General.” The same older voice. “Ms. McIntyre?”

But Kara faded away.

---