Driven to Murder by Judith Skillings

Author:Judith Skillings [Judith Skillings]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2006-06-26T18:30:00+00:00

Twenty-three

The Methodist Hospital of Indiana was a stone’s throw from Interstate 65 on Senate Boulevard. Rebecca won the toss again, so she was driving. Hagan listed to the left to study the instruments as she wove through neighborhood streets. The gleam in his eye might have meant he was ready to scrap the Jeep and get a car that was fun to drive. After the crash outside the gentlemen’s club, it was going to cost more to fix the Cherokee than it could ever be worth.

She welcomed his silence. Her own thoughts were jumping to conclusions, then leapfrogging over themselves to change direction. Someone had given Robert Moore the phone number for the house where she was staying. Only two people had it. Frank—it was posted at the shop. And Jo—he had it in case she wasn’t answering her cell phone. Frank hadn’t left Maryland in eighteen years. Eliminate him and that made Jo the intriguing visitor her parents had entertained. That would explain why she couldn’t reach him in Head Tide. She braked too hard when a Volvo cut her off, punched the poor excuse for a horn. What gave him the right to visit her parents?

The question continued to annoy her as she parked the car and entered the hospital. It was Saturday quiet; few people strolling the halls who weren’t paid to be there. The volunteer at the information desk found Peyton Madison’s room number and pointed them in the direction of the elevators. Exiting on the second floor, they entered a nearly deserted hallway. Three nurses were positioning equipment outside a room at the end. Something routine, they weren’t hurrying. According to the sign on the wall, room 232 was down the short hall veering off to the right.

The door to the room was slightly ajar. Hagan hung back, fidgeted with coins in his pocket. She almost asked for one to flip. Heads she’d go in, tails she’d leave unannounced. Yes, she was worried about the state of Peyton’s health, but she’d come mostly out of curiosity. Not the best reason for visiting a hospitalized victim. She should turn around, leave him in peace.

But she wouldn’t. From the time she could mouth the word “why,” she’d hated unanswered questions. She didn’t always need the correct answer: Being a reporter had trampled the notion that there was only one right answer to every question, or that the answer was the same for every individual. She just needed an explanation that made sense. Nothing about the attacks on the team or on Peyton did.

She knocked and pushed through the door.

The lights were dim. Peyton was lying with his head elevated. His dark hair contrasted with the white pillow; his face was the same color. There was an IV in his arm. The neck brace had been removed. He was breathing without oxygen. Those were good signs.

Hearing her footsteps, he rolled his head to the side and opened his eyes. Stared at her while he licked at his lips. “Moore.

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