DeathAngel Read online

  He looked torn, as if he wanted to hear something that would allow him to disregard what she said as an oxygen-deprived brain producing hallucinations, but at the same time he wanted to believe in something more.

  She needed to talk. She needed to get through this barrier, once more make the connection between the world inside her head and the world on the outside. The breach had been helpful, giving her the time she needed to adjust, but now it was time for her to fully rejoin this world, because it was the only world she had.

  With that thought, her surroundings suddenly popped into sharper focus, as if everything had been blurred while she lingered between both places. She had made the final decision to stay, she realized. Until now, she had been in a limbo of sorts, lingering there while she thought things over, but now she had decided: she would stay here, and try to earn herself a place in that other world.

  Talking suddenly became easier, a Mission Possible, even though it was still an effort.

  “I remember everything.”

  Relief washed over his face. “Was there a tunnel? With light at the end of it?”

  Describing the other place wasn’t going to be easy, because words literally couldn’t impart the utter tranquillity and joy, the quiet beauty. But right now he wasn’t asking where she’d gone, just the process of getting there.

  “Light. No tunnel.” Had she missed out on something, or had she gone too fast?

  “Just light? Hmm.”

  There it was, the doubt, the instinctive fallback on the science he knew. Bright light could be explained by a misfiring, dying brain. She wondered how he could square that with her lack of brain damage. Because she didn’t want to steer him wrong, and because she held a grudge against him, she voiced the random thought that had earlier popped into her head. “Stop screwing around on your wife.”

  He paled, then turned red again. “What?”

  “She’s going to find out, if you don’t stop.” Suddenly irritated, she pulled the sheet higher, as if she wanted to shut him out. “If you don’t love her, then get a divorce, but keep your pants zipped until then. Act like a grown-up.”

  “Wha—? What?” He said the same word for the third time, his mouth opening and closing like a guppy’s.

  “Believe me now?” She scowled at him. She would have flounced on her side and turned her back on him, but flouncing was out of the question. Instead she just narrowed her eyes at him and silently dared him to deny her accusation, though he was more likely to tell her to mind her own business.

  She could see him struggling not to do exactly that. He was in his early fifties, a man who had spent his entire adult life perfecting the science and the skill with which he saved lives. Like most surgeons, he had a healthy ego, which was a polite way of saying it was monstrously huge. Doing what he did required a huge helping of self-confidence, and he was accustomed to being the boss. Finding himself abruptly called on the carpet by a woman whose life he had saved, and who undoubtedly owed him a large amount of money for his services, wouldn’t go down easy.

  He started to snap back at her. She saw it, and scowled harder at him. “Don’t start doubting just because I didn’t see a tunnel. I guess some people do. I didn’t. I had a tree stuck through me—a small one, but still a tree—and I went fast. So sue me.”

  He crossed his arms again and rocked back on his heels, a man who wasn’t inclined to surrender without a fight. “If you had a real near-death experience, you’re supposed to be mellow and happy.”

  “I didn’t have a ‘near death’ experience, I had a death experience. I died,” she said flatly. “I was given a second chance. So far as I know, having that second chance doesn’t mean I have to fake being in a good mood. If you want to know what I remember, how about this: I remember looking down and seeing a guy go through my purse, then steal my laptop. Did he get all my money?”

  He was so easy to read, even now, when he was trying to school his expression. His shock was evident, at least to her.

  “No, I believe there was a considerable amount of cash still in your purse, but no ID, and no credit cards.”

  She hadn’t had any credit cards, but she didn’t tell him that. So only her ID was missing? Strange. Why take her driver’s license and not her cash?

  “You didn’t have any vehicle registration in your car, either. I believe Detective Arrons wants to discuss that with you.”

  She imagined he did, plus the bogus license plate. She’d worry about that later. For now, she waved it away. “If the money was still there, it can go to my hospital bill. I’m not a charity case.”

  “I’m not worried about—”

  “Maybe you aren’t, but the hospital is.”

  “While you’re in such a chatty mood, what’s your name?”

  “Andie,” she said promptly. “What’s yours?”

  “Travis. Last name?”

  She had always thought fast on her feet, but all of a sudden she was drawing a blank. Nothing, absolutely nothing, came to mind. She simply couldn’t come up with a fake last name. She stared at him, frowning. “I’m thinking,” she finally said.

  His brows knit a little. “You don’t remember?”

  “Of course I remember. It’s there. Give me a minute.” If Rafael thought she was dead, there was no reason for him ever to check to see if anyone with her name popped up anywhere. To be on the safe side, though, she should use a different name. Would that be completely screwing up her second chance, lying to protect herself? Maybe lying was bad when it hurt someone else, but not so bad otherwise.

  She should have asked for training, or at least a set of guidelines.

  “Andie,” she said again, hoping for inspiration.

  “You’ve already said that. Is it short for Andrea?”

  “Yes.” What else could she say? She couldn’t think of any other female name that started with A-n-d. She wasn’t about to tell him her last name was Butts, no matter what. Finally she gave up, shrugging. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  He had his pen out, making a note on her medical records.

  Immediately her attention zoomed in another direction. “I’m not brain-damaged,” she charged irritably. “It’s all your fault. I’m just drugged enough that I can’t think, but not drugged enough that it stops me from hurting. Have you ever stopped to think how it feels, having your chest sawed open and pulled apart and your heart manhandled? Huh? I have staples in me. I feel like a legal file or something, I have so many staples in me. You could build a house with my staples. And what do you do? You cut down on my painkillers. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  She stopped, confused by her own lack of control. She never went off on anyone like that. She smiled, and acted sweet. Why was she turning into a bitch? But she also stopped because he was laughing. Laughing.

  She could be friends with this man. “Sit down,” she invited, “and I’ll tell you about the other place.”

  SIMON HAD MADE a lifelong habit of resisting temptation, but this one wore him down. The idea was always there, nagging at him, and he couldn’t let it go.

  He couldn’t forget Drea’s death. He couldn’t forget her face, or the way her expression had suddenly lit with joy just as she died. He couldn’t forget her. Her death had left an ache in him that he couldn’t explain, or get rid of.

  He’d shown Salinas the picture he’d taken with his cell phone, showed him Drea’s driver’s license. Salinas had blanched when he saw the picture, then sat silently for a moment. Finally he said, “Tell me where to wire your fee.”

  “Forget about it,” Simon had said. “I didn’t do the job; she had a wreck.” He’d tracked her, though, and driving too fast trying to escape him was why she’d had the wreck. Had it been anyone else, he’d have taken his fee without hesitation. While he hadn’t killed her, he had definitely caused her death; still, for the first time he couldn’t take a fee for someone’s death.

  This was different.

  He didn’t want it to be different. He didn’t want to