“And you need to leave your editing hat at the office. Besides, you know you’d rather be fucking than driving to the hospital hoping the electric shock didn’t wipe Joe’s memory of you. That’d be fucking tragic.” Hayley pulled up and Lucy jumped in the car.

  Fuck. She hadn’t thought of that, but that had to be an urban myth. There was no way she wanted to go back to touching herself in windows to entice Joe to come over and play. “I feel horrible this happened to her.”

  “Just get her naked, put your mouth on her, and she’ll get over it.”

  She laughed, glad Lucy knew how to cheer her up. “Let’s hope I get the chance. She’s the real deal.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Wyatt had once gone for a ride in the trunk of a car so she could more accurately describe what her victims were going through. Basically, that’s how she felt right now. In this case, though, it made no sense. There was a possibility she’d been kidnapped, but why the fuck would anyone do that? If that was the case, they’d have to torture her to get any money out of her.

  The book Misery came to mind, but every character she’d killed in every gruesome way possible had it coming, every last one of them. Who cheered for some of the assholes the dark side of her mind conjured up? She wanted to think about it, or at least open her eyes, but she had the worst headache of her life. Once they stopped, she’d worry about whatever this was.

  All she could figure out without spraining her brain was that she was strapped down, so moving was impossible, and the vehicle seemed to be aiming for every pothole. That ruled out her dreaming this from the comfort of her hideous mattress, and she also couldn’t blame it on a drug-induced hallucination. Her only vices were beer and the occasional overindulgence in vodka, and all that caused was hearing her mother’s disapproval in her head.

  “Yeah, yeah,” her mother said. “You might want to open your eyes and start to unravel your own mystery. I promise this will be hilarious in ten years.”

  Wyatt took a deep breath and listened to her mother.

  “There she is, thank God.”

  Wyatt turned her head toward the sound of the overly cheery voice and saw a bleached blonde with her hands pressed together. She was wearing a uniform and smiling like a deranged person. “We were getting a little worried about you. You’ve been napping for a while.”

  “Napping? What exactly is happening, and where are you taking me?”

  “We’re on our way to the best emergency room in the city.” The woman smiled and blinked way too much to be considered normal human behavior. FBI profilers had told her it was a sign someone was lying. Maybe she was being kidnapped, and this was their shtick. “You had a teeny-weeny accident.”

  “I was driving?” She had no recollection of that. None at all.

  “Not exactly, dear.” The woman leaned in, and between the potholes and the blinking Wyatt was getting carsick. Combine that with the headache, and she was totally miserable.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s really funny, actually. My husband zapped you with his Taser numerous times.”

  The woman’s explanation made it seem so matter-of-fact that Wyatt joined her captor in rapid blinking. Perhaps the exercise would clear some of the cobwebs and put the pieces of how she’d ended up strapped to the back of this hell ride together. Note to self, she thought, having to shut her eyes again, rapid eye movement in a moving vehicle while tied down with no open windows will induce nausea. She couldn’t be positive, but she thought vomiting while on her back could be hazardous to her health. No matter what, she didn’t want to test that theory.

  “Can you run that last bit by me again.” She started breathing through her nose and picked a spot on the ceiling to stare at like it was her job. “Who’s your husband?”

  “Sergeant Wally Walton,” she said with the kind of pride you noticed because it was usually reserved for your kids learning to use the potty. “In his defense, he thought you’d handcuffed his grandmother to your porch to die like some cultures do with their old people. You really can’t blame Wally for thinking you were dangerous.”

  “Uh-huh.” She had to close her eyes, take deep breaths, and raise her hand as high as she could get it in the strap to get the woman to stop talking. Her chest hurt like hell, but so did the rest of her body. If knowing what it would feel like to have a nonlethal current of electricity run through her body had ever made it to her bucket list, she was putting a check mark next to it. She was also adding a highlighted note and starring it to remind her never to do it again. “Did he press the trigger until I passed out?”

  “Actually, you dropped like a sack of sweet potatoes and cracked your head on Roberta Sue’s protest sign. She’d leaned it against the pole she’d handcuffed herself to. I’m sure once you get out of the hospital, we’ll all come over for drinks and laugh and laugh about all this.” The woman patted Wyatt’s chest like she was a stray puppy and gave her an example of the laughing. “We just have to make sure you don’t have a concussion first. You can’t ever mix alcohol with head injuries. It’s a bad combination.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s not going to happen in this lifetime, but then my sense of humor got frazzled with the rest of me.” She kept her eyes closed and made shushing noises to keep Mrs. Dumbass from adding anything else.

  The ambulance ride ended with a rush into the emergency room that made Wyatt think she was in an episode of Grey’s Anatomy, and a doctor who reminded her of Methuselah was waiting in the bay they rolled her into. The fact that any medical professional was waiting to see her came close to sending her into shock. Any trip to the emergency room in New York was a test of sanity and patience, it took so long to be treated.

  “Let’s see here, little lady.”

  If she had to guess, this doctor was at Abraham Lincoln’s inauguration, and his thick glasses would set her clothes on fire if the overhead lights shined through them. The one good thing was the nurses released her from the straps and moved her to a hospital bed.

  “I think that’s going to need stitches.” That took him thirty minutes to say. If she was wearing a watch, she could’ve confirmed it. “First, let’s get pictures of that cute head.”

  “Um…” She was trying to find a way to ask for someone else with less experience, in other words, someone under a hundred and forty, when the door crashed open, making the pain in her eyebrow spring to life like someone had tased her again.

  “My God, Wyatt.” Blanche came in with her hands on her head, scaring the hell out of her with the theatrics. The old doctor clutched his chest and fell on her. There was a real chance the mushrooms that had come with her dinner had been of the magic variety. The menu should have mentioned that.

  “What exactly are you doing here? How’d you find me?”

  A gorgeous nurse came in with the supplies to start an IV, which would be difficult with her old man blanket. Her doctor was like a turtle on its back trying to right itself.

  “I came for you, of course. I’m so glad I followed my instincts. Look at you.” Blanche pressed her hands together, trying—Wyatt guessed—to appear caring. She’d have better luck with her make-believe python. “You’re a mess.”

  “Hold that thought, sweetie,” the doctor said after the nurse got him back on his feet. “Your girlfriend needs some tests.”

  “No way, Grandpa,” Blanche said with enough contempt to insult everyone in a five-mile radius. “I’m taking her back to New York.”

  “You heard the man, Blanche. Cut it with the attitude, and go to the waiting room. If that wasn’t clear enough for you, get out. And don’t stick around.”

  Blanche sent her a death glare and stomped from the room. “I’ll be in the waiting room.”

  Everyone crowded in the small room had gotten deathly quiet during their exchange, which was great for her headache. All she wanted was to do whatever was needed so she could go home. With any luck she could get Hayley to come over and sit quietly until she recovered enough to do all the things on her list. “Go ahead, Doc, so I can take an aspirin and head out of here.”

  The pretty nurse wheeled her out for a scan of her head. Once she was back in her cubicle, Dr. Methuselah gave her a thorough exam, declaring she did in fact have a concussion, so she’d have to spend the night. Her EKG was normal, so the Taser hadn’t messed with her heart, which was a bonus. He also put in stitches, moving so slowly she fell asleep convinced she’d be completely healed when she woke up because so much time had gone by. When he was done, the nurse woke her and asked who the president was, along with a list of other questions. She was happy to say it was Biden, thank God for that, and accepted a mirror from the nurse.

  “Wow.” The wound was much larger than she expected. Maybe the cool scar would help her book sales. That would give new meaning to suffering for your art.

  They moved her to a private room for the night, so they could wake her regularly for checks to make sure Roberta Sue and her criminal family hadn’t scrambled her brain. The doctor had given her something slightly better than aspirin but not strong enough to knock her out. Once alone, she went back to her hobby of staring at the ceiling. The stillness and quiet helped control her headache when she thought about the day and all the crazy shit it had given her in spades…whatever the hell that meant. Was Hayley still waiting for her to come over? Or had she seen the clusterfuck situation and gone to bed? Wyatt couldn’t help but wish she was there beside her, holding her hand.

  “Son of a bitch,” she said softly.

  “Are you okay?” The nurse came in for her slate of questions. “Now that you remember how to curse, do we need to discuss who the mayor is?”

  “Actually, is there an attractive woman in the waiting room making everyone miserable?”

  “She’s at the nurses’ station complaining. The waiting room would be an improvement. I’m sorry if she’s a friend of yours, but her voice is like nails on a chalkboard.” The woman took her temperature and blood pressure before agreeing to go get Blanche.

  “Hello, love,” Blanche said, moving to hold her hand. “How are you feeling?”

  “Where did you grow up?” She brought the head of her bed up a little, so she could look Blanche in the eye. It made her head pound, but she wanted to be able to see Blanche’s face. What she was witnessing was nervousness. “Well?”

  “Mostly in New York.”

  “Then not completely in New York.” She brought her head up a little more. “Where was the other mostly location?”

  “It was here in the city.” Blanche wasn’t running off at the mouth, which meant something was wrong.

  “Really?” She pulled her hand out of Blanche’s grip. “We’ve known each other for years, and you’ve never mentioned that. I find it curious, considering there is nothing you like more in the world than the sound of your own voice.”

  “That’s because it’s always about you, Wyatt. You’ve never been interested in me beyond what I can get and do for you.” Blanche’s voice rose, and the sharp tone was back. Blanche’s tongue could cut through rawhide.

  “What you do for me is negotiate writing contracts. You do that because it’s your fucking job, so take it down like a hundred notches and sit.” She pointed to the only chair in the room and waited. “They tell me it’s important to stay awake, so let’s hear it. Think of your answers as the most important of your life. In case you’re not following—start talking.”

  “Funny thing.” Blanche smiled and lifted her hand to cover her mouth when she laughed. “The female EMT told me where they picked you up. It’s so interesting you bought in the Marigny.”

  “Uh-huh—go on and let me in on the joke.”

  “Well, you’ve been here long enough to know this isn’t New York, not by a long shot. I ran from this place the first chance I got before I died of boredom. It took a lot of hard work to get to the big leagues, but I got us there.”

  So she had connections to the city. “How are you able to hold your head up most days with that enormous ego inside it?” She took a deep breath and went back to staring at the ceiling. “Any other time I’d try to work through the meandering trail you like to draw, but my head hurts, and I’m trying to pull the pieces together as fast as I can. I don’t understand why you don’t like the Marigny, because I do. Its weirdness has helped me heal, and I’ve met someone. She’s incredibly special, and I want to explore that. And now that you understand I’m not available, let’s move on. Tell me, what does your family do here in New Orleans? That is, if you have any left.”

  “Why is that important?” Blanche jumped up and paced, wringing her hands.

  Wyatt watched for a moment, thinking that only happened in period romances. “Because I’m a mystery writer, Blanche. You’re a complete mystery to me, and I want to know all there is to know about you and your family.” She lifted her hand when Blanche took a breath to say something. “Let me be clear. If you want to continue our working relationship, you’re going to tell me everything I want to know.”

  “My father left when I was three, so my mom worked in the family grocery to support us, still does. She’s the day manager. At night, when I was old enough, I worked for my aunt in the family diner.” Blanche spoke so fast Wyatt had to concentrate on what she was saying.

  “Wait,” she said, gripping the sheet to keep her from strangling Blanche with it. “Wait, Maybelle’s your aunt, isn’t she?” She laughed at the absurdity. “She is, isn’t she?”

  “Yes. Magnolia was my grandmother, and all the businesses are named after her.” She lifted her chin, as though in defiance.

  “Let me get this straight.” She cut Blanche off from saying another word. “Maybelle, the person ultimately responsible for bringing Roberta Sue Walton the terrorist to my door, is your aunt. Is that what you’re telling me?” It was hysterically ironic that she’d bought her house a few blocks from Blanche’s living LoJack. There’d been no escaping Blanche from the first day she stepped into the diner. “So why all the emails? You lied about not knowing where I was. Why?”

  “I wanted to give you the chance to come to the right choice on your own. You belong to me, and I explained that to Aunt Maybelle. She told me all about the stranger who’d come into the diner, and when she described her, I knew it was you even though you gave her a false name. All I asked her to do was keep an eye on you and gently push you into coming home.” Blanche sat back down like she didn’t know what to do with herself.

  Wyatt stared at her, trying to figure out how someone so deluded managed to get through life. “Belong to you? How the hell have you come to that conclusion? And things didn’t quite go that way—gently, I mean. The good thing is you and your aunt will have plenty of time to go over all your missteps.”

  “What do you mean?” Blanche gripped the side of the bed.

  “Our current contract expires at the end of this month, and even if my parents could rise from the grave and beg me to sign another one with you, it won’t happen. That means you can leave. This is good-bye.”

  “Wyatt, you can’t do that.”

  “Blanche, I’m in the hospital with a concussion and stitches because you sicced your psychotic relative on me. There’s really no coming back from that. Besides, you’ve been a better dealmaker for the publishing house than for me. Call them and beg for a job.” She wished she could yell because she wanted to, and the situation called for it. “I need someone I can trust, who’s more interested in me and not what’s in it for them. I’m tired of your theatrics and frankly stalkerish behavior. I want you out of my life.”

  “Wyatt, that’s insulting. Think about what you’re saying because there’s no going back from this.”

  “We finally agree on something. You’re right, there isn’t, and you’re done. Get out.” She brought her head back down and closed her eyes. Things could only get better from here. Little Orphan Annie had to be right. Tomorrow would be better.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Hayley and Lucy were getting nowhere with the receptionist, whose only answer was that she had no answers for them. Hayley saw the EMT who’d brought Joe in and moved to intercept her.

  “Hey,” she said, and the woman smiled. “Where’s Joe? Before you tell me you can’t say anything because of privacy, think about this. If you want me to put in a good word about Wally tasing someone unarmed, start talking.”

  “They ran some tests and said she’s got a concussion, so she’s not going anywhere tonight. She also got stitches before they brought her up to her room.” The woman spoke softly since she was throwing HIPAA and all the privacy laws under the bus. “You two can take off if you want—her wife is up there with her. She’s one of those homosexuals.”

  “Her wife?” Hayley dropped back into her seat, her stomach plummeting. “Are you sure?”

  “It’s not something you hear every day, so I’m positive. Do you want me to sneak you up there?”

  “Hell yes,” Lucy said. From Lucy’s expression it was a good thing Joe was already in the hospital since she’d need more stitches and tests for her new concussion. “Where is she?”

  “Who, Joe or her wife?”

  The elevator opened and the woman who stepped out was too made-up. That much makeup was never attractive on anyone. Everything about her, from the shoes to the purse, was put together and expensive. For some reason she was staring at them, and it wasn’t a happy expression.

  “That’s her,” the EMT said. “Hey, find her?”

  “I did, and I’ll be taking her back to New York when she’s cleared for travel. She does this every so often—running off and pretending she doesn’t have a family, I mean. Lucky for her I’m the forgiving type.” The woman laughed and took her phone out of the big purse as if that was the only conversation she could waste on the little people. “Thanks for all your help.” She patted the EMT’s arm like she had rabies and couldn’t get any closer, then gave them one of those finger-waggling waves.