The Girl Who Wouldn't Stay Dead

“You aren’t thinking straight.”

“The hell I’m not,” Connor replied without raising his voice.

There was a light tap on the door before it opened. Standing outside was a clean-cut young man in a Pitkin County sheriff’s uniform. He touched the brim of his cap. “Mr. Gallagher, I’m Deputy Rafe Sandoval. I have a few questions.”

“I didn’t actually witness the accident, but I’m happy to help.” He gave Thorson a cold smile. “The doctor was just leaving.”

As soon as Thorson stormed out, the deputy entered. Rather than hovering at Emily’s bedside like the doctor, the cop motioned for Connor to join him near the door. He spoke in a hushed tone. “I don’t want to disturb her while she’s asleep.”

“She’s in an induced coma.”

“But can she hear us?”

Connor had wondered the same thing. While she was unconscious, did Emily have the ability to hear his words or comprehend what he was saying? Did she know he was at her side and would destroy anyone who attempted to hurt her? “I’d like to think that she can hear, but I don’t know.”

Still keeping the volume low, Sandoval asked, “Why were you on that road?”

“I was on my way to the home of Patricia Riggs for the reading of her cousin’s will. Unfortunately, I got a late start from New York.” As soon as he spoke, he realized that the deputy would need to talk to the Riggs family about the accident. As much as Connor wanted to keep them away from Emily, the police would have to contact them. “Have you spoken to the Riggs family?”

“Not yet,” he said. “Why did you pull over, Mr. Gallagher? You didn’t see the accident happen, but you quickly arrived at the scene.”

“There are no lights along that stretch.” The two-lane road that led to Patricia’s château hugged the mountain on one side. The outer lane had a wide shoulder and a guardrail at the edge of a sheer cliff. “Her headlights were shining like a beacon.”

“So you stopped,” the deputy prompted.

“I saw the damaged guardrail. That’s when I looked over the ledge.”

He’d never forget the flood of panic that had washed over him when he saw the wreckage. At the time, he hadn’t known that the twisted remains of the bronze Hyundai belonged to Emily. When the headlights went off and darkness consumed the scene, he’d known what he had to do. No matter who was trapped inside, Connor had had to respond.

“This is very important, Mr. Gallagher. Did you see any other vehicles?”

“No.”

“You’re certain.”

Connor was beginning to have a bad feeling about this visit from the deputy. It was after two o’clock in the morning. What was so important that it couldn’t wait? “Is there something you need to tell me about the accident?”

The young man straightened his shoulders. His nervous manner was gone. His gaze was direct. “After my preliminary investigation, I strongly suspect that Ms. Benton-Riggs was forced off the road.”

“What are you saying?”

“Someone tried to kill her.”

Chapter Two (#ub13656c4-9eb2-5d9a-b62b-6bb99818610a)

Emily knew she was asleep and dreaming hard. There was no other explanation for the weird images that popped into her mind and distracted her. She needed to wake up. There was something she had to find. The object or person or place was unclear, but her quest was urgent—a matter of life and death.

But she couldn’t ignore the field of psychedelic flowers that reminded her of a Peter Max poster from the sixties, and she couldn’t pause as she waltzed into a paint-splattered Jackson Pollock room with a series of framed paintings on the walls. Some were classics: melting Dali timepieces, a servant girl with a pearl earring, Tahitian women bathing by a stream. Others were by the not-yet-famous artists that she was showing in her Denver gallery. The corridor took on a more formal aspect, and it felt like she was on a personal tour of the Louvre Museum, accompanied by a grinning Mona Lisa.

Swiveling, she found herself surrounded by mist. Pink clouds spun like cotton candy around her feet and knees. When she tried to push them away, her left arm wouldn’t move. From shoulder to wrist, the arm was frozen. Pursing her lips, she blew, and the haze cleared.

Connor Gallagher strode toward her. This was the Manhattan version of Connor, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit with a striped silk necktie. Though neatly groomed, his brown hair was unruly, curling over his collar. His cocoa-brown eyes penetrated her defenses.

She sighed as she placed this moment in time—a memory from several months ago when she had been trying to decide whether or not to file for divorce. She’d already left Manhattan, separated from Jamison and was working hard to establish a new life in Denver, her hometown. Connor had come all the way from New York to talk business with her. As soon as she saw him strolling up the sidewalk to her bungalow, she forgot about the contracts, documents and the prenuptial agreement she’d signed.

Connor filled her mind. She liked him...a lot. He frequently starred in her erotic fantasies. In real life, she hadn’t seen him without his swimming trunks, but she suspected he could give Michelangelo’s naked sculpture David a run for his money. In addition to her appreciation for his body, she was fascinated by his moods, the sound of his laughter and the shape of his mouth.

Her memory continued. They’d met. They’d hugged. He’d smelled warm and spicy like cinnamon. And then Connor had mentioned Jamison, asking if he also favored divorce.

She didn’t give a damn what Jamison Riggs wanted. Any love she’d had for him was over. She’d been living apart from him since the night when she’d found him in bed with the head partner from his Wall Street investment firm, a tall redhead with incredibly straight hair and who never smiled. Jamison had expected Emily to forgive him. He’d told her not to worry, that he was only trying to sleep his way to the top. As if that was supposed to be okay.

Emily huffed. She didn’t believe a single word that spilled from his lying lips. Other people had warned her about his cheating, and it didn’t take long for Emily to find evidence of other infidelities with at least three other women. Jamison had been having a wild, sexy ride. Frankly, when she asked Connor to come to Denver, she’d been hoping for a taste of the same.

Sure, there were plenty of legitimate business interests they could discuss, but those weren’t foremost in her mind. She wanted Connor to embrace her, caress her and sweep her off her feet. She deserved an affair of her own. But no! Technically, she was still married, and Connor had too much integrity to betray his friend, even if Jamison was a dirty dog who didn’t deserve the loyalty.

The day after Connor returned to his Manhattan law practice, she’d contacted a lawyer in Denver and started the paperwork. The divorce had taken months. So many other things had happened, a whirlwind of events.

Her unconscious mind played calliope music. Boop-boop-beedle-deedle-doop-doop. She was on a carousel, riding a painted pony. She hadn’t known Jamison was sick until he was terminal, and she only saw him once before he died. In light of his unexpected death, her divorce seemed cold and unfeeling. Even in a dream state, she felt a little bit guilty. If she’d known he was ill, she might have forgiven him and nursed him through his final days. Or not.

Leaving the merry-go-round, she hiked up a grassy knoll to an old-fashioned boot hill cemetery. She’d wanted to attend Jamison’s funeral and memorial service, but his maiden aunt Glenda, matriarch of the family, had made it clear that she was unwelcome. The family had kept her away, almost as though they were hiding something.

Jamison shouldn’t be her problem anymore. They were divorced, and he had died. But there seemed to be a connection. Her car had been run off the road after leaving the Riggses’ house. Someone wanted her dead, had tried to kill her. She had to fight back. She needed to wake up. Oh, God, I’m too tired.

Someone held her hand and comforted her. For now, that would have to be enough. She drifted back into silent stillness.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, Connor sat beside the hospital bed and patted Emily’s right hand. She hadn’t moved, but one of the monitors started beeping. A sweet-faced nurse whose name tag said Darlene came into the room and made adjustments to silence the alarm.

“Has she spoken?” Darlene asked.

“Not yet,” he said. “But her eyelids have been moving. It’s like she’s watching a movie inside her head.”

“Rapid eye movement, we call it REM. Nothing to worry about,” she said in the perky tone of a confirmed optimist. “I’ll notify the doctor. We don’t want her to wake up too soon.”

“Why is that?”

“They use the induced coma to protect the brain and let it relax while the swelling goes down. She needs plenty of rest.”

Though he didn’t know much about neurological sciences, he’d talked to a brain surgeon in New York who advised him about Denver-based referrals. His brain surgeon friend had given him an idea of all the stuff that could go wrong, ranging from stroke to seizure. Amnesia was a possibility, as was epilepsy. Head wounds were unpredictable and could be devastating.

He wished he could be as cheerful as Darlene, but Connor was a realist. “It seems like she wants to wake up,” he said. “That’s a good sign, right?”

“Well, I certainly think so.” Nurse Darlene pressed her fingers across her mouth as if she’d said too much. “I’m not qualified to give opinions. But if you’re asking me, this young lady is going to make a full recovery and come back to you.”

And maybe she’ll bring the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus with her. Connor forced a smile. The nurse wanted him to be happy, but she really didn’t know—nobody knew, not for certain—if Emily would be all right. “Thank you, Darlene.”

She patted his shoulder on her way out of the room. “Try to get some sleep, Connor. If you need anything, push the button and I’ll be here in a flash.”