“Your bodyguard.”
“Ha ha.” I wasn’t in the mood for jokes.
“Really. I hired a man to keep you under surveillance. He’s one of the best. Highly recommended.”
“Who is he? Do I get to meet him?”
“No. He’s been operating undercover since your arrival. I’ve just informed him of the note and he will let me know if there is any imminent danger, or simply take care of it should it arise.”
Wow. My own bodyguard. Oddly, I didn’t feel any safer. Where had the guy been when I was dangling on the side of that cliff? I couldn’t recall a pair of arms waiting below to catch me. He was overpaid, whoever he was.
Defused, I took the elevator to the lobby, mulling the whole way. Denton made it seem like I should drop the whole thing, simply because he said so. But it wasn’t that easy. It hadn’t been so long since I’d been jailed, framed, chased, set up, and shot at. I wasn’t about to let down my guard.
I took the bus to Cliffhouse, snuck a sandwich from the fridge, and climbed up to my room.
The alarm clock woke me at the crack of six the next morning. I slammed the snooze. My shoulder paid me back with a shot of pain. Too much time on the sledgehammer yesterday. I should have broken in my body gently.
Even my brain hurt. I hadn’t really slept, just dozed in and out of a bad dream. I’d been chasing a doe through the woods. The crunch of shoes through the underbrush. The scrape of branches against my face. I had to catch the doe. But she was gone, and I was standing at the edge of a babbling brook wondering what I was doing there. Someone called my name from the bushes behind me. I crept close. A pair of muddy Nikes stuck out from beneath a shrub. Everything in me wanted to run away, but I had to see who was there… I pulled back the leaves…
A face.
Brad’s face. And there was a bullet hole between his wide-open eyes.
The sheets had been damp with sweat when I sat up in the pitch-black, awake. I’d had a hard time falling back to sleep. Each time I dozed off, the doe would be there, and I’d have to chase her again.
I shook off the images and got out of bed. Of course I was dreaming about Brad. I missed him so much.
The shower took a minute to warm up. I brushed my teeth while I waited. It seemed an eternity had passed since Brad and I had last been together. Had it only been two weeks?
I finished my routine and headed downstairs, meeting Denton in the dining room. By now I understood why he sat in the formal area rather than the kitchen. Less drama. Thankfully, Ms. Rigg treated me kindly in his presence, even pouring my coffee.
“Do you recall your doctor appointment at eight, Alisha?” Denton asked.
“Mmmm.” I chewed my bagel and swallowed before answering. “Yep. All set.”
“How have you been feeling?”
I glanced at the gash on my arm, the skin now neatly knit together. “Great. These stitches are ready to go.”
Denton squinted at the wound. “It seems to have healed nicely. You were very fortunate to have such a minor injury.”
I tossed a third of a bagel back onto my plate, losing my appetite at the reminder of the worst day of my life.
Denton took a sip of his coffee, looking at me over the rim. “I understand the gunman was at very close range.” “Gunwoman, actually.” I saw Candice’s pistol go up, heard the explosion, then lost everything in the flash of white that followed. As always, pain rushed up my arm at the memory.
I must have flinched, because Denton reached over and touched my wrist. “Give it time. The pain will lessen.”
I nodded, pushing away from the table. “Well, gotta go. Have a good one.”
“Goodbye, Alisha.”
I grabbed my tote and dashed outside for the bus. k The single-story medical building was at the edge of campus. I signed in at the seventies-era sliding-glass reception window. Alisha Braddock, I was careful to write on the sheet. I sat in a corner by a low, square coffee table covered in tattered, outdated magazines. The room carried a faint musty odor. Dark wood, patchy wallpaper, plastic tub chairs, and mite-laden carpeting screamed for a remodel.
A few minutes later, a woman called my name. I followed her down a narrow hall.
We entered Room 3. She gestured toward the exam table. I hopped up, hands suddenly clammy. As she ran through the temp, weight, and blood pressure routine, I pondered the significance of the multicolored fish that swam across the blue background of her jumper.
“Everything looks good,” she said, writing her findings on my chart. “Dr. Vandenberg will be just a few minutes.”
While waiting, I redecorated the tiny space with brighter lighting, new ceiling tiles, modern wallpaper, and fresh flooring. The re-do disappeared as the doctor entered the room, chart in hand.
Sleek and elegant, the woman looked more like a movie star than an MD. Skin the color of mocha, full lips, and sparkling brown eyes. I wondered why she wasn’t doing her internship at U of C Hollywood instead of here in Del Gloria.
“Hello, Alisha. I’m Dr. Vandenberg. I see you’re new to campus.” She set the chart on the counter and proceeded to feel the glands in my neck.
“I’ve been here a week or so.” I swallowed at her command. “Um, I’m just here to have some stitches removed. Everything else feels fine.”
A stethoscope slid down my back.
“Breathe in,” the doctor instructed.
I took a breath.
“Your chart says you’ve been assigned to the Revamp Program. I understand that is a very rigorous curriculum. I want to make sure there are no other health issues as you go into it.”
“They sure put a lot of extra information in those medical charts.” I couldn’t remember my major being printed next to my weight back at Michigan State’s clinic.
She tapped a rubber hammer to my knee. “At Del Gloria we don’t separate physical, mental, and spiritual health. The mind and soul are parts of the body. We treat them as one.”
“And what does that have to do with me getting my stitches out?”
“Say ahhh.”
A bright beam panned over my mouth, then into my eyes. The doctor clicked the penlight off and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “Let’s talk about your stitches. Tell me why you have them.”
A bead of sweat broke out on my forehead. I rubbed at it, pretending to have an itch. How much could I tell without giving myself away? Perhaps it was better to just keep pretending I couldn’t remember the details. I closed my eyes and concentrated, picturing Candice’s weapon, aimed and loaded. The white flash, then the pain in my arm again.
My breath came in gasps. “I was shot.” I avoided her eyes.
“By whom?” She hugged my chart to her chest as if to hide the answers from me.
I shrugged. “A woman with a gun.”
The doctor stared at me, perhaps waiting to see if that was my final answer.
“Well,” I felt compelled to keep talking, “she was a friend of mine. At least I thought she was.”
“And this friend shot you?”
I nodded.
“Are you having difficulties with your memory?” she asked. “Do you forget where you put things, forget what you were about to do next, draw a blank when you try to remember your childhood?”
“No. I remember stuff.”
Dr. Vandenberg nodded and set my chart on the counter. “It can take time to recover from a traumatic event like the one you experienced. Let’s take a look at those stitches.” With a few swift moves, she pulled what looked like fat fish line from my arm. “There. That didn’t hurt a bit.”
I cranked my arm around for a look. The stitches were gone. A patch of red skin remained to prove my tale.
“That will lighten up over time. Nobody has to know about your adventure unless you tell them.”
“Thank you.” I scooted to the edge of the table, ready to make my run to freedom.
“Alisha,” the doctor said, “I want you to start writing things down. Keep a daily journal of what’s going on in your life. Then read back over it once a week to remind yourself what you did.”