like sandpaper. She tried to wet her lips. Patrick noticed, fumbled around then brought a bottle of water to her mouth. He was gentle, giving her sips when she wanted to gulp. She knew he saw her frustration but still he insisted on sips. “Where are we?” “The hotel across the street,” he said. “Where?” “Across the street from the mall. They set up a triage area here.” “But the hospital…I thought we were going to the hospital.” “It’s okay.” He took her hand. “They were able to take care of you here. You don’t need to go to the hospital.” She sat up again. This time Patrick helped her instead of holding her back down. Her eyes scanned the room, searching through the chaos for the man with the syringe. “He’s not here,” Patrick told her. “I’ve been watching.” She avoided his eyes and continued her own search. The man with the syringe knew she was still alive. She wiped at her forehead despite the poke of the needle. Her skin was clammy with sweat and she still felt light-headed. Dixon’s message rattled in her mind. He said she wasn’t safe. That she couldn’t trust anyone. Not even Patrick. Did the man with the syringe give up because he knew she was with Patrick and he couldn’t get to her? Or did he no longer need to get to her because she was with Patrick? Rebecca glanced at her friend. His hair was tousled, his jaw bristled with dark stubble. His eyes watched her with an intensity she wasn’t used to seeing. What was it? Concern, panic, fatigue? Or something else? How well did she really know Patrick Murphy? “You okay?” he asked as he reached for her hand again. She pulled back, grabbing her bandaged arm as if in pain. “Did they give me anything? Like for the pain?” “I think she just localized it.” Patrick was already looking around for a nurse or paramedic. “Does it hurt pretty bad?” Now there was no doubt—concern filled his eyes when he looked back at her. “Could you see if they have some Advil or something?” “Yeah, sure. I’ll be right back.” Rebecca watched him zigzag through the triage groups and head for a nearby exit. She patted down her pockets carefully and stopped when she saw him glance back. He disappeared from sight and she twisted around to find her coat. Quickly she found Dixon’s iPhone. It was turned off. She decided to keep it off. She scooted to the edge of the covered table, almost forgetting the needle and IV tube in her arm. Another glance over her shoulder. No Patrick. She bit down on her lower lip and pulled the needle out, bending her elbow to stop any bleeding. Then she eased off the table, awkwardly, without use of her hands and trying not to notice the ache in her bandaged arm. Still no sign of Patrick. She saw an EXIT sign in the other direction and that’s where she headed. Within minutes she made her way through the crowded lobby and found an ATM. No one noticed her. There was too much commotion. She kept her head down but her eyes darted around everywhere. She slipped her debit card into the machine, keyed in her PIN and waited. She’d get enough cash for a cab ride, something to eat. Maybe she’d better get enough for a hotel room, but someplace near the hospital. The card spit out of the machine and the display screen blinked: CARD REFUSED. There had to be a mistake. She’d used this debit card a couple of times on their trip and in various locations. She knew she still had about $425 in the account. She slid the card back in and before she could key in the PIN the machine spit it out again, repeating the message. Rebecca glanced around. Still, no one paid attention to her. There was too much chaos in and out to notice her sudden panic. She pulled out her one and only credit card. She’d taken a cash advance from the card last month. She had a substantial cash allowance available but had disciplined herself to use it only as a last resort. This definitely qualified. She slid the credit