RUNAWAY by Christie Ridgway Page A

the hospital.

    That Jerry was gone and that Owen hadn’t been able to prevent Jerry’s death. All his training, all their equipment and experience, none of it had been able to stop the outcome. It was just like that damn nightmare, when even aware of what was about to happen, Owen hadn’t been able to stop Jerry from going down.
    “And son, I read in the paper…” Philip Marston cleared his throat. “I read in the Paxton newspaper that your colleague, he was younger than you.”
    “A couple of years.”
    “And that he was married.”
    “I went to their wedding,” he heard himself say. “The bride’s name is Ellie.” He thought of her apple cheeks and her sparkling blue eyes. Even in a wedding dress and veil, she’d looked hardly older than a teenager. She and Jerry had been high school sweethearts and he’d worn that same jaunty grin at the altar that Owen had seen on his face in the nightmare.
    His grandfather’s voice lowered to a gruffer note. “The young widow is eight months pregnant.”
    The carpenters synchronized their hammers, assaulting Owen’s skull with a single joint blow. He squeezed his eyes against the pain. “Yes.” Eight months pregnant. Oh, damn it all, yes.
    It was that fact he’d been avoiding facing since he’d learned of Jerry’s death. It’s why he hadn’t moved hell and high water to make it to the funeral. It was why he’d not called Ellie, or sent a separate floral arrangement besides the one the station hadadded his name to and the other that his mother had sent from the entire Marston clan.
    He hadn’t wanted to think about it.
    Jerry had been so psyched to be a dad. He swore he was going to be the kind who read to his toddler every night. He’d coach if the child was into sports, he’d applaud if the kid was into dance recitals, he’d listen to squeaky violin lessons and make a hundred kites catch wind.
    Jerry said he’d had that kind of father himself and wanted to give his son or daughter every wonderful childhood moment that he’d experienced. Jerry’s dad had passed away five years before. Jerry two weeks ago.
    Leaving no one to do all those things for Jerry and Ellie’s child because Jerry had died.
    And Owen survived.
    Why?
    He hadn’t wanted to ask himself that question because he knew there was no good answer.
    Why?
    Why?
    He forced the question from his mind. “Look, Granddad—”
    “I’m walking up your front steps, Owen,” the old man said. “You better tell your young woman to let me in.”
    And remind her not to give away that she was Owen’s wife, he thought, hobbling toward the bedroom door. Great. His positive mood was gone for good. He touched the note in his pocket. And now he’d found the perfect way to extinguish hers, too.

    Izzy hauled in a deep breath before opening Owen’s front door. She knew who was on the other side. Philip Marston. His grandson, the man she’d slept with the night before, had just called her up the stairs in an urgent voice and explained that his grandfather was moments away and that she’d been identified as the “health worker” by his mother. For reasons of their privacy, Owen supposed, or their sanity, he’d added.
    He’d looked tense and tired, the exact opposite of how she’d felt upon waking up. She hoped it was the unexpected arrival of his grandfather that was affecting his mood, but…well, she just wasn’t going to worry about it. Her state of mind was buoyant, and she planned on keeping it that way.
    Why not? She’d been wondering for weeks about what she’d missed out on with Owen, and now she knew. Yes, as he’d suspected, they danced on the mattress as well as they did in the clubs in Las Vegas. Satisfying one’s curiosity could be a positive experience.
    On her next breath, she pulled open the door. The impression of a tall, gray-haired man flashed through her brain before she found herself flat on her back on the floor, a yellow monster hanging over her.

    “Nugget,” the man