In Her Eyes Sarah Alderson (e book free reading txt) 📖

I say out loud, before pressing my hand over my mouth and glancing at June. I never swear in front of the kids. But can she hear me? Does she even know I’m here with her?

It’s a while before I realize that Laurie hasn’t appeared. And then I remember the press. What was that all about? What did they want? And that man downstairs who tried to get in the elevator. Who is he? Was he really following me or was I imagining it? Where’s Laurie? Anxiety gnaws at me.

They don’t allow calls inside the ICU so I stumble past the police officer stationed on the door and walk through the fire escape at the end of the corridor. It leads into a quiet emergency stairwell. I pull out my phone to dial Laurie and notice I have a voicemail from Nate. He left it five minutes ago.

‘Hey, Ava, it’s me. Call me when you get this. It’s urgent.’

His tone is ominous and it sounds like he’s walking somewhere in a hurry. Oh God. What’s happened? I’m about to call his number, steeling myself for the news, when I hear the squeak of a shoe on the stairs below me.

I lean over the railing but can’t see anyone and the footsteps stop. I turn towards the doors to the ICU – feeling suddenly exposed out here in the stairwell – and it’s then, out the corner of my eye, that I catch a blur of movement as someone starts bounding up the last two flights of stairs towards me. It’s the same man – the one who tried to follow me into the elevator. He’s launching himself up the steps three at a time, and he’s holding something black, something metal, in his hand – a gun!

I fumble in terror for the door handle. But it won’t open. It’s locked from the inside. There’s a small electronic card reader beside it that I hadn’t noticed before. I pound on the glass panes but the hallway is empty. Where did the cop go? Glancing back, I see the man has reached the top of the stairs. I think about making a run for it – trying to get to the next floor up – but he’s almost on me. All I can do is shrink back against the door, legs giving way.

The man slows, seeing that I’m trapped. He takes a step towards me and I let out a sob. ‘Please,’ I say weakly, despising myself for pleading. ‘Don’t hurt me!’

He’s out of breath and as he takes another step forwards I see the victory in his eyes. He points his gun at my chest. A tear slips down my cheek. I don’t want to die like this.

‘Did you know your husband is bankrupt?’ he says.

What? My brain takes a moment to compute the question, then my gaze drops to the gun in his hand.

It’s not a gun at all. It’s a small, black voice recorder.

‘Euan Shriver,’ the man says, thrusting the recorder in my direction. ‘Santa Barbara Herald. Can you tell me, Mrs Walker, did you know about your husband’s debt?’

‘What?’ I whisper, my heart still hammering. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘His company has gone bust. He owes over a million dollars to creditors. Did you know?’

Over a million dollars? That’s ridiculous. How can that be? Where’s this man getting his facts from?

‘How is your daughter doing?’ he asks. ‘Has she woken up yet? Did she witness anything? Can she identify her attackers? Can you comment?’

‘Here’s a comment. Fuck off!’

I jump. Nate has appeared behind me in the doorway to the ICU. He’s purple-faced with fury and looks like he just ran a mile to get here. He rushes past me and the journalist scuttles backwards, stumbling against the railing. Nate snatches the voice recorder out of his hand and tosses it over his shoulder into the stairwell. I hear it smash as it lands floors below us.

The journalist lets out a cry of protest. ‘You can’t do that!’

Nate grabs him by the collar and hauls him so he’s leaning over the same six-story drop his voice recorder plummeted into. ‘Looks like I just did,’ Nate snarls. ‘And you’ll be lucky if you don’t follow after it. How the hell did you get inside?’

‘It’s a public hospital,’ the man cries. ‘I’m not breaking the law.’

‘I could arrest you for harassment.’

‘And I’ll press charges for criminal damage. That was a four-hundred-dollar piece of equipment.’

‘You won’t be able to press charges if you can’t speak or write.’ Nate twists the journalist’s arm behind his back until he howls with pain. ‘And who’s going to believe you anyways? Who do you work for?’ Nate demands.

‘The Herald,’ the guy grunts, his face contorting with pain, sweat beading on his brow.

I’m about to put my hand on Nate’s arm to get him to stop when the doors to the ICU fly open and Laurie and the cop who was standing duty in the hallway come rushing into the stairwell.

‘Is everything OK?’ the cop asks, glancing at Nate and the man he has dangling over the railing.

Nate drops his arms to his sides and takes a step back. ‘Everything’s fine. This gentleman was just leaving.’

The journalist staggers in disarray towards the steps, clutching his injured shoulder and glaring at Nate, though there’s fear in his eyes too.

‘And if I see your face anywhere near here again,’ roars Nate, making the man jump in fright, ‘I’ll arrest you. Go on, get lost!’

The man vanishes, rushing down the stairs like he’s got a rocket up his tail.

‘Damn press,’ Nate spits, as he turns around to face us. His shirt is rumpled and his hands are shaking. ‘Are you OK?’ he asks as Laurie rushes over to me and asks the same thing.

‘Is it true?’ I ask. ‘What he said about Robert . . . about him being bankrupt?’

Nate nods. ‘That’s what I was calling about. I’m sorry, Ava.’

I glance at Laurie. She knows too. Maybe she heard from the reporters outside.