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  “You bet, and it’s a good way to end our day. Crazy there for a while.” Harper smiled at Sloane. “So glad you got back here when you did, pal.”

  “Me too.”

  Sloane had been almost grateful for a fulminating case of acute heart failure. She’d heard the sirens even before she made it back to the ER from the administrative offices and had been running every minute since. A perfect distraction. No time to rehash what had happened with Prescott, overthink the possibilities, or answer questions from—

  “You never said why the PR department wanted to see you,” Harper said, assessing the patient’s catheter bag for output. “Something to do with the Face of Hope campaign?”

  “You seem to be obsessed with faces.”

  Sloane cringed. Had she really said that . . . and worse?

  Harper met her gaze, a teasing grin on her face. “Spill it: are they going to make you the talk of the town?”

  “Hardly,” Sloane said, despite her stomach’s nosedive. “It was nothing, really. The PIO needs to respond to the press about that incident in the parking lot.” She decided against mentioning Micah Prescott. “She wanted to know if I had anything to add. Routine, I guess. And I didn’t. So that’s that.” Sloane dredged up a smile. “Got a muffin out of it.”

  Harper laughed. “I think I’m going to answer the call of those sea salt and chocolate cookies at Misfit. A perk of foot modeling is that nobody’s pointing a camera at my waistline. A couple of the outpatient surgery nurses are going too. You could come along, if you don’t have that class tonight?”

  “I do, actually. Do we need to empty that urine bag again?” Sloane asked, eager to dodge any further questions. She just wanted to get out of here, go back to the cottage, lock the door, and shut everything out. Like the thought that just came to her—what Micah had said about a dozen people calling 911. Which meant a dozen opportunities to snap cell phone pics, play amateur reporter. And of course, two actual reporters had been there with Prescott yesterday.

  “Bag’s good,” Harper reported, then leaned sideways and squinted toward the doorway. “I think that was Fiona walking by just now with our clinical coordinator. Must be something else going on. We’re like the hot news magnet these days.”

  Twenty minutes later Sloane reported off to the p.m. nursing staff, grabbed her tote bag, and headed out the ambulance bay doors—escaped. It hadn’t happened soon enough. That the PIO had passed her in the hallway with only the barest of nods made things even worse. Obviously Micah had told Fiona about their awkward meeting and the way it ended. How Sloane spat out that “I’ll be forced to take action” line like she was rejecting his marketing pitch with a crack of a Dodgers bat.

  Sloane halted at the edge of the building, queasy at the truth: she’d threatened hospital administration. Even if she hadn’t said the words, Prescott would assume Sloane was implying legal action. A new employee, still on probation, threatening to sue the hospital. What had she been thinking?

  She leaned against the sun-warmed stucco and squeezed her eyes shut. The whole thing was almost laughable. There was no way she would contact an attorney. She’d barely even cooperated with the police yesterday. Calling attention to herself was beyond dangerous, and she had too much baggage in her own dark history to go around whining “unfair.” People like Sloane didn’t get to play that card. It had been that way for as long as she could remember. A new identity, or even six months of “classes,” hadn’t changed that. Hadn’t really changed her. Lashing out at Micah Prescott was a defensive move, survival instinct. It was a stance that, in various forms, had become a signature for Sloane Wilder—and had netted her nothing but trouble and heartache. Obviously it still was.

  She stepped away from the hospital wall, watching the palm trees for a moment, the way they rose out of a harsh urban landscape of cement, lava rock, and carelessly tossed cigarette butts. They swayed in the breeze, tall, strong, even beautiful. A tree from an ashtray. Maybe Sloane’s own situation wasn’t all that different. She could count only on herself.

  If the too-handsome and too-clueless marketing man tossed her like raw meat to the powers that be, she would land on her feet. She always did. But just maybe her bogus threat had caused Prescott to take a step back. After all, he’d agreed she had a right to privacy, hadn’t he? Making her a hero to benefit LA Hope would backfire if he had to drag her into that dubious honor kicking and screaming. It would be bad press, and from what Sloane had heard, this hospital didn’t need any more of that.

  Sloane had probably imagined the dismissive expression on the PIO’s face and was simply borrowing trouble. This was a 24-7 news world and Sloane’s fifteen minutes had elapsed. There had been no identification of the would-be abductor or his vehicle, and his victim—the only true eyewitness—had disappeared. Sloane didn’t have to waste another minute worrying. It was over, done, exactly as she’d told the marketing man. Now she could go home to her safe little hideaway and—

  “Sloane . . . hey.”

  She turned and peered back toward the ambulance doors. Then saw the girl step from behind a stucco pillar.

  Zoey.

  “What . . . ? Why are you here?” Sloane asked, following her to a more discreet spot at the edge of the parking lot. It was clear Zoey didn’t want to be seen. She was dressed in the same clothes, dirtier, with the newsboy cap pulled low over her eyes. The abrasion on her cheek had begun to scab. “Are you having problems with your injuries?”

  “Hip’s sore. I haven’t really been able to clean up.”

  Or eat, Sloane would bet. “Did you want someone to look at it?”

  “No.” Zoey glanced at the ER doors. “I skipped out last time without paying. I know how it goes; they won’t roll out the welcome mat for someone like me.”

  “Someone like me.” Sloane’s throat tightened. “Then what—?”

  “I was sort of hoping I could borrow a few bucks,” Zoey admitted, resting her hand over her stomach as it rumbled. “Talk about good timing. I haven’t eaten since those turkey sandwiches. My backpack is in that creep’s car. My wallet, ID . . . everything.” She glanced over her shoulder, tugged her cap lower as two employees walked by. “I would pay you back, I swear. Give me your home address and I’ll mail it. I don’t need much. Something in my stomach so I can get back out on the road.”

  “I don’t know. . . .”

  “Right. Hey, forget it.” The tough-girl look was back, hardening Zoey’s waiflike features. “No big deal. I get it. Some trashy girl tries to hit you up for—”

  “No. That’s not it. It’s just that I don’t carry more than a few dollars to work and I spent that for lunch.” Zoey didn’t need to know she didn’t have an ATM card either—another eraser swipe at her paper trail. What this girl needed was food and . . . “Wait,” Sloane said, remembering. “I have a gift card to a Mexican place maybe ten minutes from here. That would work.”

  “Um, yeah.” Zoey nibbled at her lower lip. “I can walk it. Which way?”

  “I’ll drive us.” Sloane was still hearing her say, “Some trashy girl . . .” It hit far too close to home. “C’mon, my car’s right over there.”

  Zoey hesitated, caution in her blue eyes.

  “The card has enough for both of us, and I’m hungry too. Let’s go.”

  “Okay, I guess. Thanks.”

  “No problem,” Sloane told her, feeling better than she had all day.

  The gift card had been presented to her by LA Hope a few weeks back, when she’d been named ER’s employee of the month. Twenty-five dollars’ worth of tortillas, refried beans, pico de gallo, guacamole, or whatever. Mexican food and a Hallmark card signed by everyone in the department from nurses to janitorial staff. “For our highly valued teammate.” It had taken Sloane by complete surprise; she wasn’t sure how to handle it. Valued. Nothing like that had ever happened to her before. Except for a lifetime of cereal.

  She shook off the thought and pointed to her car. “That’s me, there. The green Volvo.�
��

  “I’m already tasting a beef burrito.”

  “Good.” Sloane was glad she’d remembered the gift card and could share it with this girl who’d appeared out of nowhere. She thought of her conversation with Prescott. His words: “What’s wrong with taking some personal credit for a good deed? Sharing it with the public?”

  Well, she was sharing now, with someone as wary of public recognition as she was. The marketing man would undoubtedly think the gesture worthless. Something about that felt good. Very good. Sloane smiled.

  “Here,” she said, reaching into her tote bag. “Let’s call this an appetizer.”

  She handed Zoey the muffin.

  6

  “ADMIT IT. You’re stalking me.”

  “Busted.” Coop pointed a tortilla chip at Micah. “But you’re no challenge, Prescott. Turn off the location setting on your phone if you don’t want everybody and their dog to know where you are.”

  “Good point.” Micah nudged the salsa cup closer to Coop; the tabletop already looked like a crime scene. “I’ll fix that.”

  “But then, everybody and their dog showing up at Manuel’s is a good bet anyway,” Coop added. “It’s practically a hospital annex.”

  It was. Micah usually avoided it because of that. And because of the crowds; it was packed in here. But there was nothing in Micah’s refrigerator except a zucchini the size of a manatee from Fiona’s mother’s never-ending harvest. He’d opted for a table rather than takeout because he’d needed a cooling-off period before hitting the freeways. It was safer to grind his teeth on a taquito than take out his frustration on the SUV’s gas pedal. A last-minute meeting with Fiona—and their decision not to pursue promo surrounding Zoey Jones—had been the disappointing capper to a bad day.

  “What’s bugging you?” Coop asked, loading a chip with guacamole. “You look like someone asked you to do a feature on pumpkin patches.” He grimaced. “Don’t ask. Seriously, man, what gives?”

  “No big deal. Work. The new campaign.”

  “Face of Hope,” Coop said, avocado dotting his own. He grinned. “If I could, I’d nominate that feisty little brunette from yesterday. The woman in the parking lot. Hard to forget her, even without the drama. I don’t see the hardship in sorting through faces like that.”

  Micah was tempted to say pumpkin patch duty was a lot more appealing than sparring with a litigious ER nurse. As luck would have it, Sloane had been nominated. An e-mailed form arrived in his in-box not ten minutes after she stomped out of their meeting.

  “I won’t have any of my personal information made public. No photos, no contact information . . .”

  “It’s Sloane, right?” Coop asked. “Sloane . . . Ferrell?”

  “I’ll be forced to take action.”

  “Yeah,” Micah confirmed, wishing Coop didn’t have such an infallible memory. He had envied it during their college days, but now . . . Micah glanced at the bulky camera case sitting at his friend’s elbow. “You deleted those photos you took in the parking lot?”

  “One photo. Your nurse and the kid with the bubble-gum hair.”

  “That one.” Micah reached for his best offhand manner. “You got rid of it? Because the story dead-ended and—”

  “Now you have me curious. Why are you suddenly so interested in what’s on my camera?”

  There was no way to get around the truth.

  “Sloane doesn’t want any media attention,” Micah told him. “No mention of her name. Nothing.”

  “Heroic and shy?”

  “Not exactly. She threatened legal action.”

  Coop’s brows shot up. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

  “Don’t,” Micah told him, bordering on anger now. Lately it didn’t seem to take much to move his general irritation from simmer to boil. “Let it go, Coop. There’s no story.”

  The reporter smiled. “There’s always a story.”

  “Not this time. I can’t have that kind of trouble. It’s the last thing I need right now. You told me yourself it’s not news anymore. There was no license plate on that car and there are thousands of models exactly like it. The girl took off without giving a statement.”

  “And the nurse with fiery eyes will sue LA Hope.”

  “Yes.” Micah hadn’t bothered to tell Fiona; it seemed pointless now that they wouldn’t be pursuing a statement from Sloane. “Look, just delete the photo.”

  “I already did.”

  Micah released a breath. Good. It was over.

  “If you want another steak burrito, no problem,” Sloane said, thinking once again that she wished she’d had a choice of where to take Zoey. Half a dozen people in scrubs had walked through the door. Fortunately no one she recognized, and she’d slipped her sunglasses on as soon as they left the hospital and hadn’t taken them off. “We still have seven dollars left on the gift card.”

  “I’m good. Stuffed like a turkey, but good.”

  Zoey had managed to tuck her hair up into the dark cap. No telltale pink, thankfully. Her eyes met Sloane’s. “I meant what I said. I’ll pay you back. I have a job lined up in Bakersfield. Write down your home address for me. Maybe on a napkin or this food wrapper—that would work. Here, take it. I’ll go borrow a pen from the cashier.”

  “Finish eating. We’ll take care of that later.”

  “But . . .”

  “Eat.”

  Zoey must have mentioned repaying the dinner cost three or four times. Clearly settling a debt was important to her. Integrity with pink hair. Sloane suppressed a smile. She’d write down the hospital’s contact information. Good intentions or not, no one got to know where she was living. Too much of a risk.

  “At the YMCA,” Zoey said after licking some green sauce from a fingertip. “With kids.”

  Sloane scrunched her brows. “What? I thought you were staying with a friend.”

  “No. I meant where I’ll be working. A special program for underprivileged kids.”

  “Oh . . . great,” Sloane said, trying to reconcile the certainty in this girl’s work plans with the sketchy fact that she was now hitchhiking with no ID and no money. Life knew how to deliver a mean curveball. No one knew that better than Sloane. “Sounds good.”

  “Yes.” Something like sadness flickered across Zoey’s face, then disappeared as quickly as it had come. “It will be.”

  “Your friend,” Sloane began, voicing one of a dozen thoughts that had refused to quiet. “She knows you’re hitchhiking?”

  “No.” Zoey set the remains of the burrito down. “I’m fine. It’s only another couple of hours. I told you I’m careful.”

  An injured girl fighting for her freedom.

  The memory came in an instant: Sloane at fifteen, in the garage with her stepfather. Her face stinging from his unexpected slap. Her whole body shook as she’d issued the strident promise: “You can’t hurt me—you’re nothing. Do you hear me? You’re going to die a big fat zero. And I’m . . . I’m out of here. I’m gone.”

  “. . . at the freeway on-ramp. I-5 north,” Zoey was saying as she tucked strands of pink back into her cap. “Drop me there. And write down your address—I need that. I have to have that.”

  “Okay. Sure,” Sloane agreed, tempted to offer to drive her to Bakersfield. She couldn’t stand the thought of some man forcing himself on Zoey again. Maybe convincing her she really was that “trashy girl” worth nothing and deserving nothing good or even hopeful. It was the kind of cruel legacy that would leave her alone, hitching a ride through life with a hardened heart and too-thick skin.

  “Great,” Zoey said, standing. “I’m on my way then.”

  “You are,” Sloane agreed, her voice choked by sudden and unwelcome emotion. She’d always conquered that before. Slapped it into submission or, at the very least, shrugged it off with a sneer. When had she become such a weak sister? Hadn’t she argued with Micah Prescott only hours ago to protect her right to privacy, her own precious autonomy? She’d even threatened to sue for it. Zoey Jones deserved the
same right.

  To make a mess of her life? To live lonely and apart? No, please . . .

  For a fleeting moment, Sloane almost wished she could pray—that God would hear it. That unexpected thought alone proved she was losing her edge.

  “Let’s go.” Zoey stepped away from the table. “I’m ready if you are.”

  “Sure,” Sloane lied. She had nothing to offer this kid. Only an example of what not to do. Best to end this now. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “You got anything going tonight?” Coop asked, setting his sucked-dry cola cup on the table. “Once I’m done changing out a truckload of kitty litter and making sure Grams has a cheesy Christian romance novel on her Kindle, I’m a free man. Pumpkin patch research can wait a couple of days. Are you down with some hoops, then maybe catch a band at—?”

  “Can’t. Sorry,” Micah said, though he wasn’t really. He was a regular at the gym and usually welcomed an opportunity to dunk a few against Coop. But . . . “I’m on call tonight.”

  “Oh, right. Your volunteer gig. The crisis team.” Coop shook his head. “Show up after suicides, drownings, baby deaths? No thanks.”

  “It’s not for everyone,” Micah admitted. “Big investment of time in the training.” He fought the emotion creeping into his voice. Coop would never understand. The concrete truth in that made Micah wonder why he bothered to foster the friendship at all. “But someone’s got to be there for the survivors when those things happen. When their lives get torn apart and nothing makes sense.”

  “Like what happened with your cousin,” Coop said, lowering his voice. He’d been around on the periphery back then. Saw the damage to the Prescott family.