But not a patient.
Not a bruised, lurching, wounded patient in battered slippers tugging his IV cart behind him. As Shane limped by, the cop looked up, giving him a nod. Shane grimaced and kept walking. He lapped the entire floor, and this time when he drew near, the cop’s chin rested on his chest, his snores echoing across the hall.
Shane slid inside the room. The door clicked shut behind him. The patient lay in a neat hospital bed, much cleaner than the one that recently flared through Shane’s memory.
He ditched the IV cart and stalked toward the bed, flipping over the guy’s chart. His name was Ray. Shane’s kick to the gut had broken five ribs; one rib had pierced a lung. Ouch. Shane scratched his head. He could decipher doctor’s notes. But something told him he wasn’t a doctor.
Ray filled out the bed at probably six foot, two-fifty. Matted black hair pressed to his head. Dark circles slashed under his eyes. Surgery had probably been a bitch. Shane pressed his hand over the patient’s mouth. Ray started, his eyes flying open. He struggled, then stilled.
Shane smiled. “Sorry about the ribs.”
No response.
“So. You understand I could kill you in seconds?”
A nod.
“Good.” Shane removed his hand. “Why?”
Ray’s forehead wrinkled. “Why what?” He whispered, a good sign.
“Why did you try to kill me?”
Ray shrugged. “The job paid good. We were supposed to knock you both out and start the house on fire. I got alimony to pay—”
“I don’t care.” Shane eyed the slow breathing. The guy was drugged. “Were you watching me from a blue van the other day?”
“Yeah. We were supposed to watch you—well, until the order came in to kill you.”
“Who hired you?”
“Denny hired me.” Ray’s blue eyes hardened. “He’s the guy you stabbed to death.”
“I didn’t stab him. I sliced his jugular.” A significant difference. The fact that dumbass Ray didn’t know that showed he was just hired muscle. A moron. Certainly not trained well enough to go up against a killer. Shane might have no clue as to his identity, but something told him his enemies knew exactly who he was. Shouldn’t they have sent someone better? “Who hired Denny?”
“No fucking clue, man. Paid ten large for each of us.”
Ten grand. Josie’s life was worth less than ten grand to this asshole. Something must’ve shown on his face because Ray shrank back, jaw quivering. Shane pierced him with a glare. “You’re going to give me more than that, Ray. Because I really want to kill you right now—with a lot of pain.”
Fear widened Ray’s eyes. “Okay, I mean, okay. Denny said we had to make sure everyone in the house died, and that the whole thing burned to the ground.”
So they couldn’t be identified? Who wanted him wiped from the earth? Shane frowned. “What’s Denny’s last name?”
“Clinton. Denny Clinton. He freelances for area bookies and anyone who needs, well…”
Needs someone dead. Not much of a lead, though the fact that Denny was local created possibilities. Somebody might’ve followed Shane to Snowville and then hired local muscle. Denny could’ve been working for anybody. “I’m not going to kill you today, Ray.” Though every instinct Shane had whispered that was a mistake.
But until he could figure out his past, he wasn’t going to do something so permanent as murder when there was a choice. Something told him once he remembered his life, he’d change that theory. Maybe he’d even hunt down good old Ray.
However, even now with his brain a blank slate, there was no question Shane would kill for Josie. He leaned forward, crowding the bed with his bulk. “But if you come near my wife again, if I even seen you in the same vicinity…”
Ray lifted bruised hands, palms out. “I get it, man. I get it.”
Chapter 8
Josie forced a polite smile on her face, letting the soft jasmine smell of her office soothe her. She’d spent the night at Tom’s, and he’d driven her to work in the morning after she’d once again refused his offer of fleeing town. No way was she abandoning this life she’d built the last two years.
Plus, she needed to figure out the discrepancy in her accounts. Numbers and order made sense. When Shane had left, her job had given her a reason to get out of bed—and there was nothing she liked more than solving a good puzzle. There was no doubt she’d been distracted the last few months since she’d sent the divorce papers to Shane. If she’d made a mistake with the math, she didn’t know what she’d do.
She walked her client, the CEO of Trenton Industries, to the door of her office, shaking his hand again. The company built USB flash drives and was wildly successful at it.
Eighty-year-old Joe Trenton patted her on the shoulder. “Golf awaits me, my dear. Excellent job on the audit.”