All I'll Ever Need Read online

  “I have a prescription.” Nancy felt a twinge of guilt under her daughter’s gaze. “I didn’t use it, Ami. Not one dose.”

  Ami seemed to consider her mother’s words before turning her back and returning to her job in the bathroom.

  A week later, Claire fell into John’s arms after unloading the burden of her past. This time, instead of defending Wally, he just listened and folded his arms around her. “It was a long, long time ago. It will take time to forgive and go on.”

  She sniffed. “I’ve started sleeping with the gun next to my bed again.”

  He tightened his hug. “It’s okay for now.”

  “I feel so stupid. I tell myself I should be trusting God. I know he’s my safety.”

  John nodded.

  “But tell that to my heart.”

  He kissed her. She enjoyed the warmth of his mouth, and felt the stirrings of desire that she’d been shoving aside. John’s breath spread out over the skin of her neck, bringing a tingle that flooded through her body. She found herself beginning to respond. She pushed forward, writhing against his touch.

  But just as she did, the thought of her attack dropped in, quelling her passion and gripping her heart with panic. She pushed John away and gasped. He hung his head. “I’m sorry.”

  She watched him. She knew he took her rapid breaths as a sign she was hungry for more, but she knew that invisible fear had vaulted her into wide-eyed terror.

  Perhaps he sensed that something deeper than pangs of conscience had taken her captive. For in a moment, his expression changed. He stepped back, but gently brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “Don’t let it bring you down today. The past is gone, Claire.”

  She couldn’t speak. She wanted to lose herself in the comfort of his gaze.

  “No one can hurt you now, baby. The bad men are locked away.”

  He squeezed her hand in a good-bye. He leaned forward and let his breath escape onto her forehead in a whisper. “You’re safe, Claire.”

  That’s what I’ ll tell myself tonight. The gun stays on the shelf. It’s crazy to be ruled by something so long ago.

  Or is it?

  Chapter Nine

  A week passed with John Cerelli counting down the days until his physician would allow him to drive. He loved getting back behind the wheel, even if it was his mother’s Toyota Land Cruiser and not his beloved Mustang. His convertible had been a total loss in the crash. But completing rehab meant he could drive. Driving meant freedom. And freedom meant he could work again. Three months at home had passed with agonizing slowness, but now he could feel his attitude improving with every mile.

  He frowned at the first drops of rain as he searched for the windshield wiper switch. His grip tightened on the wheel. It was raining the night of my crash.

  Ten minutes later, he parked and headed into his office, where he was a sales representative for a company producing patient record-keeping software. He was early, anxious to get back on his Virginia circuit to monitor his clients.

  His in-box had grown twelve inches, spilling into a cardboard box sitting next to his desk, and conveniently close to the trash can. Over the desk, in a rainbow of colors, stretched individual letters strung on a string from the top of his window to the opposite wall. W-E-L-C-O-M- E-B-A-C-K-J-O-H-N. A single carnation decorated the corner of his desktop.

  He made coffee and returned with his first steaming mug to conquer the backlog. A few minutes later, he heard the arrival of another employee, followed by the sharp report of a woman’s heels.

  “Welcome back, stranger.” Ami’s smile was adorable.

  John shrugged. “Thanks.” He tilted his head toward the stack of papers. “Do you have a shovel?”

  She giggled. “I’ll get right on it.” She leaned forward across the desk, tempting him to peer into the neckline. She tapped the end of his nose with a manicured index finger. “Someone ignored my e-mail yesterday.”

  John felt a stab of guilt. He had seen it, another volume of her life history. He had replied to a few of her communications in the beginning, wanting to be nice, even shared a few details of his own life as he sat at his parents’ home with so much time on his hands. But Ami returned one e-mail with six more, until every response from John resulted in a dozen or more daily cute sayings or thoughts. And more and more, the tone had turned decidedly personal. He found himself torn. He loved the attention. Claire was so busy that she rarely returned e-mails. But Ami was too attentive, and lately, she was sending digital photographs. They seemed innocent enough, but trended toward the edge of decency. The last one, a picture taken at her apartment pool, looked like something from Sports Illustrated. He dumped the picture quickly into the trash, as his heart quickened with memories of past battles he’d fought with lust. But more often in the last two weeks, he’d found himself waiting until his mother was out before checking his mail. It wouldn’t do to have his mother walk in while he was reviewing the daily load from Ami.

  He cleared his throat. “Must have gotten lost in cyberspace.” How could he tell her to cool off without hurting her feelings? She’d mentioned painful childhood experiences and the need for a counselor. She was fragile. He needed to be gentle.

  She straightened. “Of course.”

  He took a sip of coffee, not knowing exactly where to begin. “Ami, about the e-mails. You really shouldn’t spend so much time on me. There’s — ”

  “Oh, I don’t mind. I can type ninety words a minute and — ” Her eyes paused on his sober expression. She hesitated. “It’s too much, isn’t it? Am I smothering you? Oh, I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just been so nice having — ”

  John held up his hand. “No offense taken.”

  She looked at the floor. “Is that all?”

  He nodded, but her eyes remained fixed toward the carpet. He was careful to keep his tone gentle. “That’s all.”

  She turned to leave.

  “Oh, Ami.”

  She looked back.

  “Thanks for the flower.”

  “How’d you know it was me?”

  He smiled. “Just a hunch.”

  Della looked up the drive in response to what was becoming a familiar rumble, the growl of Jimmy’s Harley. As she pushed open the door and stood on the front porch, she couldn’t keep a smile from her lips. He was such a boy. And retirement age looked good on him. She suspected he weighed no more now than he did as a college freshman. Trim, gray, with an attitude that said, “I’m here for adventure.”

  “How about a ride, Della?”

  She sighed. I’m a grandmother. I can’t act like this. Besides, I’m a married woman. What would people say if I wrapped my arms around another man, even if it was on a motorcycle?

  She’d been putting him off for weeks now, with one excuse after another. With her hands on her hips, she slowly shook her head.

  “Don’t say it! Don’t say the helmet won’t fit.” He shifted around and unstrapped a helmet attached to the seat behind him. “I got a new one,” he said, smiling. He held it up for her to see. “It’s blue to match your eyes.”

  “Jimmy!”

  He pulled off his own helmet and rested the bike on its kickstand. He did look rather charming in his new leather jacket.

  She stepped off the porch to greet him. “It’s just that — ”

  “Wally, right?”

  She nodded. “What would people say? It’s not proper.”

  “I’ve lived most of my life doing what was proper in other people’s eyes.” He locked eyes with hers. His were penetrating, set in a chiseled face framed by silver hair. “Maybe I don’t want to run my life by what other people expect.”

  She did want to go. It wasn’t that. Riding through the mountain roads with the wind in her hair seemed like just the kind of exhilaration she needed. A life with an invalid husband and the stress of the upcoming wedding were enough to make her think twice about jumping on the back of that Harley and asking Jimmy to take her somewhere very far away.


  She looked at him for a moment. “I want to.”

  “Well, hop on.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Della, live a little!”

  She shook her head.

  “If it’s any consolation, the face shield will keep anyone from knowing it’s you. With your figure and blonde hair blowing out the back of this helmet, everyone will just think I’m off robbing the cradle.” He winked. “It’s time to let the gossip mill have something else to talk about other than a serial rapist.”

  They stared at each other a few seconds longer before he turned and strapped the blue helmet back to his bike.

  She stepped off the porch and rested her hand on the motorcycle’s handlebar. “What are you doing, Jimmy?”

  He squinted toward the sun. “Doing? I’m getting on with life.”

  “Running from guilt?” She stared at him, watching for a reaction.

  His expression steeled. “She’s been gone six weeks,” he said quietly. “We both know if I had certain things to do over again, I’d do them differently.” He hung his head. “I feel so guilty.”

  She nodded. “I did too. For so many years.”

  “Just when I was ready to tell Miriam what a cad I’d been, she was — ” His voice cracked.

  She took his hand. “I know, Jimmy, I know.”

  “What do I do? I’ve cried my confession to her picture a hundred times.”

  She stepped away from him and sat on the steps. “Find a godly man you can trust. Talk to Pastor Phil. Tell him and God your story. Let God have your grief. And let him forgive you.”

  He nodded slowly.

  She smiled. “Then enjoy your Harley. But don’t use it as an escape from guilt you haven’t dealt with.”

  He wiped the corner of his eye with the sleeve of his leather jacket and looked away. “Why is it you seem to look right through me?”

  She laughed. “Because I’m blonde.”

  He shook his head and strapped on his helmet. Then he started his bike and lifted his hand in a wave. “Thanks, Della.”

  As she watched the dust rise from a stripe on the gravel lane behind him, the receding roar of the engine prodded a longing to swell within her, a feeling she’d not felt in a long, long time.

  Lucy came out of exam room A, her face blanched. Claire took the chart from her hand. “What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t go in there.”

  “Why not?”

  She shook her head in disbelief. “It’s Tyler Crutchfield.”

  Lucy motioned her away from the door, frowning. “We had a temp yesterday. She didn’t know the history, so she must have scheduled him. When I asked the deputy with him why he brought him here, he said he had no idea what Tyler was in for. His only assignment was to accompany him to a doctor’s appointment.”

  Claire took a deep breath and looked at the chart, which was made up of copies of a discharge summary from Brighton University and a few brief notes written by a nurse at the county jail. She went to her desk to read the account.

  After being shot in the thigh, Tyler was transported to Brighton University, where he underwent reconstruction of his femoral artery and vein. Postoperatively, he’d almost died from a pulmonary embolism, a clot which had formed in the damaged vein in his leg and had broken loose and traveled to his lungs. He’d been in intensive care on a ventilator for three days. Eventually, he’d recovered enough to be discharged to the infirmary within the county jail to do rehab while awaiting his trial.

  From the looks of his hospitalization, this must have cost fifty thousand dollars. But because he was a prisoner, the state foots the bill.

  She shook her head. It didn’t seem right that the state picked up the cost of care for its prisoners and ignored people without insurance like Richard Childress, who couldn’t afford a visiting hospice nurse.

  Lucy appeared in the doorway. “What should I do? I told the deputy to take him somewhere else. The deputy is willing but needs you to fill out some transfer-of-care form for the county.”

  “Why is he here anyway?”

  “He’s spitting a stitch.” She used medical vernacular to describe a small abscess that forms around a suture. If infection forms around it, the stitch will often extrude from the wound, or “spit.”

  Claire sighed. “Forget the form. I’ll see him.”

  Lucy’s upper lip tightened. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m the one who shot him, remember? I’d like to see what I put him through.”

  “Suit yourself. But I hope you don’t want my help. I can’t stand the thought of being with him any longer than I have to.”

  “Just set up a minor surgical tray with a number fifteen scalpel blade. I may have to drain a small infection.”

  Lucy disappeared. A few minutes later, a small light appeared on a panel on the wall opposite Claire’s desk. This indicated that a patient was ready to be seen.

  Claire took a deep breath and stood up, smoothing the lapels on her white coat. I can do this.

  She entered to see Tyler sitting on the exam table wearing an orange prison jumpsuit. His ankles were shackled. An overweight deputy sat on a stool beside the table, apparently more interested in the state of his fingernails than in his prisoner. “Hello, Tyler,” Claire said, purposefully raising her voice to emphasize his real name. She offered a plastic smile. “And just what can I do for you today?”

  “I got shot in my leg, Doc. But you know all about that. The surgeons over at the university patched me up, but now I got some drainage through the wound.” He smiled back. “So now it looks like you need to help me.” He chuckled. “Isn’t that a hoot?”

  She wasn’t amused. “Show me the wound.”

  He unbuttoned the front of his jumpsuit. He pulled it to the side, attempting to show the scar in the crease where his thigh joined his body.

  She couldn’t see.

  “I need to take this off.”

  She traded glances with the deputy before studying the proud smirk on Tyler’s face. He understood. The deputy would have to undo the shackles to allow Tyler to slip the suit off his legs.

  “Don’t worry,” the officer said, unlocking the restraint. “I’ll be right here with you.”

  Tyler offered a saccharine smile. Apparently sweet, but lacking the calories of real sugar.

  She sized up the deputy. He seemed capable enough, but she wouldn’t trust him to win a footrace when matched with a desperate criminal. A holster was partially hidden by his overlapping waist.

  Tyler slipped off the jumpsuit and lowered his underwear so that Claire could see the wound. It was a six-inch scar running from his lower abdomen straight down across the top of his thigh. In the middle of the wound was a pea-sized raised area. It was purple-red. She touched it with a gloved finger and watched a small drop of pus form.

  “You messed me up bad, Claire,” he said. “I thought we were getting to be such good friends.”

  She spoke through clenched teeth. “I’ll have to drain this.” She stood up and nodded professionally. “This looks like a little thing, but I have to warn you, if this infection has spread down to the graft they used to reconstruct your artery, a blowout of the vessel could easily lead to a bleed-out.”

  His smirk melted. “A bleed-out?”

  “You bleed to death. If the femoral artery isn’t controlled when a blowout occurs, you could die in sixty seconds.”

  “A result of you shootin’ me, Doc.” He chuckled. “Then I guess you’d be under investigation for murder, huh?”

  Claire ignored his trash talk and prepared to work.

  He looked at the deputy. “Wouldn’t that be a switch?”

  She turned and readied a sponge with an iodine solution. As she lifted her hand to prep the skin he raised his hand. “Aren’t you going to numb it first?”

  Her face was steel. “No. The needle would hurt just as much as the prick of the scalpel.” And you’re not worth the price of the Lidocaine anesthetic.

  She painted the wound unti
l his thigh and lower abdomen glowed orange. Poising the knife above the skin, she glanced at the deputy. He averted his eyes to the wall and winced. The officer’s cowardice was unnerving.

  Claire returned her attention to the painted operative field. Then she stabbed the scalpel into the raised area to drain the infection.

  Tyler sucked wind and cursed her.

  “Almost done,” she coached, watching the thick white fluid pour from the wound.

  With her attention on the wound, she didn’t notice his right hand until it came down on her arm. In a second, he ripped the scalpel from her hand and jumped from the table. Then, before Claire could even scream, he was behind her, with one hand on her chin, extending her neck so that her head lay against his cheek. The deputy, temporarily distracted by the flow of infection from the prisoner’s wound, was too slow on the draw. As he reached for his holster, Tyler pressed the infected scalpel to Claire’s neck, scratching a line on the surface. “One more move and I’ll cut her jugular.”

  The officer looked up, his eyes wide, meeting Claire’s.

  She could feel the pain on her neck, and the wetness of a drop of blood trickling into her shirt. “Do what he says.”

  “Put the gun on the table with the handle facing me.”

  The deputy obeyed. Tyler quickly snatched the gun, throwing the scalpel aside. He pressed the barrel to her temple. “Put down the radio,” he ordered. “And car keys.”

  Again, the deputy placed the radio and his keys on the exam table.

  “Now take off your clothes.” Claire gasped, but realized he was talking to the officer. Once the officer stood in only his boxers, Tyler turned his attention to her. “Now yours,” he sneered. “I want to see what I missed.”

  Claire steadied her voice. “Tyler, you have an infected wound over a major artery. If this isn’t treated properly, a bleed could be fatal.”

  “Shut up!” He released her and trained the gun on her forehead. “Start with the blouse.”

  Claire glanced quickly at the officer, hoping that he could take advantage of Tyler’s attention being drawn to her.