As Darkness Gathers (Dark Betrayals Book 2) (29 page)

My movements were sluggish as I dragged my sweater over my head. I went under twice before I pulled it off and wound in around my back and under my arms. I wrapped the sleeves around the pile, and my fingers fumbled to knot the wet fabric. Once I was tied to the dock, I slumped in relief. I would go to sleep, but I wouldn’t slip into the depths and drown. Clay would find me.

Something nudged against me, and I jumped. Sydney was floating facedown next to me, and I buried my numb fingers in her braid and dragged her toward me by her hair. The movement turned her over, and I hooked my arm under her chin to hold her head above the water. Her lips were blue, her face still and tranquil.
 

I rested my forehead against hers and knew the dampness on my cheeks wasn’t from the lake alone.

It could have been hours or mere minutes before I heard the shouts. I jerked my head up and almost lost my grip on Sydney.
 

“Here!” My voice was a hoarse, soundless croak, and my tongue felt as if it were tripping over my teeth.

There were more shouts, and then my name being called. Feet pounded on the dock overhead, and a crackling splash sounded behind me. The sloshing of the icy water felt like a turbulent wave that threatened to rip Sydney away from me.

Something solid pressed against my back. Something warm and strong. Something familiar.

“I have you, Finch. I’m right here.”
 

My head fell back against Clay’s shoulder.
 

“You can let go of her now,” he said.

I felt stiff and frozen, and he had to pry Sydney’s body from my grip. I mewled in protest or pain, I wasn’t certain which.

A pair of hands reached down and lifted Sydney’s limp form from the water. For a moment, I thought it had begun to rain until I realized it was the water streaming from her clothes and hair that fell upon my upturned face.
 

The knot I’d tied with the arms of my sweater was icy, and Clay had to fight to loosen it. “Hang on, Finch. Stay with me now.”

I sagged in his arms as the sweater binding me to the pile loosened, and then I was hoisted from the water and placed on a stretcher. Something warm and weighty was draped over me.

Clay’s hands appeared on the edge of the dock, and he heaved himself up out of the water in one smooth movement. He crouched by my side, shrugging off the blanket a paramedic placed over his shoulders and covering me with it instead. “Talk to me. Can you tell me what happened?”

I rolled my head to the side and caught sight of Sydney, motionless on the dock, while a paramedic locked his arms and leaned into the compressions on her chest. Clay turned my face back to his with a hand on my cheek. Tears welled in my eyes, hot and blinding. I tried to reach for him, but my hand groped air until he caught it and pressed it to his chest. There was no strength left in me, or I would have clutched at him and burrowed as close as if I were trying to crawl inside his skin. I tried to speak, but the only sounds that escaped were ragged gasps.

“Breathe. Just breathe. You’re going to be okay.”

I shook my head, the movement wild and uncoordinated, and plucked at his soaked shirt. He leaned close and I mouthed, “Don’t let . . . go.”

“I won’t,” he swore.

And he didn’t. He strode beside the stretcher until it reached the ambulance, and then he shouldered his way inside. The paramedics didn’t protest.

I faded in and out, but even as darkness gathered, I felt the firm grip of Clay’s hand around mine.
 

Chapter Fifteen

Consciousness faded in but, before I could cling to it, receded. I heard snatches of noise. The beep and hum of a machine, the squeak of a shoe over polished floors, the slam of a door, the murmur of voices. I tried to focus on the conversations swirling around me, but too soon I was fading again.

“How is she?”

A warm hand settled over my forehead. The weight of the touch was masculine, the gentleness familiar. I wanted to be ensconced in those hands.
 

“The doctors say her vitals are good, though they’re monitoring her closely in case she develops pneumonia. Just waiting now for the drugs to wear off and for her to wake up.”

I wanted to wake up. The concern in that voice compelled me to, but my tenuous hold on awareness slipped once more.

When I opened my eyes, the unfamiliarity of the room startled me.
 

“What . . .” The rest of my question faded with the hoarseness grinding against my throat, but there was an immediate rustle of movement.

“I’ll get the doctor,” someone said, slipping from the room before I could focus enough to see who it was.

“Welcome back.”

“Clay.” My voice was a croak.

The stubble was dark across his jaw, and his clothes were wrinkled as if he’d slept in them. When he brushed my hair back from my forehead, I latched on to his hand and clung to it, feeling as if I needed an anchor.

“About time you woke up.” Though his words were light, I saw a shadow of relief—and fear—in his eyes.

I glanced around, taking in the sterile, utilitarian room. Without relinquishing my hold on his hand, I struggled to sit up then settled back down, stunned at how stiff and sore my body was. “What’s going on?”
 

He pushed a button and the head of the bed rose until I was reclined rather than flat on my back.
 

“I’m in a hospital?”

“That you are, Miss Rhodes,” said a short, portly man as he entered the room.
 

Bernadette Walker stepped in with him, and her presence surprised me.
 

“I’m Dr. Heath,” he said before flipping through the chart that had been hanging on the end of the bed and glancing at the machine monitors near the head of it. “Your heart rate and blood pressure look good. Temperature is back up to normal.” He donned his stethoscope and placed the ends in his ears. “If you’ll lean forward, please. Take a deep breath.” He listened to my breathing and then nodded before hanging the stethoscope back around his collar. “Good. Still no congestion in your lungs. How are you feeling?”

I glanced from his face to Clay’s and Bernadette’s. “Confused. Why am I in the hospital?”

The doctor watched me. “What’s the last thing you remember clearly?”

Perplexed, I had to think for several long moments before I was able to latch on to a clear memory. “My parents. They were celebrating their anniversary and my mother’s birthday.”

“I spoke with your parents on the phone,” Clay said. “They cut their trip short and are on their way. That was the night before last.”

I blinked. “Night
before
 . . . what?”

The doctor met my panicked gaze with his calm one. “You’ve been unconscious for almost twenty-four hours. That’s not uncommon for a patient who’s been dosed with Rohypnol.”

“Rohypnol? The date rape drug?” My eyes flew to Clay for reassurance.
 

He recaptured my hand. “You weren’t attacked. Not that way. You don’t remember anything from yesterday?”

I stared at our joined hands.

“Finch?” he said.

“I . . . I went going to the airport. I’d made a decision about my job and needed to speak with a supervisor, and then . . . William. He came after me.” I swallowed. “I went to see Sydney . . .”

Bernadette stepped away from the wall. “Do you remember anything else?”

“I remember . . .” I scoured my mind, but there was nothing. My memory was an utter void. I didn’t realize I was gripping Clay’s hand so tightly my fingers were bloodless until he stroked my knuckles. “I don’t remember anything,” I said, and my voice shook.

“You’re right, after we finished at the police station, I took you to Sydney’s,” Clay said, the gentleness in his voice made me tense. “I dropped you off at her place, and when I got to your apartment, Jeremy was there. He wanted to apologize for the other day.”
 

I nodded, recalling Jeremy’s drunken visit.

“While he was there, Bernadette called me to say William had started talking,” he said, and Bernadette nodded.

“I tried you first,” she said. “When I couldn’t get through, I tried Clay. We were considering the possibility someone might have coerced William into the attacks on you, or at least that he wasn’t acting alone. The airline’s payroll records showed he was at work both when your tires were slashed and when the hit and run occurred. But Sydney Beecher was in that vicinity according to your original statement, and she owns a car matching the description of the one that hit you. When we confronted William with the information, he broke down and admitted she—”
 

“No.” I recoiled. “No, that—”

I didn’t realize I was shaking my head until Clay cupped my face in his hands, stilling the frantic movement. “I called the police, and Jeremy called Sydney. She may never have told you—Jeremy said they kept their relationship secret, but they were involved when you first met her.”

I licked my lips. “That doesn’t make sense. We . . . Sydney and I had worked a flight together—one of my first with the company. She invited me to a cookout the night we got back from the trip. Jeremy was there. She introduced us! But . . . but all she said was that he was a pilot for the company, and when he asked me out to dinner a week later, I said yes. If I’d known, I would never . . .”

He stroked his thumbs along my cheekbones. “I know.”

“She and I started hanging out together and became friends soon after. But she . . . she never said anything.” I swallowed. I’d been staring at Clay’s chin, avoiding his gaze, but now I looked up. “You came back to Sydney’s?”

“I did. And I’ve never . . .” His voice was rough, and in his eyes I saw his remembered fear.
 

Even during the crash and the aftermath, he’d been so stalwart, so confident and calm. To see him shaken left me shivering.
 

“Her place was empty. There was an overturned glass of wine in the living room. I thought it was blood at first. The back door to the deck was open, and there were drag marks down to the dock.”
 

My eyes slid closed, and his fingers clenched and unclenched in my hair.