ED STOOD IN THE DOORWAY OF THE FIFTH-FLOOR HOSPITAL room and stared at Margot.
She looked like she was sleeping. Other than the IV tube taped in place on her left arm, she wasn’t hooked up to any machines that artificially enhanced her vital functions. Just a heart rate monitor, its slow and steady blips a constant reminder of Margot’s comatose state.
He closed his eyes and pictured her smile. He’d only seen it a few times: once in the assembly when the members of Don’t Get Mad humiliated Coach Creed in front of the entire school, once in the computer lab when she and Bree brought him into the DGM fold, and once in the hallway at Bishop DuMaine when she was talking to Logan Blaine.
Ed’s chest tightened. It wasn’t Logan’s fault Margot had fallen for him. Hell, if Ed were into dudes, Logan would probably be the kind he’d swoon over too—tall, athletic, blond, charming.
Ed’s hand drifted to the pocket of his jacket, his fingers brushing the rumpled piece of paper he kept with him at all times. Tall and blond? No, that wasn’t his type at all.
He placed a metal chair next to Margot’s bed, careful not to make any noise. Why? He had no idea. It wasn’t like she was actually sleeping. He could have led the entire Bishop DuMaine marching band in a figure eight through her room and wouldn’t have gotten so much as a twitch in response.
Way to be positive, Edward.
He took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly through parted lips. The room smelled of freshly cut flowers mixed with cleaning astringent, the same scent that seemed to permeate every hospital he’d ever visited. Massive bouquets covered the floor near the window, a zoo of stuffed animals piled up around them. The collection had definitely grown since yesterday’s visit, and as Ed took a mental inventory, his brain automatically calculated the net cost of all the crap: a sad-eyed puppy holding a Get Well sign ($14.99), a T. rex with its arm in a sling (kitschy, so it probably cost more), no fewer than three pink teddy bears grasping plastic hearts that said “We miss you” (clearly on sale). And a solitary two-dollar Mylar balloon tethered to the floor with a plastic figurine. It rotated in the breeze of the hospital’s ventilation system, flashing Ed his own reflection every few seconds.
He wondered which, if any, of the gifts had come from Logan. Maybe the T. rex? Quirky, kinda sentimental, pricey without being ridiculous: that seemed Logan’s speed. Or maybe it was from the other members of DGM? Ed clenched his jaw. They’d better have sent something. Kitty, Olivia, and Bree were as much to blame for Margot’s coma as the person who’d clocked her over the head.
Ed gingerly placed his hand on top of Margot’s. He was going to figure out why this had happened, even if it killed him.
A woman’s voice drifted down the hallway, accompanied by the soft squeak of rubber soles on tile floor. “Her room is at the end of the hall.”
Ed jumped to his feet. Vicky, the night nurse whose shift, Ed knew damn well, ended ten minutes ago. What the hell was she still doing there?
“Are you sure you won’t get in trouble for letting me visit her?” someone asked.
Ed’s stomach dropped. He recognized that voice.
Logan.
Vicky clicked her tongue. “The way you look at her? Honey, every girl in a coma should have someone with that much love watching out for them.”
Ed tensed as the footsteps approached the door. There was no time to slip out of the room and down the back stairs the way he’d come. This was going to be awkward.
“You have about ten minutes,” Vicky continued, “before—”
She stopped short at the sight of Ed standing beside Margot’s bed. The bright smile on her face morphed into a suspicious glare. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“Er . . .”
“Hey!” Logan said. “I know you.” He tilted his head to one side as if it worked better at an angle. “Don’t I?”
Really? Margot picked that?
“How did you get in?” Vicky demanded. “The ICU is a secure wing.”
The laundry room ain’t exactly secure, lady. But he didn’t want to give away his secret. Instead, he glanced rapidly back and forth between Vicky and Margot’s unconscious figure. “Wait a minute!” Ed gasped. He dropped his jaw in mock surprise. “This isn’t Aunt Helen’s room. I must be on the wrong floor.”
Vicky dropped her chin, eyebrows raised. “The wrong floor?”
“Yeah, sorry.” Time for an exit strategy. “You know what? I think I accidentally took two Ritalin this morning instead of one Ritalin and one Wellbutrin so I’m a little”—he whistled and pointed at his temple while he edged closer to the door—“cuckoo.” He twitched violently, jerking his shoulder while his head shot back and forth with sharp, erratic movements.
“Yeah!” Logan bobbed his head. “We go to school together.”
Not exactly the brain trust, Logan.
“Are you okay, kid?” Vicky asked.
“Yeah, yeah. Sure!” Ed laughed loudly. “I’m totally fine. Just need to, you know, get home and pump my stomach and”—he glanced at his watch—“oh my, will you look at the time!” He pushed past Vicky and the still-confused Logan and walked backward down the hall, flashing two finger guns at them as he retreated. “I am considerably out of here.”
Ed hurried to his car. The sun had risen above the distant mountains and was beginning to burn off the layer of fog that had descended over Menlo Park, but he had no time to enjoy the warmth. Instead, he slipped into the driver’s seat, pulled the door closed behind him, and hit the automatic lock.
He probably should have waited for Logan, should have talked to him about Margot. They both cared about her, and Logan hadn’t given Ed any reason not to trust him, but still, Ed hesitated. He wasn’t ready. He was still trying to piece together what happened Thursday night, and until he did so, he was going to play everything close to the vest.
There’s still a killer on the loose, after all.
