sheriff explained after 48 hours, hope was unrealistic. Natalie Ivans never checked into her rented beach house. Her car was missing. Her cell phone was off. Her cat was being taken care of by a friend.
"Well, I'll be," Wheeler said.
"We should probably call the police."
"Yeah. And then see if we can get in contact with her family." Wheeler ducked back into the hallway.
Meredith stayed to watch the end of the news report. The on-scene reporter mentioned Natalie's background. There were no parents to contact, no boyfriend or spouse, no leads in her townhouse in downtown Charlotte. Nobody cried on television for Natalie's tearful return. If Roland hadn't been on the front page of the Charlotte paper every day for a year and a half, no one would have even noticed Natalie was gone.
So nice a murderer could be so helpful.
Alleged murderer, Meredith corrected herself, her chest constricting.
Despite being a suspect in a prosecutor's disappearance, Mike Roland was a free man. Meredith hadn't followed the case beyond the nurses' gossip in the locker room, but seeing him in handcuffs from stock footage from his original arrest filled her with dread. She glanced away.
The conversation of the waiting room seeped through her--worried voices, sad voices, deflecting away from whatever brought them individually to the intensive care ward. Together, they could hate Mike Roland.
"You think he did that lawyer?"
"He ain't got the guts. She probably just went nuts. You know, like Anne Heche."
"Or maybe she's a runaway bride, on up from Georgia."
"I think she just realized she couldn't win against a man like Roland and ran with her tail between her legs. Arf!"
"Nah, I think he drowned her, just like the other bitch. They should dredge Lake Norman next."
Meredith shook her head. She left them to the conversation and the blaring television and pushed through the door.
#
Natalya stared at the Jell-O on the tray in front of her. She shook the tray. The Jell-O jiggled. They wanted her to eat it? She felt like throwing up. Stupid pod people.
"Your name is Natalie Ivans. The district attorney is coming to see you," Wheeler said.
"Harry?"
She could remember Harry. She could remember she was Natalie Ivans, assistant state prosecutor working out of the Charlotte regional office. She could remember her apartment and her car and what her computer background at work showed. She remembered she was dull. She sighed.
"Yes. Harold Taylor. Do you remember what happened?"
She shook her head.
"Do you remember heading down to the beach?"
"Yes. It was just for the weekend. Two days, before I had to go back and the defense case would start."
"They've postponed while they searched for you."
"Searched for me? Why?"
"You were found Saturday morning."
"Worked late Friday night," she said.
Wheeler nodded, and said, a little too carefully, "It's Wednesday."
"What? Jesus Christ."
He hesitated. "You weren't in a coma. You were just--out. We kept you lightly sedated to encourage you to stay unconscious, so you'd heal. It's working."
"It's working."
"Your shoulder is broken, two ribs are cracked, and we removed--well, we'll get to that later. But you're going to be all right. Sturdy little car."
"I owed a fortune on it. And it was used. You wouldn't believe what I paid."
"You seem to be fixated on the car."
Natalie shook her head. "I don't know why. It was just--there with me, at the accident. I don't remember. But it was there. I was there. My purse was there. My cat—Oh, my cat. I just left her with some food and--"
"They're taking care of her," Wheeler said.
"Who is?"
"I don't know. But she was on the news."
"My cat was on the news?"
A few days ago--no, a whole week ago—she’d been an entirely different person. One not confined to a hospital bed in the middle of nowhere. Making it to the beach would have been preferable, she decided. She'd already be back in court.
"The whole state's been searching for you," he said.
"Everyone
"Well, I'll be," Wheeler said.
"We should probably call the police."
"Yeah. And then see if we can get in contact with her family." Wheeler ducked back into the hallway.
Meredith stayed to watch the end of the news report. The on-scene reporter mentioned Natalie's background. There were no parents to contact, no boyfriend or spouse, no leads in her townhouse in downtown Charlotte. Nobody cried on television for Natalie's tearful return. If Roland hadn't been on the front page of the Charlotte paper every day for a year and a half, no one would have even noticed Natalie was gone.
So nice a murderer could be so helpful.
Alleged murderer, Meredith corrected herself, her chest constricting.
Despite being a suspect in a prosecutor's disappearance, Mike Roland was a free man. Meredith hadn't followed the case beyond the nurses' gossip in the locker room, but seeing him in handcuffs from stock footage from his original arrest filled her with dread. She glanced away.
The conversation of the waiting room seeped through her--worried voices, sad voices, deflecting away from whatever brought them individually to the intensive care ward. Together, they could hate Mike Roland.
"You think he did that lawyer?"
"He ain't got the guts. She probably just went nuts. You know, like Anne Heche."
"Or maybe she's a runaway bride, on up from Georgia."
"I think she just realized she couldn't win against a man like Roland and ran with her tail between her legs. Arf!"
"Nah, I think he drowned her, just like the other bitch. They should dredge Lake Norman next."
Meredith shook her head. She left them to the conversation and the blaring television and pushed through the door.
#
Natalya stared at the Jell-O on the tray in front of her. She shook the tray. The Jell-O jiggled. They wanted her to eat it? She felt like throwing up. Stupid pod people.
"Your name is Natalie Ivans. The district attorney is coming to see you," Wheeler said.
"Harry?"
She could remember Harry. She could remember she was Natalie Ivans, assistant state prosecutor working out of the Charlotte regional office. She could remember her apartment and her car and what her computer background at work showed. She remembered she was dull. She sighed.
"Yes. Harold Taylor. Do you remember what happened?"
She shook her head.
"Do you remember heading down to the beach?"
"Yes. It was just for the weekend. Two days, before I had to go back and the defense case would start."
"They've postponed while they searched for you."
"Searched for me? Why?"
"You were found Saturday morning."
"Worked late Friday night," she said.
Wheeler nodded, and said, a little too carefully, "It's Wednesday."
"What? Jesus Christ."
He hesitated. "You weren't in a coma. You were just--out. We kept you lightly sedated to encourage you to stay unconscious, so you'd heal. It's working."
"It's working."
"Your shoulder is broken, two ribs are cracked, and we removed--well, we'll get to that later. But you're going to be all right. Sturdy little car."
"I owed a fortune on it. And it was used. You wouldn't believe what I paid."
"You seem to be fixated on the car."
Natalie shook her head. "I don't know why. It was just--there with me, at the accident. I don't remember. But it was there. I was there. My purse was there. My cat—Oh, my cat. I just left her with some food and--"
"They're taking care of her," Wheeler said.
"Who is?"
"I don't know. But she was on the news."
"My cat was on the news?"
A few days ago--no, a whole week ago—she’d been an entirely different person. One not confined to a hospital bed in the middle of nowhere. Making it to the beach would have been preferable, she decided. She'd already be back in court.
"The whole state's been searching for you," he said.
"Everyone
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