Twisted (9 page)

When the splint was finally removed, she began resistance exercises, and despite Constance’s warnings to take it easy, Sloane had pushed herself too hard, too fast. As a result, the tendons in her index finger ruptured, and she’d been back in the operating room again. Dr. Houghton had done a brilliant job of grafting her tendon, the only negative being some residual nerve damage—and more rehab.

The process was grueling, painful, and frustrating as hell. But thanks to Constance, she could now bend her finger about two-thirds of the way to her hand. That was good—but not good enough.

Unless she regained full use of her trigger finger and was able to pass the pistol qualification test, reapplication to the
FBI
was out.

Sloane wouldn’t give up. And Constance wouldn’t let her. That was the other perk that had come out of this life-altering nightmare. Sloane and Constance had become friends.

Constance worked directly with Dr. Houghton at the Hospital for Special Surgery. She also had a small private practice near her home in Morristown, New Jersey, where she worked two days a week. That kept her child-care expenses down and accommodated both her New York and New Jersey clients. It was also ideal for Sloane, who lived about forty-five minutes away from Morristown. So twice a week she went there and once a week she went to the hospital.

Today was hospital day.

“Hi, Connie,” she said, greeting her therapist as she walked into the occupational-therapy room. “Sorry I’m late.”

“It happens. Thanks for calling, though. I returned a few phone calls from patients while I waited.” Connie glanced up from the various sensory reeducation tools she’d been laying out for Sloane’s session, frowning as she saw the expression on her friend’s face. “Bad day?”

“Weird day.” Sloane sat down on the padded patient’s chair at the examination table and flexed her fingers. The action didn’t make her wince the way it once had, but the ache was still there and the lack of full sensation in her index finger was still glaringly apparent.

“You look stressed out,” Connie observed. “How’s the hand?”

“Depends on when you ask. Some days good, some days not so good. Also depends on
who
you ask.”

“I’m asking you.”

“Okay then, the throbbing’s been keeping me up at night. That part I can handle. Now for the parts I can’t. The feeling in my index finger still isn’t back. Neither are my small motor skills, even though I do my exercises every day. And I’m still not hitting the damned bull’s-eye on my archery course, even though I’ve reconditioned myself to drawing back the bowstring with my ring and middle fingers.”

Connie rolled her eyes. “And I bet you haven’t walked on water yet, either.”

“I haven’t tried.” Sloane sighed. “Okay, I get it. You think I’m expecting miracles. But I’m not. Connie, it’s been forever. I just want my life back.”

“I know you do.” Connie walked around to the opposite side of the examining table and pulled over her stool. Seated, she took Sloane’s hand in hers, palm up. “I could give you a lecture on how far you’ve come. I could reiterate that it would take the digital nerve six months to regenerate under
ideal
circumstances, which yours clearly are not. I could remind you that with complicated hand injuries, there are no guarantees, especially when you’re talking about the fine motor skills needed to shoot a pistol and rejoin the
FBI
. I could say a lot of things. But you know every one of them already, and it doesn’t make your situation any easier to bear. So why don’t we do some passive bending exercises and scar massage first. I’ll do the work, you do the talking. Then we’ll switch. You’ll do active extensions and gripping exercises, and I’ll talk. So start. Tell me what’s going on in your high-powered life.”

“Nothing cheerful.” Sloane watched Connie put lotion on the scar-tissue massage tool, then begin a gentle motion with its roller ball, softening Sloane’s skin and soothing the scars around her incision. “I’m involved in two missing persons cases. One of the subjects is an old childhood friend. The other’s a college kid. Neither case looks too promising in the way of a positive outcome.”

“That’s terrible. No wonder you look so upset.” Connie continued her work. “Are there ransom notes?”

“Nope.”

“Is it possible that either or both of them took off on their own?”

“Possible. Not likely.”

“Well, you never know what’s going on in someone’s life. Remember Lydia Halas?”

“Hmm?” Sloane’s mind had drifted off for an instant as she pondered the unlikely prospect that Penny was alive. She switched her attention back to Connie. “You mean Lydia Halas—my nurse?”

“Yup.”

“Of course I remember her. She took care of me after both my surgeries. She was superefficient, but always compassionate. She gave me daily pep talks about how I’d recover and be myself again. Once she even sneaked me up a pint of Ben & Jerry’s when I was losing my mind from the hospital food.”

“That’s Lydia.” Connie smiled, bending Sloane’s fingers to check her range of motion. “Anyway, she left here right before Christmas.”

“She moved to a different hospital?” Sloane asked in surprise.

A shrug. “No clue. One day she just didn’t come in. It turned out she didn’t just leave
HSS
, she left Manhattan. The police checked it out, and apparently she and her husband had separated a few months earlier. There were rumors of abuse, but I never saw a mark on her. I know the separation was difficult for her. Apparently, she went to start over. I have no idea where. The point is, maybe your friend just wanted a new life. And a college student? They’re the ultimate free spirits. Maybe this kid got bored and ran off to find some excitement. That sounds reasonable to me. So don’t assume the worst. You could be surprised.”

Sloane smiled fondly. “Connie, you’d find something positive to say if I told you I was having a tooth extraction without novocaine. I wish I had your nature.”

“We can’t all be that lucky.” Connie’s eyes twinkled, and she placed a wad of medium-resistance therapy putty in Sloane’s palm. “Squeeze that for me with your entire hand. Then shift it to the space between your index and middle finger and squeeze again. And, while you’re doing that, tell me about the guy.”

“Guy?” Sloane complied, curving her fingers around the putty and exerting as much pressure as she could. After a minute, she placed it between her middle and index fingers and repeated the process. “What guy?”

“The one who’s been on your mind all week. I recognize the signs, although they’re new with you. I haven’t seen you distracted by a man since—
him
.”

Sloane grimaced. She’d told Connie about Derek months ago, during one of her weaker moments.

“Is there pain?” Connie asked.

“What?”

“Pain. You’re wrinkling your face up. Is the pressure too much for your finger?”

“No.” Sloane glanced down at the putty. “It’s fine. That’s not the problem.”

“Ah, the guy. Who is he?”

“He’s
him,
” Sloane replied with a sigh. “In the flesh.”

“Derek?” Connie’s brows shot up. “What do you mean in the flesh? He’s here in New York?”

“Yup.”

“How do you know? Has he called you?”

“Worse. I saw him in person. He’s assigned to the New York field office. And lucky me—he’s the agent of record on my missing friend’s case. So guess who has to work together?”

“You’re kidding.” Connie stared for a moment, then sucked in her breath and resumed treating Sloane’s hand. She took away the putty and handed Sloane a spring-loaded hand-and-finger exerciser. “That’s the usual pound-and-a-half resistance. I’m hoping we can move to the three-pound resistance sometime this month. Now grasp and squeeze.” She watched as Sloane complied. “Did you know he’d been transferred to New York?”

“I knew he wanted to be. I haven’t exactly followed his career. It’s not the best way to forget someone.”

“Not that you’ve managed to do that anyway. When did you see him?”

“Monday.” Sloane rested her arm on the examining table and gripped the exerciser’s palm bar, tensing her fingers and squeezing against the springs. She frowned, irked by the distance differential between what her trigger finger could accomplish and what the rest of her fingers could do. “And before you ask, he looks good. Better than good. My chest literally clenched when he walked in. Butterflies in my stomach. Roaring in my ears. The works. Just like when we were together. Except for the anger. That wasn’t there until the end, when all hell broke loose. But it’s there now, and it’s as strong as ever. So’s the resentment. I can’t get past them. I doubt I ever will.”

“Never’s a long time,” Connie noted. “Not to mention that there are two sides to every story. And that things aren’t always what they seem.”

Sloane gave a half groan, half sigh, and put down the exercise tool. “What is this—platitude hour? If so, it’s not working.”

“Fine. Then I’ll just point out the obvious. You might not be able to get over the anger, but you sure as hell can’t get over him. I call that a major snag, and an official catch-22.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I might get over him faster now that I have to deal with him again. Maybe the fantasies will be drowned out by the glaring reminder of what an insensitive, judgmental bastard he is.”

At that moment, there was a brief knock on the door.

Connie looked surprised. “Yes?” she called out.

The door opened and Dr. Houghton stepped inside. He was a tall, lanky man, with salt-and-pepper hair, angular features, and dark eyes that bore right through you. He carried himself with an air of self-confidence that bordered on arrogance but stopped just short of it.

“Constance, before you go home, I need that file on—” He stopped, visibly surprised to see Sloane there, and glanced down at his watch. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I thought Constance’s last appointment was at four.”

“It was,” Sloane replied drily. “Unfortunately, I held her up. I was running late, and I hit tons of city-bound traffic.” She resumed her work with the spring-loaded exerciser, intent on regaining her fine motor skills. “How are you, Dr. Houghton?”

He glanced at her for a moment, then stared at the exercise she was performing, eyes narrowed, clearly making a quantitative assessment of her progress. He might just as well have come out and said that her question was superfluous and not worth addressing. His one and only interest was her hand.

Sloane wasn’t offended. During one of their follow-up visits, Dr. Houghton had bluntly said that after all these years, he often didn’t remember a patient’s face, but he never forgot a hand. It wasn’t rudeness; it was professional dedication.

She responded by providing him with what he wanted to know. “The healing process is coming along,” she reported. “Connie’s a miracle worker. I feel some definite improvement in my grip and strength in my index finger. I’m waiting for my radial nerve to catch on and catch up.”

“It will—in time.” Connie turned to Dr. Houghton. “Sloane is determined to rejoin the
FBI
.”

Connie’s gentle reminder found its mark, and Dr. Houghton’s attention expanded to a more holistic view of Sloane. “You’ll need the coordination and fine motor skills to qualify with your weapon. That’s a tall order. Plus, the scars from your three surgeries will have to heal enough for you to manage the grip, and you’ll need to be able to exert enough pressure to pull the trigger. When is our next follow-up appointment?”

“In three weeks,” Sloane supplied.

“Good. We’ll see the extent of your recuperation then.” He turned back to Connie. “Call my office when you’re finished. I have a few quick notes to pass on to you for tomorrow’s patients. I have an evening engagement, so I’ll be leaving within the hour.”

“As will I,” Connie replied. “My babysitter has a date and needs me home by seven. So Sloane and I will be wrapping up soon. I’ll check in with you before I head off to catch the train.”

“Fine. I’ll be expecting your call shortly.” His gaze flickered over to Sloane. “Good night.”

“Good night, Dr. Houghton.” Once the door shut behind him, Sloane released the exerciser and gave her hand a rest. “He’s tough.”

“The toughest,” Connie agreed. “And the most brilliant.”

“Meanwhile, tough or not, he has evening plans.” Sloane blew out her breath. “My surgeon, your babysitter—it’s date night in the tristate area.”

“Not for me. It’s time-to-be-mom night at my place.”

“Yes, but Saturday you’re having dinner with Ken the lawyer. That relationship seems to be heating up.” Sloane’s eyes twinkled. “So your date night could be a scorcher.” A mock sigh. “While you’re having the time of your life, think of me recouping from a two-day seminar by working round the clock.”

“If you’re looking for pity, forget it,” Connie retorted. “You’ve passed up more dates than I care to count. You’re married to your work.” A pause. “And maybe to the past.”

“I’ll cop to the former, but not the latter. If anything, what happened between me and Derek is what made me swear off relationships. They’re more trouble than they’re worth.”

Connie shot her a who-are-you-kidding look. “If you say so.”

“I do.”

Sloane’s cell phone vibrated.

“Go ahead and answer,” Connie said. “All we have left is the sensory reeducation wand and the Peg-Board. I’ll set them up.”

“And I’ll make this quick.” Sloane punched on the phone. “Sloane Burbank.”

“It’s me.” Derek’s familiar baritone grazed her ear. “Just wanted to bring you up to speed. Both the Newark field office and the Atlantic City RA are cooperating. They’ll cover the Stockton campus while you’re away. And I’ll be meeting Deanna Frost for coffee tomorrow morning. I’ll get ahold of you in Boston if any new information materializes on any front.”

“Call me either way,” Sloane qualified.

“Fine. Gotta go now. My squad’s waiting.”

“Understood.” Sloane swallowed, grateful for the news, wishing it didn’t make her feel so damned indebted to him. “Thanks for the quick work. I hope something pans out from it.”

“Me, too. So long.”

“Bye.” Sloane was about to punch off when her call-waiting beep sounded. “Sloane Burbank.”