“I meant when did she escape? Why don’t you know about it?”
“Right.” He’d already wondered that and gotten distracted by … everything. He pulled out his cell, pushed the contact number for the mental health facility before he remembered. “No service.”
Becca pointed upward. Owen headed for the stairs. He hadn’t taken two steps when Becca cried out. Reggie woofed. Owen spun, hands up, expecting his mom to barrel into him and body-slam him to the ground. Wouldn’t be the first time. When she was lit up, she’d thought Owen was all sorts of strange things.
However, his mom remained right where he’d left her. The dog stared at Becca. Becca, Reitman, and George all stared at Owen’s leg.
Owen glanced down. Considering their expressions, he half expected to see blood darkening his pants. But everything looked normal, or as normal as it had looked since he’d gotten out of the hospital in D.C.
Ah, hell. He was walking like a peg-legged pirate. All he needed was a parrot and an eye patch.
Becca stepped toward him, hand outstretched, concern all over her face. “You’re limping.”
“I’ve been limping for months. Limping is pretty much why I’m here.”
“You said … I thought … You haven’t…”
“I know.”
“I never saw you limp until now,” Reitman said.
“And don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”
“How have you avoided walking without my seeing?” Becca asked.
“Wasn’t easy.”
“It’s impossible.”
“Not.”
“You weren’t limping when you grabbed me behind Becca’s place,” Reitman pointed out.
Owen doubted that. He also doubted the guy had been noticing anything besides Owen’s hands around his throat.
“You walked from my parking lot to your truck before, and I’d have noticed if you were doing that.” She jabbed a finger at Owen’s leg.
Owen’s hand fell to his thigh, and he rubbed at the ache. The movement made him remember Becca’s palm landing in the same place only an hour before when he’d helped her stand. An accident, but he’d enjoyed it.
In times past the simple brush of her fingers would have made most of his blood pool north of his thigh, leaving none in his leg to pulse and pain him. That hadn’t happened today, but he liked to remember the days when it had. Maybe the memories, the distraction, the shock—who knew—had caused him to forget the pain for a few minutes. It was back.
It didn’t matter why he hadn’t limped before, he’d done so now and Becca had seen. She pitied him. So did Reitman and George. If his mom had any brain cells left, she might as well.
Owen had to get out of this room—recoup, regroup, recon.
“I’ll make that call.” He gimped his way into the hall.
Becca followed. “I could do it.”
“They aren’t going to tell you anything. Privacy rules.”
Her gaze flicked to the stairs, then back to him.
“I can manage the stairs, Becca. If I was that bad off don’t you think you’d have noticed I had a limp before now? In a few weeks I’ll be good as new. I just need more rest.”
“You aren’t getting any here.”
“Not today,” he agreed.
Thankfully the stairs wound upward, disappearing from view of the hallway after Owen had climbed the first three. Then he could start taking them with his good leg, pull the bad one up, use his good leg, pull the bad one up. Rather than alternating right, left, right, like the rest of the world.
Two miserable minutes later he reached the porch, wiped the sweat that had sprouted during the stair-climbing portion of the program from his brow, and called the mental health facility. He asked for Peggy Dalberg, his mother’s caseworker.
“Missing anyone?” he asked when she picked up the phone.
“How do you know?”
“Starin’ right at her.” Or close enough.
“Where?”
“Her house in Three Harbors.”
“She’s never gone there before.”
“What do you mean ‘before’?”
He had the presence of mind to lower his voice, rather than shouting like he wanted to. He didn’t need anyone else knowing about this.
“She’s escaped two times. Three if you count today.”
“And no one called me?”
“I thought you were in Afghanistan.”
“The phones still work.”
“What would you have done from there?”
“I still should have been told.”
“You would have been if we hadn’t found her fairly quickly. We always have.”
“How long has she been AWOL this time?”
“Late last night.”
“You’re sure?”
Peggy drew in a long breath. “Since she got all the way there, yes. Unless someone gave her a ride. We post signs on the highway that people shouldn’t, but no one reads as well as they should. Or maybe they don’t comprehend as well