He wore a cheap suit and held a police badge. He tapped the metal frame of the bed to get her attention, then pulled up a chair. His lips moved, but Chloe shook her head, pointing to her ears and then to a notepad resting on the bedside table.
The detective frowned, picking up a pen and writing: Detective Miller. You're a hero. What happened out there? Was it a tire blowout?
Chloe awkwardly gripped the pen with her bandaged, clumsy fingers. It hurt to write, but she forced the words onto the page:
No. It wasn’t an accident. The truck swerved on purpose. And I saw the driver jump out of the cab and run into the desert before it crashed.
Miller read the note. Chloe watched his face closely. Instead of looking surprised or concerned, his jaw tightened. His eyes grew cold. He took the notepad, tore the page out, and shoved it into his suit pocket.
He wrote one last thing: You must be confused from the blast. Get some rest.
Before Chloe could protest, Miller turned on his heel and walked out, leaving a chilling sense of dread in his wake.
An hour later, the door swung open again. This time, it wasn't a doctor or a cop.