He wanted to tell her he'd come for her, too, but that wouldn't be wise with a cop within earshot.
The gurney wheeled past with the sheet covering the outline of a body. She went even paler under her deep tan. She tanned easily thanks to her mother's Greek heritage—and what an inane thought in the middle of hell. "You still haven't told me what happened? How did he hit his head?"
Maybe he should pull the SP aside and speak with him instead, but he couldn't bring himself to leave her sitting alone.
"I don't know. I had a couple of drinks over at Beachcombers. I was nervous about—"
Please don't let her say she was nervous about sleeping with Owens.
"—about breaking up with him."
Thank God.
Or maybe not because that gave them all the more reason to have fought.
"I don't remember anything after the second drink. I can't even recall leaving Beachcombers, just waking up here."
Nikki didn't remember? Or was too embarrassed to say? Either way, he could tell now wasn't the time to push her.
He could see the fear in her wide eyes. Her foggy eyes? Something wasn't right. Her dilated pupils stared back at him in spite of the early-morning sun through the windows and overhead light flooding the hall. Nikki didn't use drugs. He would bet his life on that.
Except no one ever believed his wealthy uptight parents were users, much less addicts, until his tenth grade English teacher. She hadn't been able to get the administration to do crap for him since his parents were six-figure contributors to the private school, but she'd pointed him toward Alateen. His parents weren't alcoholics, but the counseling principles had still applied for the child of addicts.
His teacher had also steered his parents toward enrolling him in a military prep school for his junior and senior years. A school far-the-hell away from his neglectful, abusive home life.
If Nikki had a problem, she needed help from someone better than him with his own secrets and demons.
"Maybe I should call your mother." He reached inside his thigh pocket for his cell phone. Nikki's mother, Rena, was also a counselor, even if she was on maternity leave.
"No!" She gripped his wrist with quiet desperation. Her slender fingers seared through his uniform sleeve. "Please. Mom has enough on her plate right now with Dad deployed, not to mention being over forty and pregnant again. She hasn't wanted people to know, but she's having a tough time with nausea, even a false labor scare. Please, don't call her. Okay?"
"You shouldn't be alone. Is there a friend I could call for you?"
She shook her head, tangled hair brushing her shoulders. "I don't want anyone to know, not yet at least."
"All right, but that means you're stuck with me." He shoved to his feet by the SP. "Have you finished questioning her?"
"For now. The lead OSI agent said he has more questions for later."
Carson glanced back into the room where two men in suits were crawling around the floor looking under the bed. The OSI was made up of part civilian investigators, part active duty military. Since the incident had happened on base, involving a service member, civilian police wouldn't even be involved. Would that be better or worse for Nikki? Who the hell knew anything right now except he had to get her out of here. "Then I'll take her home."
The cop stepped closer to Nikki's chair. "I'm afraid we can't let you do that, sir. She has to be checked out by a doctor first."
Doctor? They'd said Owens was the one who hit his head. Had something happened to her, too? That would account for the pupils and the confusion over what happened. "A doctor?"
He reached to brush back her hair for a better look at her face. She jerked away, flinching. From him or pain? Either way her hair swished to reveal a bruise on her cheek. What the hell had Owens done to her?
Scenarios he hadn't wanted to consider blared through his head. He'd assumed Owens died in a freak accident—slipped in the bathroom or tripped over his pants or rolled out of bed. Carson pinched between his eyebrows. He didn't want that image of Owens in bed with Nikki. But the image of Owens hurting Nikki...
Hell.
Rage threatened to blind him. He blinked the red haze clear enough to function.
He scoured her clothes as if somehow he could develop Superman X-ray vision and find marks on her skin. No such luck, a curse and a blessing. But he did find other details he'd overlooked earlier—missing buttons on her silky shirt tugged on over a tank top. One of the knees of her jeans seemed more threadbare than the other, as if she'd skidded recently. He would wager money he would find a bruise beneath the denim.
There'd been an attack. A struggle. And somehow Owens had died.
"Nikki, did he hurt you?" Or worse. He blinked back the red fog again.