One Dead Under the Cuckoo's Nest by Lori Avocato Read Free Book Online

for you.”
    I wasn’t sure if she meant that I’d get out of here faster or that while I was marooned here, the stay would be more pleasant. “Please—” I swung around to Jagger. “Please, Dr. Dick , discharge me from here.” I turned toward the nun. “And my name is Pauline. ” Damn. The words came out on a shaky note. I felt heat burning in my chest and my eyes started to tear. I did not want to cry.
    The sister made the sign of the cross.
    The fullback orderly walked out the door, chuckling.
    And I stared at Jagger.
    He didn’t take his gaze off of me this time. “I know this isn’t easy on you.” He looked at Sister Wacky. “Let’s humor her and call her Pauline.” He put his arm around the nun and guided her to the door. “I need a few more minutes alone with this patient.”
    With her full cheeks bright red, obviously from his contact, she nodded. “Are you sure you’ll be all right? I can have Spike chaperone if need be.”
    Spike? The name fit the big lug like a size-million glove.
    Jagger smiled at Sister Wacky.
    Ah, that smile, I thought, until I remembered he was the reason why I was here.
    What I couldn’t figure out was . . . what the hell for?
    It seemed as if hours had passed since the nun and orderly had left me alone with Jagger. I’d plopped myself on the examining table and shut my lips. Had to. If I started to talk, or answer his numerous questions, I feared I’d melt into a puddle of tears.
    With a burning sensation in my throat, I watched the second hand climb ever so slowly around the clock behind him. A plain, stark, black-and-white office-type clock. Made me think of Adele’s cat clock, which made me miss her and everyone else.
    â€œLook, Pauline. It kills me to see you here, but there’s a damn good reason for it.”
    My interest peeked. Shit. I pulled my gaze from the second hand before it hit twelve. Midnight. The witching hour. I wished I was home in my own bed, snuggled with Spanky.
    I tried to ignore my curiosity, but Jagger had used my real name. When he did that, instead of calling me Sherlock,he was dead serious. I couldn’t ignore that. “What is it?”
    He looked at me. “What’s what?”
    I let out a long sigh. “The reason, Jagger. What the hell is the reason I am locked up here against my will?”
    This time he started to shake his head, but stopped and said, “You won’t be here long if you cooperate.”
    Typical Jagger. Even when I was being held hostage in a whacko hospital, he wouldn’t tell me why. I folded my hands across my chest. That’s when I realized I didn’t have on my bra (The nuns took it so I wouldn’t hang myself with it, and right then I just might have done that if I’d had my 34B handy. Guns I didn’t know from caliber, but bras I knew cup by cup.) Suddenly I felt naked.
    And, believe me, you don’t want to feel naked around Jagger, especially when you are so pissed at him you still want to strangle him. I tightened my arms, as if that might keep him from noticing, but all it did was pull his focus to my chest.
    I think Jagger blushed.
    But with the red wig, I wasn’t sure if it was a true blush or a reflection of the Ronald McDonald color. I wanted it to be a real flush—however, that didn’t seem like a Jagger thing.
    Stop it! I had to get back to the matter at hand and not let his being here distract my furor. “What is really going on, Jagger?” Okay, it did come out a bit shaky with tears but, damn it, I felt like crying. Maybe that would get him talking. Appeal to his senses, his humanity.
    â€œOooooooh!” I opened the dam and let the tears begin. With a few added sniffles and sobs, I started to wipe at my eyes. I might not be good at lying, but I was totally good at acting.
    Jagger looked a bit shaken. Then, since the guy must have been made of steel