by Lucy Kerr
“Especially when you’re being blamed,” he said, following me.
“You heard?” Not a surprise, but the urge to defend myself was stronger than I’d expected. It wasn’t just outrage or my reputation. Clearly, Noah’s opinion of me hadn’t changed since our breakup. Selfish, he’d called me back then. Thoughtless and self-absorbed. The words had been spoken in anger, and in hindsight, I could see there was more than a little truth to them. But for him to look at me now and see a failure—a negligent, incompetent failure—was more than I could bear.
It struck me that he might have heard an entirely different account. He might have heard Strack’s version of the story. He might even believe it.
“Clem shouldn’t have died,” I blurted, needing him to hear my side of the story. “I want to figure out why he did.”
He waved a hand at a paper-covered table. “You think the answer is in a bunch of invoices?”
He didn’t sound suspicious, only skeptical. There’d been a time when I could size up Noah’s moods with barely a glance, but I was out of practice. I scrutinized him, trying to understand the angle of his eyebrows and the curve of his mouth, the way he held himself still and watchful under my gaze, like he knew what I was doing and was returning the favor.
“When you investigate a crime, do you always know where the evidence is?” I asked eventually.
“If I’m lucky, sure. Most crimes aren’t that complicated. It’s a lot of chasing, but you usually know where you’re going. Nothing wrong with straightforward, Frankie.” Despite his earlier irritation, his gaze had softened.
“Not always, right? Sometimes you have to . . . poke around. See where things lead.”
Now his lips hitched into a reluctant smile. “Something like that.”
“Well, medicine’s the same way. There are a lot of factors that come into play when you treat a patient—history and environment and personality and biology. The more information we have, the better we can treat someone. The more I know about Clem, the better the chance I can understand why he died.”
“He died because his heart stopped working.”
“His lungs, actually. I think there’s more to it than that. I think it was deliberate.”
“Murder?” he asked. “Who would kill Clem Jensen?”
“His son-in-law, for starters.” I explained about my run-in with Jimmy at Crossroads, and Noah held out a hand, palm up.
“Don’t tell me any more,” he said. “Jimmy could file a complaint, you know. I’d rather not arrest you for assault.”
“He was harassing me! It was self-defense.”
“I’m sure it was. Jimmy Madigan tends to think he can punch above his weight, and it never ends well for him.” He allowed himself a small grin. “He just didn’t realize who he was messing with.”
“How very sexist of him,” I said.
“The guy’s all talk, Frankie. To open an investigation, we need proof.”
“Which is why I’m here.” I held up a sheaf of papers as an example.
He glanced around the room, crammed with files and invoices. “Big job. Want some help?”
“Aren’t you on patrol?”
“Technically, I’m off duty,” he said after a pause. “I was heading home when the call came in. I was nearby, so I took it.”
“Not that nearby,” I said without thinking.
His brow furrowed in confusion, and then his eyes shuttered. “I moved.”
I could have kicked myself. Did I really believe he would have stayed in his childhood home? Noah had lived on the south side of town, in a neighborhood of tiny, run-down cottages next to the train tracks. His dad was a nasty drunk—mean, when he was around, which wasn’t very often—and his mother was . . . tired. Worn down, scared, helpless, and more than willing to let Noah take on the task of raising his younger siblings. Once Noah’s father abandoned the family, any thoughts Noah had of escaping Stillwater were abandoned too, leaving us in an impossible situation.
I considered asking how his brothers and sisters were faring now but decided against it. Our past was painful enough; poking at the sorest spots seemed unnecessarily cruel. It was obvious he’d moved out—and up, no doubt.
If Noah had moved out, he might also have moved on.
My gaze drifted to his left hand. No ring. Which didn’t necessarily mean anything, I reminded myself, ignoring the flutter somewhere behind my sternum.
“Don’t you need to get home?” I asked, hoping it sounded nonchalant.
“Nope.” He didn’t elaborate further.
“By all means, then.” I led the way into the bedroom, grateful that it looked more like a hoarder’s paradise than an actual bedroom. It was cluttered with castoff family furniture in various states of disrepair, and boxes of files were stacked on every surface.
Noah whistled, long and low. “We could be here till dawn.”
“You don’t have to help,” I said quickly. “I can manage.”
“I don’t mind. Besides—wouldn’t be the first time we stayed here all night.” He lifted an eyebrow. “You have a curfew?”
I felt my cheeks heat, remembering the other times we’d stayed here. “I’m a little old for a curfew.”
“Lila might disagree.”
He was probably right.
“The invoices are filed by date, not name,” I said, opening a box and tilting it toward him. “We’ll have to go through and find them individually.”
“How far back are we going?” he asked, pulling the cardboard lid off the nearest box.
I considered. “Two years should be enough.”
“Got it,” he said.
We worked side by side, making a central pile of Clem’s invoices. Each had his name and address printed at the top. The silence between us felt comfortable, until we reached for a box simultaneously. Noah’s fingertips brushed the back of my hand, and we both drew back as if scalded.
The mood grew tense. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “How’s living with Lila again?”
I made a face, and he laughed, the charge in the air dissipating. “That bad?”
“Not really,” I admitted. “I’m bunking in with Riley. It’s definitely a short-term situation.”
He nodded slowly. “When do you go back to Chicago?”
Unlike the first time he asked, I kept my voice light. Effortless, even, as if I wasn’t wondering what he’d make of my answer. “I haven’t decided yet. I’ve got some vacation time saved up, and I want to make sure Charlie’s back on her feet before I leave.”
“Don’t you have a wedding to plan?”
I went cold. “A wedding?”
“Lila hasn’t been shy about telling people. A surgeon, huh?”
Apparently, my mother hadn’t deemed the end of my engagement quite as newsworthy as the beginning.
“Noah . . .” My hand went to my necklace, where I’d kept Peter’s ring, and I tried to summon the words to tell him the truth.
Before I could continue, he spoke, his voice rough and gentle at the same time.
“It’s okay, Frankie. Is he a good guy, at least?”
I swallowed and nodded. Peter was a good guy. He just wasn’t my fiancé. Rather than admit it—to let Noah see how I’d failed yet again, how I’d hurt someone I claimed to love yet again—I kept quiet.
With any luck, I’d be back in Chicago before the truth came out.
“I’m happy for you,” he said. “Really.”
I nodded again and lifted the pile of invoices we’d found. “This is plenty, don’t you think?”
“If you say so,” Noah said, obviously relieved to be talking about something else. “What are you looking for?”
I studied the flimsy carbon copy. “How much business he was doing. Laura said he’d been paying for her son’s epilepsy medications, and that can’t have been cheap.”
“Wouldn’t her insurance cover it?”
“Laura said she couldn’t afford to pay for the meds and a divorce lawyer, so it doesn’t sound like
it. Even with insurance, people can still spend tons of money on prescriptions. It’s kind of a racket.”
I’d seen it countless times: people with chronic conditions who couldn’t afford to pay for the latest drugs, so they’d given up entirely—which only made them more sick. Most of the time, there was an older drug that was nearly as effective and hundreds of dollars cheaper. But there was less incentive to prescribe it or a generic version when the doctors were getting all sorts of “bonuses” from the drug companies—conferences and samples and dinners and gifts. Not all doctors were like that, and most would prescribe something less expensive if the patient asked—but even a handful was too many.
I scanned the invoices, trying to estimate how much Clem would charge customers, how much he’d clear. “He’s doing steady business, but he’s definitely not getting rich. How’s he affording those medications?”
Noah shrugged. “Could have sold some property or inherited. Won the lottery or hit a big jackpot at the casino. Maybe he plays the stock market.”
“He didn’t seem like the Wall Street type,” I said, thinking back to his worn T-shirt and droopy mustache. “I guess anything’s possible.”
“Possible, yes. Likely, no.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair, kept his voice kind. “It doesn’t seem like there’s a lot to investigate here. The guy had a heart attack and died. In the hospital. I know you feel a connection, and I know the hospital’s trying to pin this on you. But you’re reaching.”
“What about CJ’s medication? That doesn’t seem weird to you?”
“That a grandfather would spend his last cent helping his grandson? Not really. Your mom would do the same for Charlie’s kids, right?” He took my hand in his, calluses rasping against my palm, his thumb brushing the place where my engagement ring should have been. “I’ll keep asking around about Clem. But we’re not opening an official investigation unless you have something else to tell me.”
As far as I was concerned, Jimmy was still my prime suspect, with motives ranging from money to bitter revenge. There were plenty of other things I wanted to share—the truth about Peter, my worries about the store—but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him any of it, not when he didn’t believe me about Clem.
“There’s nothing else,” I said stiffly, tugging my hand free.
His eyebrows lifted. “You’re sure?”
I smoothed my hair, hoping it would settle my composure. It would be so easy to confide in Noah again. Standing in this familiar room, after all this time, it was as if past and present were overlapping, the distinctions fading. The Noah before me looked suddenly younger, earnest and endearing, and I felt alarmingly vulnerable.
“A thousand percent,” I said, lying through my teeth.
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “Funny, don’t you think?”
“What’s that?” I scooped up the invoices and shoved them into my bag, planning to study them when I could actually focus.
He reached forward and tugged at the lock of hair I’d been twisting around my finger. “The way people don’t change. Not really.”
“People change,” I protested. “I have.”
“Mmn-hmn. Do me a favor, Frankie. Stay away from the casino.”
“Why? You think Clem might have been in over his head?” It was an angle I hadn’t considered.
“No,” he said, voice lazy and amused. “But you still can’t bluff.”
NINE
Despite what you’ve read, warm milk will not put you to sleep. True, it contains tryptophan, same as a Thanksgiving turkey, and tryptophan can induce drowsiness. But you’d need to eat six pounds of turkey—or drink four gallons of warm milk—to truly knock yourself out.
Which didn’t stop me from tiptoeing into the kitchen, heating up a mug of 2 percent, and sprinkling it with nutmeg, hoping the quiet childhood ritual would soothe me. My body hadn’t adjusted to a daytime schedule yet. It longed to be back in the ER, with its bright lights and constant motion and spiking adrenaline.
I pulled my phone from my purse and dialed a number I knew would answer.
“Chicago Memorial Hospital, Emergency Department.”
“Mindy! It’s Frankie! How’s it going?”
There was a pause. In the background, I could hear the usual noise of the ER—the shouts of patients and the measured replies of doctors, sirens and loudspeakers and monitor beeps. But Mindy’s voice lifted above it all.
“Peter dumped you?”
I’d known it was coming, but the question stung regardless.
“He did.”
“Does he have another piece?”
“Another—no, Min, he doesn’t.”
“Well, we’re giving everyone in Peds the cold shoulder until he comes groveling.”
I took a sip of tepid milk. Gross. “I appreciate the sentiment, but it’s not necessary.”
“Aw, listen to you, putting on the brave face. Maybe he just needs some time. Guys get cold feet, you know. He’ll change his mind.”
“He’s not going to change his mind.”
“You don’t know that,” Mindy said. “Look at Kate Middleton. Prince William dumped her, and what did she do? She went out and showed him what he was missing. Next thing you know, she’s got a big old rock on her finger and the wedding of the century. Learn from Princess Kate, Frankie. Make sure when you show up next shift that you’re looking fabulous.”
“I’m telling you, it’s fine. More than fine. He was right to break it off.”
There was a burst of noise in the background, some new patient rolling in. Mindy shouted to someone, then returned. “He was right? You’re okay with it?”
“I am,” I assured her. “Better we figured it out now, rather than after the wedding.”
“Think about the alimony,” she moaned. “You’d never have to work again.”
I didn’t mention that was already a possibility.
“So if you’re not calling to get the scoop, what’s up? How’s life in the sticks? Dying of boredom yet?”
“You’d be surprised,” I said. “I was wondering if you had the number of our union rep.”
“Is he trying to get you fired?” she asked, outrage back in full force.
“Peter? No!” I trotted out my carefully prepared story—I wasn’t ready to tell anyone at work about Strack’s threats. Even though I was confident I’d done the right thing, I didn’t want the news to get back to my bosses. The threat of an official complaint would chip away at my professional reputation—the one thing I had going for me right now. “My sister had the baby, and I need to stay longer than expected to help her out. I was going to apply for family leave—not much, just a few weeks—and I was hoping they could help me with the paperwork.”
Another pause, as Mindy responded to someone’s question, her voice muffled. Then, “You need to contact Human Resources, not the union.”
“Sure,” I said with a weak laugh. “Sure. Might as well get me both, though. Just to be on the safe side.”
There was silence, and the squawk of a radio in the background. “Whoops,” Mindy said. “I’ll text it to you, okay? We’ve got two GSWs coming in.”
“Sure,” I said, wishing I was there to help, “Mindy—”
She’d dropped the phone with a clatter. I listened for a while, hearing the familiar shouts and sounds of the ER buzzing with the two gunshot victims’ arrival. It was functioning perfectly well without me, and the knowledge made me feel lonelier than ever.
TEN
Charlie was in the middle of changing Rowan’s diaper when I arrived at the hospital the next morning.
“Want to help?”
“I plead Auntie privilege,” I said. “Looks like you have it under control.”
“Come on,” she teased. “A dirty diaper should be nothing compared to what you see at work.”
This was true. Nurses deal with every bodily fluid imaginable, and it’s never as neat and tidy as it looks on TV.
“I’m off the clock,” I said and th
rew myself into the rocking chair.
“Did Riley get off to school okay this morning?”
“She did. I packed her lunch.”
“You?” Her eyebrows lifted. “She’s picky about her lunch, Frankie.”
“I noticed. She really eats peanut butter and banana sandwiches? With bacon? Can I start calling her Tiny Elvis?”
“Every day for the last two years.” She finished diapering Rowan and grudgingly passed her to me, mindful of the tubes and monitor leads trailing from beneath the blanket.
“Well, if it’s good enough for The King . . .” I said. Rowan pursed her lips and squeaked softly. “How are you, short stack? They treating you okay in here? Making friends?”
“She can make friends when she’s older,” Charlie said firmly. “When can we go home?”
“Rowan’s got a few more weeks, minimum, like the doctor told you. We need to fatten her up. This really is the best place for her, Charlie.”
She sighed. “I know. What about me?”
“Ask Garima,” I said. “I’d guess a few more days. Your blood pressure isn’t totally stable, and you’ve got plenty of healing to do from the surgery. Most people would like the break, you know.”
“I’m not most people,” she said. “I need to get back to the store.”
“You said it was fine,” I reminded her, knowing full well that Stapleton and Sons was far from fine, hoping she’d finally open up.
She tucked the blanket around Rowan more securely, avoiding my eyes. “It is.”
Ah. So that’s how it was going to be. She must have sensed my skepticism, because she added, “I don’t like being away from Riley, either. And I want to sleep in my own bed.”
“Join the club,” I muttered. Then, “I could help, you know. If something was wrong.”
She scoffed. “Sure. Don’t you have enough going on already?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said, trying to sound insulted instead of guilty. Matt had warned me that Charlie had radar, but the last thing I wanted was to cause her more stress.
“Mom keeps texting me to ask how you’re doing.”
“She’s freaking out because Peter and I split up.”