by CJ Lyons
“These boys took Nate’s great-great-grandad’s medal.” She stood and pointed to the Homans with her free hand, the other still gripping Luka’s. “And then they called him a very bad name and threw balls at him during recess.”
“Did not!” Billy retorted while Jimmy made a smirky face at her. “Emily lies. Everyone knows that.”
“Yeah,” Jimmy joined in. “Like how she said her dad’s a hero who catches bad guys when he was really just a computer geek who got himself killed.”
Emily dropped Luka’s hand and launched herself at the twins. Two against one, both twice her size? She didn’t care. They couldn’t talk about her daddy that way. But Luka grabbed her by the waist, lifting her off her feet, even as Nate sprang out of his chair.
“Leave her alone,” Nate said without raising his voice. She’d noticed before that Luka did that too—he was most serious when his voice went low and quiet. “Want to pick on someone, you pick on me.”
“No one’s picking on anyone,” came a voice from behind them. Everyone straightened up, even Luka, who gently set Emily back on her feet before turning to face Ms. Driscoll.
Emily could never figure out how old Ms. Driscoll really was. Her hair was all one color, like it had been painted on, and her face was too smooth, maybe because she never frowned or smiled or laughed—she just stared, her two dark, beady eyes like laser beams. When Emily and Nate played Space Aliens, the evil robot overlord was always Ms. Driscoll.
“You must be Nate’s uncle,” Ms. Driscoll said, eying Luka.
He met her gaze without a flinch. “I am. I’m sure we can get to the bottom of this—”
“He shoved me.” Jimmy pointed at Nate. “I fell down. Hurt my arm. Maybe even broke it.” He dramatically rubbed his elbow.
“Right,” his brother chimed in. “It was Nate. He did it.”
Nate stood silently, his face down but his gaze angled up, aimed not at Ms. Driscoll, who would decide his punishment, but at Luka. Afraid. Not of being punished, Emily knew, but of disappointing Luka, of being sent back to foster care.
“They’re lying.” She turned her back to the Homans and focused on the grownups. “Nate didn’t shove anyone. They were hitting him with balls and calling him names. Bad names.”
Billy opened his mouth to interrupt but Ms. Driscoll silenced him with a glance. “My office. All of you. Now.”
They marched inside, Jimmy and Billy bumping against Nate until Luka inserted himself between them, separating them effortlessly as he wrapped his arm around Nate’s shoulders. Emily trailed behind, feeling suddenly very alone.
“What are you doing to my baby!” A shout echoed through the reception area. Miss Ruby ran into Ms. Driscoll’s office. “Don’t you touch my Emily. She hasn’t done anything wrong.” Ruby laid a palm on each of Emily’s shoulders, ready to haul her away if need be. It felt good. Only Emily wished it was Mommy. Where was she?
Emily sighed. Where Mommy always was. At work.
Ms. Driscoll took her seat behind her desk. She smoothed her hands across the paper calendar that covered most of it. “The Homans didn’t answer my calls, so we’ll begin without them.”
There weren’t any other chairs in her office, so they all had no choice but to stand and face her. Ms. Driscoll focused on Nate. “What do you have to say for yourself, Nathaniel Jericho?”
Nate hung his head, both fists swinging at his sides. Emily felt more guilty than ever. It was her fault he was in trouble. She’d only wanted to help, but now she realized that the consequences of her actions might be worse than Billy and Jimmy’s name-calling had been.
Before she could figure out what to say, Luka spoke up for Nate. “Sounds like my nephew is the victim here. I know for certain that he would never willingly part with his great-great-grandfather’s medal. It’s a family heirloom and Nate treasures it. You two,” he turned to the Homans, “need to return it. Immediately and undamaged.”
“Do you have it? William? James?” Ms. Driscoll asked.
They shuffled their feet. “It’s at home,” Billy finally answered. “He can come for it, he wants. We live just down the lane from him.”
Ms. Driscoll jerked her chin as if the issue was settled. Before Emily could protest, Ruby squeezed her shoulders, hard, silencing her.
“Then there’s the issue of Nate shoving James,” Ms. Driscoll continued. “We have a zero tolerance—”
“Nate didn’t do it,” Emily said, summoning all her courage to squirm out of Ruby’s grip and step forward to face Ms. Driscoll’s lethal laser glare. “I did. I tugged Jimmy’s arm. Just a little. He was getting ready to throw another ball at Nate—” She broke off when she saw Nate shake his head at her, frowning her into silence. Why? She was telling the truth, being brave and strong, like Daddy said.
“My granddaughter was obviously simply defending her friend,” Ruby said. “That’s not bullying.”
“It is if she used physical force on another student,” Ms. Driscoll replied, her tone frosty. “And we have a zero tolerance—”
“Yeah, I heard you. Well, I have zero tolerance for ignorant petty bureaucrats who like to use their position to bully little kids and who don’t even know the truth when they hear it. It’s obvious Nate and Emily did nothing wrong here. As far as I’m concerned, this meeting is over.” Ruby extended a hand to Nate, keeping her other one on Emily’s shoulder, using it to steer her toward the door. “C’mon, kids. School’s out early today.”
She marched both Nate and Emily out into the hallway, ignoring Ms. Driscoll’s commands to return. A few minutes later Luka joined them, stretching his long legs to catch up.
“Sure that was wise?” he asked Ruby.
“Don’t know, don’t care. It sure felt good, putting her in her place.”
Luka’s phone buzzed and they paused just inside the doors, at the safety officer’s desk. He glanced at his text. “Sorry, I have to get back to work.”
“No problem. Kids, go get your coats and we’ll head home.” The safety officer glanced up at that. Ruby tapped his notebook with her purple-painted fingernail. “I’m on the list. The grandmother. So don’t you even try to stop me.”
Nate was already almost all the way back to their classroom where all their stuff was. Emily ran hard to catch up. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you tell them the truth?”
“Either way they’ll think I’m too much trouble. I told you to leave it be,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth like he didn’t even want to talk to her. “Besides, don’t ya know? Snitches get stitches.”
Emily wasn’t sure what he meant—her mom gave people stitches all the time when they got cuts. Maybe it was a Baltimore thing or a foster thing. “What I know is friends don’t let friends get bullied. Or get in trouble when they haven’t done anything wrong.”
Nate stopped outside the classroom door and went silent, staring down at his shoes.
“Besides,” she continued. “You know they’re never going to give your great-great-grandad’s medal back.”
“Yeah.” Nate glanced down the hall to where Luka and Ruby waited. “But I can’t ask Luka to fight my fights for me.”
“Then it’s up to us.” Emily wrapped her arm in his. “We just have to be brave and strong.”
Fourteen
When Leah emerged from Risa’s apartment, she was struck by how quiet the top floor of the Falconer had become. A bright orange evidence sticker had been fastened over Walt and Trudy’s apartment door and the only police presence on this floor was a crime scene tech taking photos of silver-dusted fingerprints on the railing. Cliff, the building manager, stood behind him, waiting to pounce with his mop and cleaning rag.
Cliff perked up when he spotted Leah, tucked a rag in his back pocket, and abandoned his cleaning cart to join her. “Is Miss Risa okay? Does she need anything? Maybe I should check on her.”
“No. She’s fine. Resting.” Leah wasn’t sure why, but she felt the need to protect Risa’s privacy.
“Good thing there was a doctor here to check her out.” He followed Leah as she made her way to the elevators. “Most days she never even leaves her apartment anymore. I have to bring her mail up for her.”
Leah glanced over the railing, bracing herself for the sight of Trudy’s blood. But the marble floor below was immaculate, gleaming even. The only sign of this morning’s trauma was the bright yellow caution signs warning of the wet floor. Cliff clearly did a good job caring for his building—and the people in it.
“You know,” he said without her asking. “I don’t believe Walt did it. I mean, sure, he’s been acting all sorts of crazy these past few weeks. I found him riding the elevator up and down wearing only his jockey shorts just the other day. But he loved Trudy.”
“When was this?” Leah asked as she waited for the elevator. It arrived and she stepped inside, Cliff followed.
“Last month. That’s when Miss Trudy had me put all those childproof locks on the doors. So he couldn’t wander out of the apartment no more. He was so furious. Wouldn’t talk to Miss Trudy for a week after, kept begging Miss Risa to set him free.” They arrived at the lobby. “But no way did he kill her. He loved her. He really loved her.”
Leah started to leave but then turned back. “You said he asked Risa to help him?”
“Oh yeah. He’s kinda fixated on her. Some days she’s his little sister—she’s dead though, his real sister, car crash a few years back. Other times, Risa is his nurse or housekeeper or, I don’t know, his guardian angel?”
“Why didn’t he ask you for help? Was it because he knew you installed the locks?”
He shook his head, his hair falling into his face. But he didn’t bother to brush it back, content to hide behind it. “No, ma’am. Like most folks around here, Walt just stopped seeing me. Especially after he got sick. Trudy and Risa, they were his life—like it took all his energy he had left to remember who they were. Well, kinda remember, best he could.” He shrugged. “Me? I’m nobody, the invisible man.” Before Leah could ask anything else, he stepped back onto the elevator, pushed the button, and the doors slid shut between them.
Leah skirted the wet patch on the marble floor and left the Falconer. Outside the rain had turned to a dreary sleet, thick, wet blobs that fell half-heartedly from the sky. On the street, normal traffic had resumed now that the police barricades were gone and the few pedestrians passing by kept their heads lowered, hoods and umbrellas up, taking no notice of her or the building that had so recently become a crime scene.
Preoccupied with thoughts of her conversation with Risa, Leah arrived at Good Samaritan barely noticing her drive there. She parked the Subaru and walked in through the emergency department’s entrance, waving to the security guard. As she passed the triage desk, she felt a pang of regret: only three days in on her new job at the CIC and she already missed the ER. An ambulance crew rushed a patient into the resuscitation bay down the hall, and Leah ached to join in on the excitement.
Instead, she continued past the nursing station and through the secure doors leading into the Crisis Intervention Center and her new office. As medical director, she had an assistant, Monique, who did most of the administrative work necessary to keep the CIC running. Both Leah and Monique were in their mid-thirties, but Monique had been working at Good Sam for almost fifteen years, giving her an air of authority that Leah couldn’t compete with.
“Veronica is with an assault victim in Interview One,” Monique announced as she handed Leah a sheaf of paperwork. “Dr. Chaudhari called, said his patient responded nicely to medication and he’s willing to allow you and the police to interview him in an hour or so, but only in the interview room on the neuro-psych ward. A Detective Harper has stopped by twice—something about needing a witness report from your call-out this morning?” She arched an over-plucked eyebrow at Leah.
“Yeah, sorry, I should’ve called, given you an update.”
“Don’t worry, I covered for you with Dr. Toussaint.”
Leah looked at her blankly—Andre Toussaint was the Trauma Chief, in charge of trauma surgery, the ER and CIC, but Leah couldn’t remember any appointment with him.
Monique barely suppressed her eye roll. “You were supposed to send him your preliminary budget and workforce requests? I put it on your calendar.”
Ah, the calendar that Leah never checked—it was a proprietary app that required she sign into the hospital system every time she accessed it, which made it more of a pain than it was worth. She’d never used it at all while she worked in the ER.
“Should I add the interview with this Mr. Orly to your schedule?” Monique continued. “Anything else I should be expecting?”
“No. But if Harper calls or comes by, send her through.” Leah stepped past Monique’s desk and opened the door to her office. So close to an escape. But then Monique pivoted her chair to face Leah once more.
“If this new partnership with the police is going to have you out of the office, we should discuss a procedure so things don’t fall apart here.” Monique’s tone made it clear that she did not approve of her newly appointed medical director gallivanting around with the police at crime scenes.
“This is new to everyone. But I’d love your ideas. Maybe you could write up a proposal and send it to me.” Leah hoped that would empower the assistant—after all, the CIC had done just fine with only Monique running things before Toussaint went after the grant money that necessitated placing an MD in charge. Probably Monique’s main source of aggravation. But if the CIC was going to continue to function, serving the needs of victims, they needed the money the grant was bringing in, so the change was out of their hands.
Monique huffed, then spun back to face her computer, dismissing Leah.
Leah closed the office door behind her, thankful for the solid walls that allowed her some privacy. She shed her dripping raincoat, shoved the paperwork into one of the cubbyholes behind her desk, and sank into her chair. She hadn’t had time to personalize the office, except for a framed photo of Ian and Emily that held the place of honor beside her computer. She smiled at the image and blew a kiss in their direction.
You wouldn’t believe what your friend Risa has gotten me into, she silently told Ian’s image as she opened her work laptop and inserted the thumb drive containing Risa’s medical information. She copied the files and, while the hospital system ran its automatic virus and malware scan on them, she clicked through to her email. Four from Risa, all with attachments.
Leah wished Ian was here to tell her what he’d found on Risa’s hard drives. She only had Risa’s word and she wasn’t sure if she could trust her. Leah considered this as she clicked through Risa’s emails—the journalist had helpfully named the files in the order Leah should read them. It wasn’t that Leah thought Risa was intentionally lying. But given her underlying illness, maybe Risa was delusional. Except… Leah liked Risa. Wanted to believe her. Even if believing her meant that there was a serial killer out there.
She could almost feel Ian’s scowl of warning. After what happened last month, she of all people should understand the danger of getting involved. Even though observing from the sidelines went against every grain—it was what drew Leah to emergency medicine in the first place, that urge to rush in and help when others were running away or standing by, frozen. She loved that sense of calm and certainty that came in the center of chaos, the moment in the middle of a complex resuscitation when the path revealed itself with stunning clarity.
She clicked on the first set of attachments—a text file containing the letters from Risa’s stalker.
As Leah began reading, she wondered if Ian had read them as well. He’d never mentioned it. They’d rarely discussed his work, but if he truly believed there was someone dangerous walking around Cambria City, wouldn’t he have said something? It was what made Leah question Risa’s theory. She didn’t trust Risa yet, but she did trust that her husband would have gone to the police if he thought people were in danger.
Still, even i
f there really was no killer, Risa felt threatened—Leah guessed that her reluctance to leave her apartment with its many strong locks had as much to do with her stalker as it did with her illness. Unmasking the stalker might do more for Risa’s health than any diagnosis Leah could offer.
The second letter was dated April 22 of last year, the day after the video of the man killed at the railroad crossing had been sent to Risa.
Dear Obituary Reader,
Hope you enjoyed the show! As you can see, I always deliver on my promises.
Let’s get back to me. Take your mind off your squalid circumstances. Who knows? Maybe there’s another Pulitzer in it at the end? A chance to win your job back.
How did I start killing, you’ll be wondering.
First off, there was no abuse or childhood trauma, so don’t expect me to whine or cry like those babies they’re always showing on the TV. They’re the cretins who get caught—too stupid to live, if you ask me.
I had an excellent childhood despite my parents getting divorced when I was young. My mom remarried a guy who was a great role model. We lived in the country and he taught me how to hunt and fish, take care of myself. He gave me everything, except his last name.
My biological father insisted I keep his, which seemed only fair since he was also good to me, but in different ways. He flew me out to visit him in California and we’d do stuff my stepdad couldn’t afford. I even got to meet a few Hollywood stars, men who were my heroes. Remember, I was just a kid. But I still was smart enough to see behind their masks—smart enough to know they were just faking it, acting just like they did in their movies and TV shows.
That’s when I decided that whatever I did in life, it would be real. Honest. Something important that would change people’s lives forever, not just for a few minutes between commercials.
It wasn’t too long after my last trip out to LA for my dad’s funeral—heart attack—when I killed my first human. I was sixteen and had no idea what I was doing. The whole thing started out so damn messy—a total disaster. I thought for sure I was going to prison forever.