“Not that I’ve heard. Tucker’s got all the police departments in the tri-state area on the lookout for her, but get this. Ky and I have been looking into the names of the physicians on those prescription bottles we found in her kitchen. Just like Keegan said, more than half are bogus, and a good percentage don’t match the label.”
“She’s been giving her daughter whatever she could get her hands on?”
“I’m not sure. There are some antibiotics in the mix, but most of these pills are for pain or anxiety. Lots of Oxycodone, some diuretics, a couple beta blockers.”
“Any chemo-type drugs?”
“Everything but.” Eden huffed through the phone. “I’m beginning to wonder—”
“If Winslow ever had cancer.” Tate raked his fingers over the bristles on his chin. Just how depraved was Hattie to lie to her kid about something so awful? “Can’t Keegan run a blood test for that?”
“I think he’ll need to run more than one test to determine cancer or not. The body produces blood serum markers, Tate, certain proteins in response to cancer cells. Sometimes a cancerous tumor produces its own substance. Doctors look for that marker to screen certain cancers. It might take a while before he knows what’s actually going on.” It sounded as if Eden shuffled the phone from one ear to her other, probably because she was holding Kyler. “But the sensation I get when I handle those bottles is scary, Tate. I don’t think Hattie cared what she gave Winslow. I think she wanted certain reactions, like nausea, drowsiness, or pain.”
“She deliberately dosed her daughter to make her sick?” The bitch.
“Exactly. She needed to control her, so she’s been giving Winslow a toxic cocktail for who knows how long.”
“That’s why she was so ill yesterday morning,” Tate bit out. “I’ll bet Joyce, I mean Hattie, punished her for missing the prom and for making her look bad. Think about it. She had the TV primed and ready to make her a star, but when Winslow didn’t show, she looked stupid.”
“Maybe...” Eden let that hang before she blind-sided him with, “Winslow’s a very lucky woman.”
“How do you figure?”
“Because she’s got you in her corner.”
Tate swallowed hard. Oh, that. It would do him well to remember that Eden knew everything. He nodded though she couldn’t see him standing there, his arm to the wall and his forehead to his forearm. “Thanks,” was all he could say. Winslow most definitely had him. Maybe in the shadows, but he’d be there for her no matter where she went or what she decided to do with the rest of her life.
“Did we ever find out who the woman was who went into the river?” In all the chaos, he’d nearly forgotten that another family out there was missing their mom or sister.
“Ah, yes, about that. I checked with the highway patrol. Mrs. Alder. Sixty-one-years-old. She’d been drinking and lost control of her vehicle when it hydroplaned. They pulled her body out this morning. It’s quite sad because her husband died last week, and she was probably drunk because she was grieving. No one else was in the vehicle with her.”
As guilty as he felt for that poor woman, Tate was relieved the Coast Guard hadn’t fished Winslow out of the river. “So where’s the boss?”
“He’s meeting Isaiah at some place called The Skillet, but I know he’s headed your way after.”
“Good. I need to talk to him. Later.”
“Before you go…” The sound of a happy baby cooing told Tate that Kyler was on her lap. “There’s something else, Tate.”
“Okay.” He waited.
“Ky’s taking your place Monday.”
“He’s going to California? Who decided this?”
“It was a mutual decision. Tucker wants you here until this business with Winslow is settled. And oh yes, the local police apprehended Dr. Bly on the interstate headed north. He’s down at the local precinct.”
“Was Joyce…” Grrrr. “…Hattie with him?”
“No, but trust me. Everyone’s looking for her.”
Interesting. “There’s something else you need to know, Eden. Hattie was taking Winslow to Oregon for physician assisted suicide.”
Tate jerked the phone from his ear when Eden shrieked. “Oh, my gosh! That woman! She’d better pray I’m not the one who catches her.” And somehow, Tate knew she was hugging Kyler close, because Eden was a good mother. She’d be doing something like that.
“What kind of a woman plans to kill her child?” she hissed. “I can’t imagine what Winslow’s gone through. Does she know?”
“She’s the one who told me.”
The sound of stiletto heels clattering up the hallway brought Tate’s head around. Damned if Channel Thirteen’s Shawna Truborn wasn’t headed his way, a cameraman on her six and a sexy sway to her hips. “Listen. I’ve got to go,” he told Eden. “I’m at the hospital if you need me.”
She signed off with a quick, “I figured that. Bye, Tate.”
Miss Truborn’s eyes lit up. “Agent Higgins! What are you doing here?”
Tate shoved his phone in his back pocket and crossed his arms over his chest. This exuberant, nosy woman wasn’t getting past him to Winslow. “I think the better question is what are you doing here?”
X-rays. MRIs. EKG and EEGs. Blood work and enough other pokes and prods to make a grown woman cry. By lunchtime, Winslow was sick to her stomach and would soon be on her way to dialysis. She’d be lucky to be out of there in four hours.
A doctor visited after she woke up to find that Tate had left, but the doctor was all business and so serious. About forty-years-old with short brown hair and a receding hairline, he wore light gray scrubs and wire-rimmed glasses that he peered over when he talked to her. He’d brought a clipboard with him. “I’m Dr. Keegan. I was the physician on call last night when you came into the ER. I’d like to continue as your physician if you’re okay with that.”
She’d never been asked if she was okay with anything before, but he seemed nice. “Umm, sure.” I guess. What could it hurt?
He nodded one curt nod and handed the clipboard over. “Good. I hoped you’d say that. I know this is after-the-fact since I’ve already treated you, but it’s typical hospital protocol since you couldn’t sign for yourself last night. Sign on the bottom line of the first sheet that you agree to let me treat you.”
She accepted the board with trembling fingers. This was a first, her giving permission for medical treatment. Her mother usually took over right about now.
But the papers were filled with too many terms she didn’t understand. Insurance. Primary physician. Mediation? She didn’t want to waste this guy’s time. He seemed so much more important than she was. Pressing her lips together, she had to admit, “I don’t know what this is telling me, umm…” Where was Tate when she needed him?
Dr. Keegan jumped to his feet and came to her side. The spicy drift of men’s cologne and clean, pressed cotton came with him. “I can help. Which part don’t you understand?”
“This right here. Insurance? What’s that?” Winslow peered up at him and inhaled. He smelled good.
The man was older than Tate, slender. His fingernails were trimmed and clean, nothing like Ike’s. Several dark hairs graced the top of his index finger as he traced the section she meant. He wasn’t hurried, but seemed genuinely interested. The kind glint in his eye calmed her nerves. “Ah, insurance. You have been out of circulation for a while, haven’t you?”
“I guess.” Like forever.
“Where to begin.” He sat in the chair he’d dragged to her bedside. “Insurance can be quite complicated, but basically, it’s what pays the bills around here. If you have a good health plan, you won’t need to worry about anything but your deductible. But if you have no insurance, that’s another story.” After a few more cursory explanations filled with more words she didn’t get, he paused. “Would you like one of our patient advocates to pay you a visit? She or he can explain your health care options better than I can. They’re quite good at maneuvering through all this
legal terminology.”
“Yes, thank you. I’d appreciate that.” But she did sign the page that authorized him to be her doctor before she handed the clipboard back. Writing her signature on the dotted line felt strangely empowering.
He tucked it under his crossed arms, but stayed seated. “So talk to me, Winslow. Tell me what happened yesterday. Why did you get so sick?”
And just like that, the room chilled as if her mother were there watching over her shoulder, ready to jump on her for saying the wrong thing. Winslow tugged the blanket up to her chin. “I don’t remember,” she lied.
He nodded, his eyes sharp. “Don’t worry. It’s understandable. You came into the ER with a high level of arsenic in your system, a few other drugs too. Do you get headaches often? Migraines?”
She nodded. “And I throw up a lot, nearly every morning.”
“Body aches? Toothaches? Do your bones hurt before you open your eyes in the morning? Do you have night sweats? Dry skin?” Her symptoms rolled off his tongue like he knew her inside and out. By the time she’d admitted to everything on his long list of physical ailments, his brows narrowed. “So tell me. How have you lived through this nightmare? What did you do to keep your spirits up when you were sick for so long?”
“I have a little dog, umm, his name is Pepe and he sleeps with me.”
A crooked smile breached Dr. Keegan’s mouth. “What kind is he?”
“A Chihuahua. He’s tan and he shakes a lot, but Tate calls him a dragon.”
Dr. Keegan cocked his head. “Tate Higgins? Did you know him before yesterday?”
“No, I just met him Friday. He was supposed to be my prom date and…” Winslow fidgeted with the edge of her blanket. “It’s a long story.”
He smiled encouragingly. “I’ve got time.”
Where to begin? “It was a Dreams-Come-True thing, a prom, only it wasn’t real, and I didn’t know about it until my mom had it all set up and—” How embarrassing to have to admit this to a handsome man who looked like he cared.
“Have you ever had a convulsion that you can remember?”
Winslow had to bite her lip at that question. “No, but yesterday afternoon I couldn’t think straight. I was dizzy and confused, and I still can’t remember everything that happened.” Just Tate. I remember him just fine.
“That’s because someone overdosed you with alprazolam. You might know it as Xanax. It’s a short acting treatment for anxiety, but an overdose numbs you into submission. It can cause convulsions. That’s why I asked.”
Winslow honestly didn’t know the names of the medications her mother had given her, so Xanax meant nothing. Dr. Keegan’s scrutiny was too much. She couldn’t bear to look at him, so she fingered the blanket instead. It was light gold with cotton-weave so loose she could’ve stuck the tip of her pinkie finger into one of the holes if she’d wanted to. Her mind was like that blanket—full of holes. From little on up, she’d never questioned what her mother had given her or done to her. Not once. She’d trusted Joyce Parrish with her life, only now…
She didn’t know who Winslow Parrish was any more. Her entire life had been nothing but a game of shadows and her mother’s lies.
“Mom likes to garden,” she explained out of habit. “The arsenic could’ve been on her fingers, and she could’ve forgotten to wash her hands before she mixed my smoothie.” She no longer believed that, but old habits were hard to break.
His brows angled over stern blue eyes. “No, Winslow. The level of arsenic in your system isn’t extremely high, but the damage to your liver and heart are strong indicators this has been going on for some time. Arsenic poisoning explains all of your symptoms, your acute abdominal distress, your headaches, confusion, and drowsiness. Even your hair loss is a direct result of arsenic poisoning.”
“No,” she said firmly. “That’s because of my cancer.”
He cocked his elbow to the armrest and tapped his index finger to his bottom lip. “Who told you that you had cancer?”
“Mom.” Winslow’s stomach pitched acid just saying that name. Mom, the liar.
“Have you ever seen an oncologist? Has a doctor ever told you what kind of cancer you have?”
Winslow ducked her head into her shoulders. This line of questioning was getting intense. “Doctors always talk to Mom, not me.” Because Mom was crafty like that. Pushy and crafty.
“Do you remember when you first came down with cancer?”
Winslow rolled her eyes. That story she’d heard enough to know by heart. “I was three and Mom was a single mother who didn’t need one more sad thing in her life, but there I was. Sick and dying.”
His brows furrowed. “Your mother honestly said that to you?”
“It’s okay. She didn’t mean anything by it. That’s just how she talks.” Yeah, right. Winslow found it difficult to shake the lies she’d been told out of her head. Why was she defending her mom?
“When did you lose your hair?”
Winslow smoothed a hand over the beanie Tate had given her. “Months ago.”
Dr. Keegan leaned forward, his palms on his knees. “How many? Exactly.”
She swallowed hard, counting on her fingers because he was making her nervous and she couldn’t think. “Umm, it started falling out in April, so that would be…” Three. Four. Five. “Six months ago.”
“What else happened in April? Did you and your mother have an argument or a fight? Did she do anything different? Get a new job? Buy a new car? Meet a guy?”
There were too many temper tantrums to remember them all, and with Joyce, it was a continual round of one drama after another. But Winslow couldn’t bear to betray her mother anymore. “You have to understand, Mom’s high strung…” Or so she said. “…and she likes to be the center of attention…” All the time. “…b-but she tries to be a good mom….” I just can’t remember when the last time was. “Why do you want to know?”
The questioning had to stop. Winslow was trapped between her old life and her new life, like a woman with one foot in two different boats, both headed in opposite directions. This cross examination was tearing her apart.
He crossed his arms, trapping the clipboard to his chest. “Tell me when you first noticed the freckles on the back of your hands.”
She splayed her fingers on the blanket over her lap. “Mom said they were just a side-effect of my chemo drugs.” More Mommy Dearest lies?
“But when did they first appear? What month? What year? You haven’t always had them, have you?”
She shook her head. “No, May, I think. Maybe June. They just popped up one day.” I think. “Why?” What now?!
“Because those spots are an obvious indicator of chronic arsenic poisoning.” He pursed his lips like he was thinking. “And because I think something set your mother off in April, and that’s when the poisoning began in earnest. That’s seven months ago.”
Winslow didn’t know what to say. Tremors rattled up her spine, making her head bob from nerves. “Umm, would you mind waiting for Tate to come back?’ she asked. Please? I can’t take this anymore. “He, umm—”
Dr. Keegan’s knee bounced. Just once. “You don’t need Agent Higgins here, Winslow.” Oh yes, I do. “You’re an intelligent woman and I’m sure you’re stronger than you think. What if I told you that you don’t have cancer?”
“I what?” She blinked at that astounding piece of fiction, overwhelmed and sinking between those two boats. “Ha. I’d wonder what you had to drink for lunch.” She meant to sound facetious and more confident than she felt, but he didn’t crack the barest hint of a smile. “You’re… you’re kidding, right?” Mom said I had cancer. All my life she’d told me I had cancer. It can’t be another lie.
Again, his brows collided. “No, Winslow. I don’t kid about cancer. After I saw the results of the blood work I ordered last night, I’m more convinced. Yes, I’ll need to do more thorough testing to eliminate all the false positives we see when we’re screening for cancer, but in my honest opinion, yo
u don’t have it, and whoever told you that you did is nothing but a twisted menace to society. She should be locked up and the key thrown away.”
You could’ve knocked Winslow over with one finger. A skinny, little pinkie finger.
“You need to go,” she said, her voice trembling from too—too much!
He cocked his head. “Why? Have I upset you?”
“No, I just…” Really need you to go. “…I’m tired and…” Where’s Tate? “…my head hurts…” Because my freaking heart is breaking!
Dr. Keegan jumped to his feet. “Very well. I’ll check back with you later.”
He’d no more than walked out when the dam burst. Winslow curled up into herself, wiping her tears. Living shouldn’t feel this bad. “Tate,” she whispered to the tan blanket that—just like her—had thousands of holes in it. “I’m scared.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
It turned out Shawna Truborn had no idea Winslow was in the hospital. She’d come to do a follow-up on the three sets of twins born that week in maternity, but ended up on Winslow’s floor instead. Relieved, Tate pushed back from the hospital cafeteria table where he’d downed one too many cups of coffee while speaking with Channel Thirteen’s savvy reporter.
Miss Truborn uncrossed her very attractive long legs, slid her high-fashion heels beneath her chair, and leaned forward with her hands clasped on her lap. “It’s been a pleasure talking with you, and trust me. I will make this happen.”
He lifted to his feet, but leaned his fingertips back to the tabletop. “That’s what I’m counting on. Lives depend on you. Please don’t let me down, Miss Truborn.”
She batted her lashes, and blushed the loveliest shade of coral when she extended her right hand. “For you Agent Higgins, anything.”
That almost made him feel, what was the word? Debonair? Yeah, right. He touched the tip of his tongue to his dry lips and shook her hand. “It’s been good talking with you.”
Shawna gave him a one-shoulder shrug that belied her innocence. “Tell me when you’re ready for this segment to run.”
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