Maybe It's You

by Candace Calvert

  “You’re losing me. And you’re a long way from treadmills and xeriscape, which, by the way, buy your gasoline and cat litter.”

  Coop frowned. “I’m not forgetting that, but you know me. Always scratching for the next big thing. The story behind the story, something to get excited about. You don’t make it in this business if you don’t go that extra million miles.”

  “And some of those miles are taking you to State Prison?”

  “A lot lately. I know someone there.” He laughed at Micah’s expression and picked up his glass of microbrew beer. “Not an inmate. Someone in the parole office. She lets me know if anything interesting is coming up. I don’t care about usual stuff like burglary or drugs—dime a dozen. But they have this dude who’s in for criminal fraud only because they couldn’t get him for meatier crimes up and down the state. Human trafficking, illegal gambling, arson . . . I’ve been working on this for a while. I don’t mind doing research, putting two and two together.”

  “If it adds up to a Times byline.”

  “Sure.” Coop shrugged. “I’ll start with that.”

  Micah shook his head. Coop wasn’t wasting a minute moping over the fact that nothing had panned out for him with the gang stabbing incident. TV news had been all over that one. And with the disappearance of Zoey Jones, the abduction story was put on hold as well. As far as Coop was concerned, that was. “We really are in different camps now,” Micah mused.

  “What do you mean?” Coop filched one of Micah’s fries.

  “You’re out there looking for trouble, hoping you find it so you can blow things wide-open. Get the scoop, boost your career. And I’m . . .” Micah’s laugh was halfhearted. “I’m doing everything I can to put a happy face on LA Hope. Showcase our dedicated staff, prove once and for all that we’re the hospital with real heart. Or at least put to rest all that bad press from a couple of years back.”

  “Don’t blame the press. It was your chief of staff who got falling-down drunk, climbed into his Lexus, and mowed people down like bowling pins.” Coop grimaced. “Sorry, buddy—too close to home.”

  It was. Micah’s younger cousin Stephen, in every way a brother, had died in a car driven by an intoxicated college classmate—two twenty-year-olds in a twisted mass of metal. The driver survived, but Stephen’s lifeless body was almost too damaged to identify. To say it had changed the Prescott family’s lives was a gross understatement. It affected Micah’s own like a near-fatal bloodletting. He hated drunks.

  “No problem. I know what you meant,” Micah told his friend. “It didn’t help the hospital’s image that the ER staff did everything they could to interfere with the initial investigation. There were a lot of bad actors in that incident.”

  “And heads rolled.”

  “Fourteen people fired.” Micah reached for his Coke. “Now if I want to keep my job, I need to run a campaign that gets the Excellence in Aging wing funded and has everybody applauding the new Face of Hope.”

  “Prison sounds easier.”

  Micah shrugged. “I’m working on a few things.”

  Like a heroic nurse?

  He thought of Sloane Ferrell running toward the parking lot to save that girl from a would-be abductor. Then remembered her reaction to the reporters and their conversation later in the ER corridor. She was obviously a private person, but he’d find a way to make this work to the hospital’s advantage. He’d talk with the PIO, get her take on it. After all, Sloane was a new employee, still on probation; having some positive attention would be a benefit. He’d manage to convince her of that.

  “It’s okay. We’re good,” Sloane told her cat. He’d just completed his dinnertime obstacle course: kitchen floor to kitchen counter, tags jingling as he vaulted onward to kitchen table. Then to his perch, a discreet but still advantageous distance from Sloane’s plate. His eyes moved like a tennis spectator’s each time she lifted her fork. She glanced at her laptop again. “No e-mails, no texts or phone messages. That makes . . .” Sloane did the mental calculation. “More than four months we’ve been in the clear.”

  In hiding.

  She shoved the thought aside, telling herself this was what it felt like to be free. The price was more than worth it. Last she’d heard, Paul was in Mexico. He’d had to go farther than she did to stay ahead of the men intent on “persuading” him to make good on loans from that illegal enterprise in Sacramento. Paul had managed to entice several city firefighters into what he’d described to Sloane as a friendly game of poker. It became a nightmare that ultimately threatened careers, relationships . . . and lives.

  She reached for her lemon water in its plastic tumbler, one of a set in rainbow colors. She didn’t like drinking from plastic, not from fear of toxic chemicals but because of the way it made things taste, feel. Celeste had provided a small collection of kitchen things, including a set of vintage rooster canisters and a matching apron. But the only alternatives to the plastic tumblers, besides some smallish coffee mugs, were wineglasses. Up on the top shelf—three. Not fine crystal, not even close. But sparkling, translucent, alluring, and too much like a glass door to a familiar escape. They needed to stay high on that shelf; Sloane was as wary of having a wineglass in her hand as she was about giving out her address. Plastic was ugly but safe.

  “When it’s been a year,” she told Marty, “I’ll spring for a set of water goblets like the ones I saw in that World Market ad. Heavy sea glass with all the little bubbles.”

  Sloane’s phone buzzed against the tabletop. She lifted it, saw the number, and her breath released, a frisson of lingering anxiety replaced by relief. It was a response to her earlier call to the prison.

  “Yes, hello,” she said, not caring that Marty’s paw had swiped the last few bits of her baked chicken. The spoiled rescue kitten still boasted survival skills. “This is Sloane Ferrell.”

  “Miss Ferrell, Marcie Dumler at State Prison. We spoke earlier.”

  “Right.” Sloane’s heart rate ticked upward. Please . . .

  “Your name change caused some initial confusion,” the woman began, an obvious rebuke. “But we have confirmed you are on the approved list to be present at the hearing for Robert Bullard on October 17 at 0900—that’s 9 a.m.”

  “Yes.” Sloane listened as the woman recited the address, policy, and basic visitation procedure. The complete instructions could be found online. “I understand,” she said, a fuzzy image of her stepfather’s face coming to mind. It had been so many years. Would she even recognize him? “And I’ll be allowed to speak? I was told I could.”

  “I have a notation of that, yes. But you must understand—” her tone took on the effect of a police pat down—“that the board may make changes to the agenda. Because of time or unforeseen situations.”

  “But most likely I’ll get to?” She hated that her voice sounded like a pleading child’s. “I really need this chance.”

  “Of course.” Marcie’s voice softened as if there were actual pumping ventricles beneath the penitentiary crust. “I understand you want to show your support. Fathers and daughters have such a strong bond.”

  What? “But he isn’t—”

  “I’m not privy to decisions made here,” the woman continued, oblivious. “Nor would I make any predictions. But I’ve been at this prison for nineteen years and I hear things. Let’s just say Mr. Bullard’s early release would come as no surprise. That’s not in any way official, but I hope it helps you.”

  “Um, yes . . . thank you,” Sloane said, ending the call.

  She took a sip of her water, tasted the acrid plastic. Then closed her eyes for a moment and wondered if there would ever be sea glass days. If she’d ever know any real peace.

  “I hope it helps you.”

  It did help, but not in the way Marcie Dumler assumed. The possibility that Bob Bullard’s sentence could be cut short by two full years made Sloane sick. And more determined than ever to stop it. Ten years ago her testimony had helped convince a jury to put her stepfather behind bars.
Even then, the sentence wasn’t nearly harsh enough. For this man to skip out on it now would be the worst kind of injustice. He didn’t deserve to walk free. Not after . . .

  You killed my mother.

  5

  “I’M GOING TO GIVE YOU more happy juice,” Sloane told her patient as she reached for the syringe of analgesic. “Don’t move. We need you just like that: facedown, sandbag under your collarbone.” She shook her head, knowing a layperson would think this was some nasty form of torture. “Juice” or not, there was no happy going on here.

  The young man lay stripped to the waist on the exam table, sweat beading on his sun-browned skin and muscles quivering with pain. The right shoulder looked different from the left, its angles flattened and the substantial deltoid muscle not quite normal. According to the history, the injury happened by way of an impressive beach volleyball spike followed by a headlong crash into another player. It resulted in anterior displacement of the head of the humerus—a shoulder dislocation. Not this patient’s first.

  “That’s good, Mark. I know it’s hard, but just let your arm dangle.”

  “I’m . . . trying. This is like torture.”

  You said it, buddy.

  Today’s ER doc preferred Stimson’s method for reducing the dislocation: patient prone on a table, affected arm hanging off the edge with a ten-pound weight attached to the wrist. Stretch, groan, pull. Something akin to the old medieval rack in piecemeal fashion. The theory was that once the limb ceased its painful spasms, the joint would spontaneously move into normal alignment. Stretch, groan, stretch . . . pop. All better. Special sling, out the door. But it had been more than fifteen minutes and—

  “It’s . . . not . . . working,” the man groaned again, a rivulet of sweat trickling down his pale face. “I’m afraid I’m going to puke. I’m sorry, but it’s never been this bad before. I usually pop it right back in myself.”

  “Slow, deep breath,” Sloane advised. “Hang in there. I’m injecting the medication now.”

  “I don’t feel it. I can’t do this. I need . . . mmmph.” The young man’s moan morphed into a half snore and his body relaxed, the weights lugging toward the floor. Sloane cycled the blood pressure cuff, made note of the heart rate and steadily beeping oxygen monitor. It was taking a lot of meds to get this man’s muscles relaxed. He was a big guy, a firefighter. When the ER doctor mentioned the possibility of future shoulder surgery, he’d insisted it wouldn’t be possible. He was on track to take the captain’s exam; nothing was more important than that.

  Sloane closed her eyes against an intruding memory and the sadness and shame that always came with it. Sacramento and another man with ambitions. Another of her monumental mistakes. Some things could never be left behind. There was no way to get life into “normal alignment” by slowly stretching it out with weights. Or burdens.

  “Hey . . . wow.” Mark’s heavy-lidded eyes met Sloane’s. “Something popped.”

  “Great,” she said, agreeing the shoulder looked much improved. She gave his arm a pat. “Hang tight and don’t move yet. I’ll get the doctor to come have a look. And then we can—”

  “Sloane?” Harper peeked into the room. “Should I take over here so you can get to that meeting? It’s close to 2:15.”

  “Right. Thanks. I almost forgot.”

  She’d definitely tried to. Everything hinged on keeping her life private; an unexplained summons by the hospital’s public information officer couldn’t be more at odds with that goal. Unfortunately, Sloane had a hunch where this was headed. She didn’t like it one bit.

  Beautiful and immediately hostile. One glimpse told Micah he’d underestimated this challenge.

  “I should have known you were behind it,” Sloane said, finding him sitting alone in Fiona’s office. “Is our PIO even coming? Or was this a diversion tactic?”

  “Diversion?”

  Sloane crossed her arms. “Because you figured I wouldn’t come if I knew it was you.”

  “No . . .” She was right; the meeting was Micah’s idea. But right now he was more concerned that this hostility was . . . personal? It sure felt like it. He pulled out an adjacent chair, expecting her to refuse it. She didn’t disappoint. Color infused her cheeks. Attractive if she wasn’t assuming a battle stance. “There’s no ‘tactic.’ Fiona called us both here.”

  “And . . . ?” She glanced around.

  “She just texted me. She’ll be late. She said to make ourselves at home. There’s coffee. And that tray of muffins.”

  Sloane’s dark brows pinched. “Seriously? Muffins?”

  Micah cleared his throat, more surprised by her disrespect for baked goods than for his offer of seating. Hospital staff were notorious snackers; ask any sharp sales rep. It wasn’t as if he’d asked her to nibble crumbs from his palm, for crying out loud. “Look, I didn’t call the meeting, but I’m sure you’ve guessed it’s about the incident with that girl.”

  “I gave a full report to the police.”

  That was a stretch. Micah overheard the detective complain he’d once prodded more information from a troupe of mimes.

  “Fiona’s responsibility is to the hospital,” he explained, rising from his chair. He realized immediately that it was a mistake; she probably viewed it as an intimidation tactic. He was taller by a head—and she’d just squared her shoulders. “A PIO needs to be able to relay information to the media, answer queries.”

  “Have there been?” There was the faintest suggestion of nervousness in Sloane’s expression. “Queries?”

  “I think so—I know so,” Micah told her honestly. “I had a call from the Times and referred it to Fiona. I believe she received a couple of calls directly. My best guess is that at least a dozen witnesses called 911 from our parking lot. It stirs things up. And requires Fiona to make a statement that both speaks the truth and presents the hospital in the most positive light. A big part of a PIO’s job is to put a face on the organization.”

  Sloane frowned. “You seem to be obsessed with faces.”

  And you want to fight. Not going to oblige. Micah made himself take a slow breath, a crisis team method borrowed from combat training. Who knew he’d need it to deal with a nurse?

  “I think,” he said finally, “what Fiona will want is a simple statement. But moreover, she’d like to be able to personalize it with something about you. ‘Sloane Ferrell, skilled and compassionate LA Hope nurse, going above and beyond the call of duty.’ Something like that.”

  “Because it’s good press.”

  “Because you did a good thing, Sloane. I told you that before—I meant it.” Micah met her gaze directly and saw the suspicion there. “Sure, it would be good press. But it’s also good news at a time when there’s bad news everywhere you turn.” He thought of the crisis team tagline: “When tragedy strikes, we’re there.” “What’s wrong with taking some personal credit for a good deed? Sharing it with the public?”

  “So if it’s not public—if I don’t share—it doesn’t count.”

  “I’m not saying that.” Micah couldn’t curb the frustration in his tone. He was getting nowhere. “But maybe you could look at it a different way. On a more practical level. You’re a new hire. It doesn’t hurt to impress the powers that be. You did a great thing for that girl. Some people are even saying it was heroic. Maybe it’s only fair that it also helps you and—”

  “Stop,” Sloane warned, her face coloring again. She took a step toward Micah. “That girl didn’t stay long enough to get a Band-Aid. There was nothing ‘great’ about what I did. It didn’t change her life, and a dumb-luck incident in a hospital parking lot won’t ever change mine. It’s not like one random event can just pop things back into perfect alignment.”

  A faraway look came into Sloane’s eyes, one that Micah had seen before. With trauma victims. What was going on with this woman? He was trying to remind himself that it was none of his concern when Sloane shook her head and the fire was back.

  “Zoey Jones is gone. It’s over. Don
e.” She glanced up at the clock on the wall. “I need to be gone too. Back to work. I can’t hang around here.”

  “Okay, but . . .” Micah hesitated, unsure how to proceed. “There are still those queries from the press. Fiona will need to respond.”

  “I can’t stop that. But I won’t offer anything to make her statement personal. I have a right to privacy.”

  “Of course,” Micah agreed, thinking of the photo he’d seen on Coop’s camera when they were having lunch, one he’d snapped during the parking lot incident. Coop had been double-checking to see if there was anything helpful to police regarding the identity of the car. There wasn’t because he’d been focused on the people: Sloane kneeling beside Zoey Jones. A dramatic image but useless since he hadn’t been able to cover the story. Micah was fairly certain Coop deleted it. He had, hadn’t he? Probably should give him a call and—

  “. . . if the hospital goes ahead anyway, I’ll do it,” Sloane was saying, her expression suddenly a mix of defiance and something that looked a lot like fear. “You can tell that to Fiona, and she can pass it to the ‘powers that be.’”

  “I’m sorry—what?”

  The blue eyes held his. “I said I won’t have any of my personal information made public. No photos, no contact information. Nothing. If the hospital does that, I’ll be forced to take action.”

  Legal action?

  Sloane snatched a muffin from the tray and strode out.

  “I think that’s going to do it,” Sloane told Harper while adjusting the CPAP mask over their patient’s mouth and nostrils. The sixty-two-year-old wholesale manager, highlighted auburn hair still stuck to her forehead from sweat, dozed now. Her color was much improved, and her respirations—though still moist—were far less labored, and slower. Twenty-two breaths per minute according to the overhead monitor, with an oxygen saturation of 95 percent. Her blood pressure had stabilized as well. The paramedic crew had done a good job getting the ball rolling, and the ER team had taken it from there with nitrates, vasopressors, and ventilation support—no need to tube her. Overall, this was a vastly different picture from what she’d looked like on scene at the Fashion District warehouse: gray and wringing-wet skin, panicky, gasping for air, and choking on copious, frothy pulmonary secretions. A fashionable woman . . . drowning. Sloane winced at an unwelcome image of her mother. “She’s ready for transfer as soon as ICU can take her. Looks like we did the p.m. shift a big favor on this one.”