What the . . . ?
“Wait,” Micah said, scrambling to unkick this hornets’ nest. “You’re not letting me—”
“No. I won’t buy into this stupid pretense. You go around saying you want to honor the compassion of your employees, celebrate the ‘face of hope,’ but that’s a big lie. All you really want is to use everyone you can to cover up an ugly incident that put a crimp in the hospital’s revenue.” Sloane’s lips twitched with a smirk. “With the hope you’ll get some big celebratory bonus. Where’s the compassion in that? Some scared kid gets assaulted in the parking lot and you fix it by turning her over to the police?”
“Whoa,” Micah warned. “Hold it right there.”
“No way. Campaign all you want, Prescott, but I’m not buying it. I can’t.” Sloane’s eyes shone with sudden tears; it only seemed to make her angrier. “You don’t get it about people. You can’t just pick who’s the best, who’s worth your time, and then drown the rest of them like some scroungy batch of kittens.”
She choked a little on the last words, and Micah found himself at a complete loss for how to do this. Clearly, nothing he’d tried was working. And now . . . He took a slow breath and reminded himself that he was a skilled listener.
“Okay,” he managed. “Was there anything else?”
“Yes.” She lifted her chin. Somehow, the tears defied gravity and didn’t fall. “If I’m still working here, I’d like you to keep your distance. Please.”
“I can do that.”
“Good.”
Sloane had her keys out in an instant, climbed into the old Volvo, and pulled away.
Micah got one last look at her bumper and decided the NRA sticker overlapped Greenpeace. By a mile.
What had she done?
Sloane lowered the hairbrush and stared into the bathroom mirror, sickened. The face staring back at her looked very little like Sloane Wilder. The old spiky, burgundy-tipped hair was a deep, healthy brown, baby soft and halfway to her shoulders. Her eyes were still that startling blue, but she no longer lined them or layered mascara onto her black lashes. Face makeup and powder had given way to a simple sunscreen tinted in a “natural” shade that Sloane Wilder would have called “buck naked.” The scar, its triple lines fanning out from the corner of her left eye, hadn’t turned the pearly white a consulting plastic surgeon promised. It was still as pink as the memory of the accident was painfully fresh in her mind. Sloane wasn’t convinced either would fade.
She touched a fingertip to the scar, remembering the feel of the stitches and dried blood—and all the pain and confusion of those long days in the San Diego Hope SICU. There was a scar on her abdomen, too, from the emergency splenectomy and then a second surgery after a bleeder cut loose and Sloane nearly bled to death. None of that had been worse than hearing that two people had been killed in the pileup. And an ER teammate was fighting for her life. Sloane’s reckless behavior had set the entire tragedy in motion. It hadn’t been the first time death punished her offenses. A new name and address couldn’t change that.
Still, Sloane had dumped the short skirts and thigh-high boots at Goodwill before she hit the interstate and hadn’t hoisted her backside onto so much as a pizza place stool in six months’ worth of evenings. Yet today, in the parking lot with that marketing man, Sloane Wilder had risen like a phoenix. Sassy tongue, sharp nails, and bad attitude.
“But I’ve known about you all along. Slick, charming, with all the right words to get exactly what you want. Your agenda, your priorities. That’s all that counts.”
She groaned and squeezed her eyes shut. Even if what she’d said was true—and everything screamed it was—Sloane should have kept her mouth shut. She wasn’t named employee of the month because her nursing skills came with a side order of cheekiness. She’d done her best to leave Wilder behind and let Ferrell lead the way. Now she’d sacrificed that progress to go to bat for a girl who had stolen from her. A teenage girl who, right here in this house, ate her cereal and . . .
Reminded me of me.
The was no denying it. The girl’s prickly attitude and tough talk, her wariness, that hint of her troubled home life . . . even the tinted hair and blue eyes. All of it was so much like Sloane at that age.
“Find a better hiding place. You don’t look like the cookie-baking type.”
Zoey had pegged her, too. It took one to know one.
“People like Zoey are a waste of your time. . . .”
It might have been wrong to unload on Micah Prescott, but Sloane had been right about that one thing. That was how people like Zoey and Sloane were seen. Defined by so many mistakes, labeled. And used.
“Out there on that stage, you’re the little angel, but we know better, don’t we, darlin’? You’re really the devil’s plaything. That’s who you are.”
No.
Sloane dropped the hairbrush and walked away from the mirror. She grabbed her car keys and purse, hauled open the heavy wooden door, and hurried toward the driveway.
Celeste called out, looking up from her garden bed. “Class tonight?”
“Yes.”
Traffic was horrible, making Sloane more than twenty minutes late. In truth, she was late most of the time. Maybe every time. But nobody said anything about it, wouldn’t have cared if she’d walked in for the last five minutes. Maybe that was one of the reasons she did show up. No judgment, no pressure. Just a room with rows of folding chairs, a big pot of coffee, and a handful of other people who’d shown up too. For their first time or after thousands of times. People who knew exactly why they were there. And other folks, like Sloane, who still weren’t close to sure.
She slid into a chair, not too near anyone else, the same way she always did.
“Hi, everyone,” a fortyish woman said, rising from her seat in the front row. Wearing a tailored twill jacket over a white blouse and nice jeans, she looked like a professor addressing her class. “I’m Jocelyn. And I’m an alcoholic.”
10
“YOU SAVE MY LIFE,” Oksana moaned, her accent made thicker by a mouthful of bacon double cheeseburger. She hunched forward on the unmade motel bed, her hazel eyes meeting Zoey’s. “I was like starving dog here. Can’t make soup with cold water.”
“Doesn’t sound hopeful.”
Zoey frowned at the scant few instant ramen containers sitting on the dusty window AC unit. One of them was wedged against the matted belly of Oksana’s beloved teddy bear. Next to it, boxes of prophylactics were stacked a dozen high. This smaller motel room, adjacent to the “work” rooms, was used primarily for storage by the girls’ employers. The blackout curtains had been pulled against the LA sunlight, and the air stank even more than the last time Zoey had dared to visit. Oksana had limited access to phones and no reliable way to communicate when the coast was clear. Or to get help if she needed it. She’d been sixteen when she was lured to the States by the promise of a job as a nanny for a wealthy American family. But . . .
“You’re healing up?” Zoey asked, glancing at the bit of iodine-tinged tape visible above the drawstring of her friend’s pajama bottoms, a blue polka-dot flannel so different from her working attire. The bear and the pj’s were Oksana’s favorite things, beyond “American cheeseburger.”
“From the surgery,” Zoey continued. “And infection—it’s all better?”
“Not all.” The burger bliss left Oksana’s eyes. “I get a checkup eight thirty tonight. So I can start working again. I guess no guy going to notice a bandage in the dark.”
Or care.
“Viktor says I am laying around too long—more trouble than I am worth.”
Zoey tensed. The implication wasn’t good. “But . . . the pain.”
“What’s little more pain?” The girl shook her head, long layers of kinky blonde hair brushing her pajama top. Oksana was not quite eighteen now, but she looked tired and defeated. “Life is pain. I wish I had more appendix to pop. Then I can believe in that mercy God.”
The church people must have been a
round again. More promises, tempting as that nanny job. With a bigger lie: “God loves a sinner.” Zoey hadn’t bought it either.
“You still good?” Oksana asked, nibbling at a pickle. “With your Mr. Stack?”
“Sure.”
It wasn’t completely true, but how could Zoey complain when she knew what her friend faced? Every day and night. She shifted in the chair, swore she could feel the tattoo on her hip. Stack had rescued her from a life like Oksana’s after she’d only had a few weeks of “training.” It had been more than enough time for Zoey to know anything else, anywhere else, was better.
“It’s good, easy,” Zoey told her. “Pawn stuff. Fake some IDs, follow the UPS guy around and grab packages. Scout some scams.”
“Get face all scratched.”
“Yeah.” Zoey touched the scabbing abrasion on her face. When she finally reconnected with Stack, he’d been concerned. As much as he was capable of that. His concentration, his ability to care about something, never lasted long. His top priority was himself. What Stack wanted. Period. He was no Sloane Ferrell. Zoey battled an uncharacteristic wave of guilt. “Sometimes I mess up.”
“Sometimes you do good.” Oksana lifted the remains of her burger. “My life is happy now.”
Happy? Zoey’s throat constricted. It shouldn’t be this way. Where was that “mercy God”?
“You go now.” Oksana’s brows scrunched. “If Viktor—”
“I’m gone. Don’t worry. Just rest, get better.” Zoey grabbed the teddy bear and settled it in Oksana’s arms. “Here.” She pulled a few bills from her pocket. “Take this. Pay somebody to go out for more food.” She studied her friend’s face, still bothered by what she’d revealed about Viktor’s displeasure. “And be careful. Promise me?”
“Okay. Sure.” Rare tears shimmered in Oksana’s eyes. She patted her heart, causing Sloane Ferrell’s money to brush the bear’s shabby ear. “Thank you, sister friend.”
“No problem.”
Zoey peeked out the door, checked both ways, and then glanced back at Oksana before leaving the room. Her friend was tucking the cash into her hiding spot, a small seam opening under a ribbon on the neck of her teddy bear. Hamburger cash. A little something to make life happier. Stealing was worth it for that.
Strange as it might sound, Zoey imagined Sloane Ferrell might understand. She’d bet the ER nurse had seen some trouble too.
Sloane stared at the envelope on her kitchen table, still stunned—unnerved. She’d worked so hard at covering her trail. She hadn’t left a forwarding address anywhere except with the state board of nursing and the Feds for taxes. And the cereal company, something she still couldn’t quite explain. But this small manila mailer had arrived through the Hope hospital system, not the USPS. It had been forwarded from the emergency department in Sacramento to San Diego to LA Hope. And might even have been tossed in the trash here, except that Sloane’s supervisor remembered she’d initially applied for the nursing position under the name Ronda Sloane Wilder.
The name was penciled on the envelope inside. The original date stamp was nearly three weeks ago. With a return address of California State Prison, Los Angeles County.
Sloane’s stomach churned. She’d never given Bob Bullard her address, never given him the time of day since she spat the final words of her testimony at his manslaughter trial. But he’d found her. The short note began with no salutation, no attempt at Dear or Hi there or Hey, girl—at least she was spared that.
It’s been a long time.
I don’t know if you heard, but I’m up for early release. The board meets on 10/17.
I guess you don’t want to hear that. Or hear from me at all. I understand.
But I need you to know that a lot of things have changed.
I’ve changed.
I hope we can talk about that. A phone call, if that’s okay.
Okay?
Sloane held the paper, hands trembling, and breathed slowly through her nose. It did nothing to diffuse the anger eating her alive. Like she’d swallowed some merciless demon with claws and fangs.
Drown it. You know how.
She glanced toward the kitchen cupboard, wondering how awkward it would be to ask Celeste if she could borrow a glass of—
No.
Sloane closed her eyes and drew in another slow breath. She wished for a moment that all the “Higher Power” lip service at the AA meetings were real. There was a time years back when she’d thought it was possible, when she’d held her breath and gone under the baptismal water to a chorus of hallelujahs. But then her nose got rubbed in the truth all over again: there was no forgiving God of love for someone like her. Or her mother.
Sloane thought of the necklace Zoey stole. A tarnished silver cross given to her mother by the handsome, blue-eyed soldier who’d promised to marry her. His mother’s necklace, perhaps. Sloane’s mother didn’t know anything about his family. But the one thing she’d known for sure was that her soldier was a brave, kindhearted man who could have been a real father to Sloane—changed everything for both of them—if he hadn’t been killed by friendly fire in a training exercise in the Nevada desert. Or at least that had always been her mother’s sad, romantic story. Several dramatic versions with the same basic Romeo and Juliet theme. Except that Sloane’s mother had lived beyond the tragedy. And the story had become the excuse, the bedrock, for her delicate and dreamy nature, her disconnect from extended family, her sick headaches, and her endless string of awful, self-destructive choices. For herself and for the child she’d given that soldier’s name. Wilder.
“You have his eyes . . . movie-star eyes . . .”
Her mother had said it a thousand times—slurred it, sobbed it—holding that cross and alternately praying to and cursing at the cruel God who’d ruined her life. Who’d stolen her chance at a happy ending. Forcing her to settle for so much less.
Like booze and sleeping pills. And a series of loser boyfriends, including the one who couldn’t keep his dirty hands off her small daughter. And finally . . . Sloane stared down at the note, bile rising in her throat. Her mother settled for marrying the insensitive and controlling man who took her into the hot tub that awful night.
“And killed her,” Sloane said aloud, her voice almost a growl. “You let her slip under the water and—”
She shook her head, fury blurring her vision. Bob Bullard wanted to call and tell her how much he’d changed. How he should now pay less of a price for the evil he’d done, and how he deserved his freedom. Was that what her stepfather wanted? For Sloane to show up at his hearing and ask the board to be merciful?
She laughed so hard tears rose. The irony was too funny, too sweet. Her stepfather had no idea that she’d already arranged to be at his hearing. Where she would stand up and deliver a well-planned speech. Mercy played no part whatsoever in what she was going to say. Bob Bullard deserved as much compassion as he’d shown to his wife.
Sloane folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. She was glad she’d accomplished the name change and had managed to keep such a low profile. Bob Bullard didn’t know her address. She paid her bills with money orders. What little mail she got came to Celeste’s place. She’d never told her coworkers exactly where she lived and rarely gave out her phone number. After what Zoey had pulled, it was an easy bet she wouldn’t be retracing her steps back here. Sloane was picking up some extra hours in the ER tonight to help make up for the loss of that money, but she knew she had it good here. She’d be okay. With each passing month, she worried less and less that Paul Stryker would show up on her porch to—
She jumped at the sound of the doorbell.
11
“IT’S A BEAUUU-TIFUL PRINCESS,” Piper explained, carrying the crayon drawing as she followed Sloane to the kitchen. She was wearing her karate outfit, white belt sagging low over one tiny hip. “Grams says all it needs is some tape. And a friendly fridge.”
“I happen to have both.” Sloane shook her head, smiling. There couldn’t
be more of a contrast between this visitor and her last.
“It’s a princess with wings,” the girl added once they stopped walking. She touched a fingertip to the drawing, indicating twin frills rising from the crayon figure’s back, more like crinkle fries from a purple potato than anything with feathers. “Angel wings.”
“Oh. I see,” Sloane told her, hating that a simple word had the power to drag her back to a beauty pageant stage.
“Angel Aames. It’s a perfect name. Says purity . . . and puts you at the top of the alphabet. You’re on your way, baby. . . .”
Sloane turned her attention to the drawing. “Angel wings and . . . She’s carrying a sword?”
“She’s a princess angel ninja warrior.”
Sloane chuckled. “I’d say that covers the bases.”
“Yeah.” Piper’s quick nod made a curl bounce across her forehead. “I’ll trade you.”
“Trade?”
The child wrinkled her nose, something in her eyes saying she was testing the water. Deciding. “Not really. You can have it. It’s a present. But . . .” She held out the drawing, glancing toward the pantry doors. “We only have Cheerios at my house.” Her shoulders rose and fell with a melodramatic sigh. “No marshmallows.”
“Ah.” Sloane was about to see that fateful cereal on her table for the second time in forty-eight hours. There was apparently a downside to hoarding. She took the drawing and walked toward the kitchen drawers. “Let me find some tape for your picture. Then maybe we can see if I have a snack you might like.”
“You do—I know you do. Lucky Charms!” Piper’s grin blossomed. “And maybe there’s chocolate milk.”
“Chocolate?” Sloane laughed, warmth spreading across her chest. If ever there was an example of hope on a sugar high. “You’re probably pushing it there, kiddo.”
“It’s okay. I can have reg-lar milk.”
“Good to know.” Sloane dug around in a sectioned drawer looking for the tape dispenser. She saw a vacant space in the clutter and discovered that her small stash of quarters was gone. Zoey had taken them, too. But she’d left . . . my AA chips. Sloane lifted the one designating six months sober and questioned, once again, if day after day of “showing up” would really make any difference at all. Recovery was as tough a word as mercy.
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