by Lucy Kerr
“Survivor’s guilt,” she murmured. “He should be blaming Josh Miller.”
“He does. But he’s also been pretty realistic about the odds of a successful conviction. Working as a prosecutor has jaded him, I think. This is different.”
“How so?”
“He was furious. Once it sank in at the cemetery, he started ordering the sheriff around, cursing at Noah, demanding they bring in other agencies.”
“Bet that went over well,” she murmured.
“The press ate it up. It’s got to be all over the news by now.”
“He’ll sue,” Garima said wearily. “Whether we find Trey or not, we could lose our NICU designation. It could shut the whole hospital down. I feel terrible even thinking about it while that poor baby is missing, but—” She spread her hands wide. “We’ve done so much good here, Frankie. Now it’s over.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “We’ll find the baby. Once we do, the hospital will recover, even if he does sue. Nobody here was negligent.”
The words sounded hollow, even to my own ears. Garima sighed and stood. “Guess I should get back out there. Check on my people.”
“Hey.” I punched her arm lightly as we left her office. “You do good all the time. I should know—Rowan and Charlie are alive because of you.”
She smiled weakly and headed out while I returned to the NICU.
“I’m not leaving,” Charlie said before I could get a word out. “She can’t stay here by herself.”
“She’ll be fine,” I said, though I couldn’t help running a hand over Rowan’s downy head, reassuring myself she was safe. “There’s a cop outside, and the entire ward’s on lockdown. You’ll be lucky if they let you bring her home at discharge, security’s so tight.”
“Security didn’t help Trey Tibbs, did it?” She practically snarled the words.
“Trey was targeted, Charlie. It was personal.”
Personal and baffling. Had Jess’s bond with Trey warped somehow, pushing her over the edge? It was the easiest explanation, though by no means a comforting one. I could almost have bought it if Kate’s crash had been an accident. But it seemed like too big of a coincidence that the baby that Jess bonded with, out of all the infants she’d taken care of in the last few years, was the one whose mother had been murdered. More logical to assume that Jess and Josh were working together from the start.
It fit, I guess, if you wedged the facts together and ignored the people. By all accounts, Jess was devoted to her patients. It was hard to imagine someone who loved children taking up with a guy who’d lost custody of his own. I was missing something.
“Rowan is safe. Nobody’s going to steal her. Someone is targeting Steven’s family—we just have to figure out who.”
“We? We are not detectives. You are not a detective. You are a nurse, and you should not be going toe-to-toe with a killer at someone’s funeral!” I bit my lip as Charlie continued, voice rising. “This family has been through enough in the last month, Frankie. I know you feel bad about this Josh Miller guy walking out of the ER, but you need to step back—way, way back—and let Noah and the police handle this. You want to save something? Focus on the store, or there won’t be much left to save.”
Sixteen
It took several hours, but I finally managed to convince Charlie to come home. Rowan was several weeks away from discharge, and there was no way the hospital would allow Charlie to sleep in the lounge for that long. Not only that, but Riley needed her too.
We waited for shift change—Charlie wanted to be sure that she knew exactly who would be watching Rowan for the night, and the sight of Donna’s familiar face seemed to ease her fear.
“Fingerprint ink,” Donna called, taking longer than usual to scrub in. “I had to talk to the police.”
“They’re fingerprinting people? They already know Jess is responsible,” I said.
“They’re just being cautious.” Donna lowered her voice. “Frankie, I know Jess. She’s a good person. She’s a good nurse. She loved that baby, sure, but we all have patients who are special. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“I think Steven Tibbs would disagree.”
“There has to be an explanation,” she insisted. “She’d never hurt Trey. I’m sure of it.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” I said.
After I’d dragged Charlie out of the hospital, we stopped in at the store, where Riley was assembling a miniature mansion out of building scraps. My mother, naturally, had the grapevine’s take on Trey’s abduction. It wasn’t enough that Jess had taken Trey. There was always another layer to the conspiracy, and theories ranged from the Chicago mob to St. Louis gangs, ex-clients of Kate’s to ex-cons Steven had prosecuted. I was surprised nobody had proposed alien abduction and said as much.
“It’s only been half a day, Francesca,” my mother said primly. “Give them some time.”
“How was traffic today?” Charlie asked, scanning the receipts with a scowl.
“Slow. It picked up after the news about Trey broke.”
“Why?” I asked. “Is there some correlation between major crime and home improvement?”
Mom brushed a stray wood shaving from the counter. “I have a granddaughter in the NICU and a daughter on staff. People assumed I might have insights.”
“You mean gossip,” I said sourly.
“People are scared, Francesca. Things like this don’t happen in Stillwater. Knowledge makes them less afraid.”
“And boosts the bottom line,” Charlie added.
Mom smiled. “How was the funeral?”
“Before the police came? Sad.” Charlie slanted a glance in my direction. “Until Frankie chased after Josh Miller.”
“Francesca!” My mother threw up her hands. “For heaven’s sake!”
“What was I supposed to do?” I asked. “Wave at him from the grave site?”
“So you took matters into your own hands?” Mom glared. “That’s not what I meant when I said to take initiative, and you know it.”
“I talked to him a little.” Perhaps it was the coward’s way out, but I decided against telling her about the knife. “He said the crash was an accident.”
“Of course he’d say that. Murder carries a longer prison term than manslaughter,” Charlie said. When we gaped at her, she shrugged. “What? When you watch as much Law & Order as I do, you pick up a few things.”
Mom turned back to me. “Francesca, you could have been hurt.”
The gleam of the knife flashed through my mind, but I kept my voice steady. “I wasn’t. And we told Noah right away.”
“He’s going to strangle you,” Charlie said, “as soon as he gets a spare moment.”
“Well, that won’t be for a while,” my mother said dryly. “What on earth did Miller go to the funeral for? Was he trying to rub it in? Did he want to revel in all the misery he’s caused?”
I frowned. “Why would he do that if it really was an accident? He certainly didn’t look like he was enjoying himself.”
“Maybe it was a guilty conscience,” Charlie said. “He wanted to atone for what he’d done. Or maybe he wanted to establish an alibi for Trey’s kidnapping.”
“What’s an alibi?” asked Riley, popping out from behind the counter.
All three of us jumped. She’d been playing so quietly, we’d forgotten she was there, and from the beatific expression on her face, that’s exactly what she’d banked on. I’d used the same trick plenty of times when I was her age to eavesdrop on conversations my mother deemed “not appropriate” for small ears.
“It’s a grown-up word,” my mother said firmly.
Riley stuck out her chin. “I know lots of grown-up words.”
Before she could demonstrate, I cut in. “An alibi is a way to prove you weren’t around when something bad happened. For example, if we know that someone ate the last of the cookies this afternoon, but you were at school the whole time, that would be your alibi.”
“Daddy ate the co
okies,” she said promptly.
“Now that we’ve all learned a new word,” my mother said with a firm and deliberate change of subject, “let’s finish closing up so we can head home. Riley, start sweeping. Charlie, are you nearly done cashing out?”
Charlie, less interested in vocabulary than register totals, looked up from a pile of receipts and said, “We need a way to boost traffic that does not involve felonies. Our numbers are falling off again.”
“A Get Ready for Winter sale?” I asked. “Snowblowers and ice melt?”
My mom pursed her lips. “Not yet. Firewood and rakes, yes. Maybe some of that cast iron.”
“People like to be prepared,” I argued. “Don’t they?”
“Not when it comes to hardware,” Charlie said. “People only buy snow shovels when it’s snowing. No one buys salt before December first. It’s still autumn. They’re thinking about playing in leaves instead of slogging through snowdrifts.”
“One last cookout while they watch football,” my mother agreed. “They’re not ready to hunker down yet.”
True enough. Still, there had to be something that would draw people in. My stomach growled inspiration. “Cornbread,” I said abruptly.
“Ooooh, cornbread,” Riley said, popping up again. The kid had a sixth sense when it came to food. “I love cornbread. Can we make some tonight?”
“Daddy’s making spaghetti and meatballs,” Charlie replied. “Cornbread wouldn’t go.”
“Not for dinner,” I said. “For the store. Make a bunch of cornbread and a vat of chili. Use the cast iron, hand out samples. Give them your recipe.”
“I will do no such thing,” Mom said, outraged.
I ignored her. “Make it an autumn celebration. You don’t need to give them a huge discount—ten percent, at most. Get ’em in here, show them all the things we’ve got to enjoy fall—one of those steel fire pits, a new rake, tulip bulbs they can plant now and enjoy in spring. People want to get together; they want the chance to gossip. Give them that right here in the store.”
“We’re not a social club,” my mother said.
“Really?” I gestured to the row of personalized mugs our regulars kept next to the coffeepot. “People didn’t go to HouseMasters when the news about Trey broke—they came here. You’re losing sales to big box stores because they beat you on price every time. You’re never going to win that battle, so stop trying. Give people something else. Something they won’t get at some generic chain.”
“Connection,” Charlie said slowly. “Community.”
I nodded. “A woman is dead. Her baby is missing. People are scared, so why not give them a way to fight it?”
“And you want to play off their fear? That’s not who we are, Francesca,” said my mom.
“Not play off their fear. Bring them together so they’re not afraid. You don’t have to make it about money. You can donate the proceeds to Trey’s college fund if it makes you feel better. The important thing is that we create a space for them to be together. Show we care about Stillwater. About the people.”
“It might be nice,” Charlie said.
My mother considered. “I’m not giving out my chili recipe.”
Seventeen
“You’re still here?” Costello asked when I came on duty the next night. “Thought maybe you’d changed your mind.”
“And miss all the fun?” I replied, looking over the whiteboard where our current cases were listed. “Appendicitis in Exam Three?”
“Stomach flu in One, strained rotator cuff in Two.”
“I’ve got the appendicitis,” Esme called from the other side of the nurses’ station.
“Guess that leaves you on puke duty,” Costello said. I opened my mouth to protest. “You’re the newbie, Stapleton. You take the dregs.”
“I’ve got five years on Esme,” I protested.
“Not here you don’t,” he replied. “Zofran and IV Ringer for the flu, then get the shoulder down to imaging.”
I ground my teeth and got to work, grateful I’d brought an extra pair of scrubs.
As it turned out, the flu patient was easier to deal with than the shoulder. Antinausea medication and IV fluids to rehydrate had her quickly improving. The shoulder was a different story. He’d been in three times since summer, claiming a different injury every time, demanding painkillers at every visit.
“I really need to be able to work tomorrow,” he insisted. “If I don’t make it through my shift, I’ll lose my job. Can’t you give me enough for a couple of days? Even fifty milligrams would help.”
Educated patients are fine. Overeducated patients—the ones who think Google is as good as a medical degree—are a nuisance. Patients who want to order their own pain meds, especially when their injury is invisible, however, are a problem.
“The doctor prescribes things, not me, but I’ll let him know you’re concerned about missing work. He can give you an official letter if that will help with your boss.”
The muscles in his shoulders—yes, even the injured one—bunched, and his hands curled to fists. The room seemed smaller suddenly, and yet the door seemed farther away. “I need those meds.”
“You can discuss it with the doctor when he comes in.”
I strode out, the weight of his gaze landing like a blow between my shoulder blades. I was careful to keep my stride even and unhurried, my head high, and went over his patient history more closely. Then I tracked down Costello.
“The shoulder’s an addict,” I said. “Repeat patient, pain out of proportion, wants specific meds, and he’s getting surly about it. How do you want me to handle him?”
“Get him out,” Costello said sharply. “I’ll write a script for physical therapy after the exam. Otherwise, he gets ibuprofen and ice. You can give him the brochure from the health department if you’re feeling generous. Make sure to note it in the system and on his chart.”
All standard procedure, but it wouldn’t solve the underlying problem.
“How long has this been a happening?” I asked.
“What? The opioid crisis?” He snorted. “We’ve always had a few cases, but it’s gotten worse in the last two or three years.”
“Isn’t the county doing anything? I know they’ve got a few programs, but at Chicago Memorial …”
“We’re having a budget crisis at the moment, or haven’t you heard? County health department can barely afford tongue depressors.” He shook his head. “They’re doing the best they can, and so are we.”
“Dr. Costello, we’ve got an MI, sixty-year-old female, ETA twenty minutes,” Alejandro called.
“Get Dr. Beach to discharge the shoulder, check in on the flu patient again,” Costello ordered, downing the rest of his coffee and heading out. I bit back a complaint about being sidelined yet again. He glanced back at me. “Do it fast, Stapleton. I want you in on the MI.”
“Got it,” I said, trying not to sound too eager—or too grateful. Myocardial infarctions were heart attacks and infinitely more interesting than stomach flu.
“Stapleton,” he barked again as I started toward Exam Three.
I glanced back.
“Take security with you.”
In the past, I might have resisted asking for help, but Josh Miller had turned me more cautious. Besides, there was no reason defy an order from an attending, especially if I wanted to avoid being the go-to girl for food poisoning and strained shoulders when acute cases were coming in.
Dr. Beach, the other ER physician on duty, finished the exam in near-record time. His instructions were identical to Costello’s, and I went through the standard discharge spiel, conscious the entire time of the khaki-shirted security guard standing a few steps away. The patient’s gaze darkened when he realized I wouldn’t be giving him anything stronger than ibuprofen, his eyes jerking from me to the guard and back again.
“You’re supposed to help people.” Spittle formed at the corners of his mouth.
“Giving you those meds won’t help,” I said.
“This might, though.”
I set the brochure from the county health department, a listing of all the resources and support groups in the area, on the edge of the gurney, and then eased back. I kept my hands up, palms outward to show I wasn’t carrying anything else, not a single tremor despite the tension poisoning the air. Behind me, the guard shifted his weight ponderously.
I kept my expression neutral, my voice easy and soft. “It’s yours if you want it.”
His ragged breaths were the only sound in the room, and I forced myself to stay still—not threatening, not cowering. Simply present, hoping that it would give him the chance to pause before his anger and his desperation propelled him into violence.
With another curse, he pushed off the bed and stormed out of the room, pausing only to slap the paper out of my hand.
I exhaled shakily. “Can’t say I didn’t try. Thanks for sitting in.”
“No problem. Wasn’t the first time I’ve had to.”
No, it wouldn’t have been. Not if Stillwater was dealing with the same sort of opioid epidemic sweeping the rest of the country. We saw plenty of it in Chicago, but everything I’d read—and everything I’d seen since arriving at Stillwater Gen—suggested that prescription abuse was worse in rural communities.
Now, though, I had a heart attack to deal with. I ducked into Exam One and made sure the patient was keeping down her apple juice, then headed over to the ambulance doors.
“I want MONA first, then get the leads on him, draw a rainbow for type and cross, blood gas, and cardiac enzymes,” Costello was saying as I arrived.
“Got it,” Esme said. “Trauma One’s prepped and ready.”
MONA wasn’t a person, but a protocol—a standard treatment given to a specific condition. Ask anyone who’s worked in cardiac, and they’ll tell you: when a patient comes in with a suspected heart attack, MONA, a lifesaving combination of morphine, oxygen, nitroglycerine, and aspirin, greets them at the door.