by C. J. Lyons
If Tillman went public—he could ruin Nora’s career. Not just through the public humiliation, but also by jeopardizing all the cases she’d worked on as a sexual assault examiner. Knowing that the nurse collecting the evidence was once a victim herself was the kind of fodder defense attorneys salivated over, claiming bias.
“Nora told you this?” she asked.
He nodded. “In June she told me she was raped on New Year’s Eve, two years ago. That was the first she said anything. I kinda already knew maybe something was wrong. But it’s not something you really can talk about, you know? Anyway, she said she was over it. Acted like it had been some kind of drunken mistake. She never told me any of the details, not until today.” His hands clamped onto the edge of the desk. “Not until after I saw what that butcher did to Karen.”
“Is that why you left Nora? Because she was raped?”
“God, no. Is that what she told you? What she thinks?” He scrubbed his palms over his face. “I wanted to marry her. I even went to a support group for families of rape victims, talked to Tommy Z. I couldn’t stand the thought that I might hurt her—that anyone could ever hurt her again. And I was so angry, frustrated, felt so powerless . . .” His expression grew sorrowful, and he blinked slowly. “God, I never wanted to hurt her. But somehow that’s all I seem able to do. Anyway, I screwed it all up.”
Lydia scrutinized him. She liked Seth—but that didn’t mean she was about to let him get near Nora again, maybe hurt her. “You screwed it up? Yeah, sleeping with Karen and letting the whole hospital see you might just do that.”
He was shaking his head before she finished. “No one understands. I didn’t sleep with Karen. I was so tied up in knots about asking Nora to marry me, about what I should do to protect her, make her happy, about doing all the right things so we could have a future together, that I started sleepwalking.”
“Sleepwalking? Right.”
“It’s true. I haven’t done it since I was a kid. Lucas can tell you—he even tested me in the sleep lab. Last month.”
She pursed her lips, still not quite believing him. After all, Nora had seen him with Karen. Could someone really sleep-walk his way into a sexual encounter?
“You told Tommy Z about Nora, about the rape?” she asked.
“I wanted to know how to help her—it was supposed to be confidential. I thought I was helping.”
“But you think Tommy Z told Tillman?”
“After what happened to Karen, Tillman is out for blood—he could fire Nora, ruin her career, or worse, tell the world about what happened to her.”
No one could fake the pain that filled his face.
“No matter what we do, that might still happen. Did she tell Jerry Boyle about all this?”
“I don’t think so. Not yet. Nora didn’t report the assault when it happened. She’s blaming herself for Karen.”
“More than two-thirds of rapes go unreported. Nora shouldn’t feel guilty—”
“Of course she shouldn’t.” He jerked his head up, ready to defend Nora. Lydia took that as a good sign. “I tried to tell her that, but, she won’t listen to me. Lydia, you have to help me help her. It’s not fair; she’s been through so much.”
“I think you already know what to do, Seth. Go to her, tell her the truth about you and Karen.”
“I tried. She won’t listen. And what if I make things worse? Screw up again?”
“Just be there for her.”
He sucked in his breath and nodded slowly. “You’re right.”
“Leave Tillman and Tommy Z to me. I’ll think of something.”
“I DIDN’T KNOW YOUR FATHER WAS A LAWYER,” Nora said, finally relaxing enough after a massage and facial to put her feet up on her chaise lounge as they waited for Gina’s hair to process. Antonio and his staff had fed them a light lunch, and they now both sipped pomegranate mimosas. Well, Gina sipped. Nora held hers, staring at the beads of water sliding down the glass as if they held the secrets of the universe. Maybe not so relaxed, after all.
Gina took another drink to hide her discomfort at the mention of her father. Her family was a well-kept secret from almost everyone at Angels. Even her roommate, Amanda, had met Gina’s parents, Moses and LaRose Freeman, only twice in passing. Gina had been mortified when LaRose had asked Amanda prying questions about her family in South Carolina. Amanda had lit up, describing the way her grand-parents had run shrimp boats, but her father, foreseeing the demise of the family-run fishing business, had converted the family docks to an engine shop and now offered “house calls” to rich boat owners from Hilton Head to Isle of Palms.
Gina’s mother had sniffed the air as if scenting diesel fuel, and when her father, the great and mighty Moses Freeman—one adjective was never enough to describe Moses—had shaken Amanda’s hand, he’d scrutinized it as if she still had grease under her fingernails. And the way they treated Jerry . . . Gina’s shoulders hunched in anger.
“My dad doesn’t take many local cases,” she said lamely, hoping Nora would drop it.
“Oh. Does he work for the government or something?”
Nora was only trying to distract herself from the events of the day, but Gina wished she’d picked another subject. She blew out her breath and set her glass down with a bang. The attendant checking her hair jumped, then scurried from the room.
“No,” she said as Nora looked at her expectantly. “My father is Moses Freeman.”
Gina waited for the double take. Nora’s eyes grew wide, then immediately narrowed. “You’re kidding me. I thought Moses Freeman was—”
“A short, balding, fat Jewish guy. Yeah that’s what everyone thinks when they hear the name. Something my father uses against them mercilessly.” Actually, Moses Freeman did everything without mercy.
“So your dad’s the personal-injury lawyer who single-handedly started Pennsylvania’s malpractice crisis.” Nora’s lips quirked in an almost-smile.
Time for a change of topic. “You should see the dress I have for Saturday. This Vera Wang red silk. It’s too bad Jerry won’t be there.”
“What do you mean? Of course Jerry will be there.”
“I’m telling him not to come. He’ll make me too nervous.” The lies flew from her like sparks from a fire. What would Nora think if she told her that in reality she’d decided to tell Jerry to stay home because with her father in the audience, there was no way she could announce their engagement? She felt like enough of a fraud accepting this award as it was.
Worse, she couldn’t get Ken Rosen’s words out of her mind—that she was wrong for Jerry. It was as if Ken could speak a truth no one else, not even Gina except in her darkest moments, could acknowledge.
If she could figure out a way to skip the gala, she would.
Her hand trembled. A drop of pomegranate juice sparked bloodred as it splashed into her palm. She lifted her glass and drained it, imagining the expression on her father’s face. Standing ovation, clapping, waiting for her to appear on stage . . . and she never did. Oh my, wouldn’t that be a treat?
In her fantasy, Moses Freeman would be struck speechless for the first time ever.
NORA EDGED HER BUTT FORWARD IN THE DRIVER’S seat of her Honda. After dropping Gina off at EMS headquar ters, she still hadn’t gotten the seat to the right adjustment from where Gina, who was five-ten, had pushed it back.
It had felt strange, being driven by someone else in her own car. Not like this whole day hadn’t been strange. Going from the ER to being massaged and painted and perfumed at Antonio’s had been surreal. But at least she’d escaped the hospital rumor mill, and Gina’s chatter had crowded aside thoughts of Karen.
Nora’s house came into view, and she pulled into her parking space. The house’s owner, Michelle “Mickey” Cohen, was a lawyer who worked for the ACLU and gave Nora free room and board in the second-floor apartment in exchange for light nursing duties. Nora had the feeling she was going to have to leave soon—Mickey had MS, but was on a new drug protocol that had worked
wonders; she hadn’t needed a wheelchair in weeks, and really there was nothing Nora was doing for her except providing dinner conversation.
Nora climbed out of the car, shivering in the chill evening air. The sun was already long faded from sight. She always hated how early the days ended during the winter. She walked up the brick path leading to the front steps. Mickey’s law offices were on the first floor, so the front door was left unlocked during business hours. Nora entered and then stopped short.
Sitting on the reception couch, reading an out-of-date copy of Sports Illustrated, was Seth Cochran.
TEN
Thursday, 6:42 P.M.
AMANDA BEGAN HER EVENING IN RADIOLOGY, grabbing a resident to review Narolie’s CT films with her. Normal was the disappointing diagnosis. Not that she wanted something to be wrong, but it would be nice to give Narolie a reason for her misery—something Amanda could help fix.
She trudged back upstairs to pediatrics and found Narolie in her room, alone. “How are you feeling?”
The girl sat up and turned to Amanda. “Better. Just a headache now, no more vomiting.”
“Your test, the CAT scan, it was normal.”
Narolie stared at Amanda for a long minute. “You, too—you think it is all inside my mind.” A tear slipped from her eye. “What if you are right? How do I stop it? Make it go away?”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions. I want to talk with you; I want to hear the whole story—when you began to get sick, what happened, everything.” Amanda’s pager chirped. She glanced at the display. The PICU.
“Talk, all they do is talk. They ask about school, if I think I’m too fat, if my uncle touches me, all everyone wants is to talk.”
Amanda’s pager sounded again. Damn. “Narolie. I know this is hard on you. I’ll be back. Sometime tonight. And I want to do more than talk. I want to listen.”
The girl stared at her with suspicion. Then she nodded. “Okay. Tonight, I tell you anything.”
“Okay.” Amanda turned to the door. “Tell the nurses to call me if you need anything. I’ll be back as soon as I can get free.”
She left pediatrics and dashed up the steps to the PICU. “Someone paged?” she asked the clerk, her gaze immediately darting over to Zachary’s bedside, expecting to find that he’d crashed. But all seemed quiet there.
The clerk pursed her lips. “Oh, yeah. Dr. Frantz wasn’t too happy about your suggestion for a child life consult. Said you were now to officially oversee his patient’s case and do whatever the parents ask you to.”
“That’s crazy; I’ve got other patients to take care of.”
“Not according to Dr. Frantz. He said to consider his patient your only patient or, I quote, ‘to reconsider your career options.’ Sorry, Amanda. The guy’s a real a-hole.”
“That’s okay. I can handle him. He’s just a big ol’ bully, and I learned how to deal with them back when I was in pig-tails.” Starting with her brother Andy, who was five years her senior and loved to torment her.
The clerk grinned at Amanda’s Southern twang, made stronger by her irritation. “Leave me out of it from now on, okay? I need my job.”
“Some things are more important than a job.” Amanda turned to survey the PICU. “Like patient care.” She went to check on Tank.
A tall blond woman in a red suit was pacing beside Tank’s bed. “Oh, thank God,” she said when Amanda entered, her words gushing out. “I keep calling and calling and nobody comes. Don’t you people understand how sick he is?”
“What’s wrong, Tank?” Amanda asked. Tank didn’t look up, seemingly mesmerized by the video he was watching on his iPod.
“His fever is back and you people won’t do anything about it!” the woman said. His mother, Amanda presumed.
Amanda glanced at the bedside chart. “They gave him acetaminophen less than twenty minutes ago.”
“I know. And it’s obviously not working. Feel him, he’s burning up!”
Tank wasn’t even sweating, although his skin did feel a little on the warm side.
“And these sheets,” the woman continued, yanking up the corner of the hospital bedsheet. “I told them Harold is extremely sensitive. Organic cotton or silk only. We need to have these sheets changed immediately. Preferably silk.”
Silk sheets in a hospital? “Ma’am, I don’t think—”
“Don’t think, do. Where’s Dr. Freeman? She understands. I asked them to page her. Why isn’t she answering?”
Because Gina was smart enough to stay far away from this crazy lady, Amanda thought. “Dr. Freeman doesn’t work up here, Mrs. Trenton.”
Mrs. Trenton stopped and wheeled on her heel. “I’m starting to think no one works around here.” She patted Tank’s shoulder dramatically. He didn’t even look up. “Don’t you worry, sweetheart, I’ll get you everything you need.” She pushed the bedside table with a covered tray of food toward Amanda. “You can take this away. It’s inedible. Tank says he doesn’t have much of an appetite, but could maybe eat some pierogies and a chocolate milkshake.”
“Pierogies and a milkshake?” Did the lady mistake her for the dietitian?
“From the Bloomfield Bridge Tavern. I’ve already called in the order; they’re waiting for you to pick it up.”
There was a tap on the glass as the respiratory tech beckoned to Amanda to help him with Zachary’s treatment. Thank God.
“I’ve got to go,” Amanda muttered as she made her escape. “Another patient needs me.”
“I need you.” Mrs. Trenton’s plaintive wail was cut off by the doors sliding shut.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” NORA ASKED SETH, loud enough to bring Mickey out from her office. She lowered her voice, hoping Mickey didn’t have a client in there. “I told you to leave me alone.”
“I asked him to stay and wait for you,” Mickey said, handing Seth a DVD in a jewel case. The lawyer wasn’t wearing a suit, but rather her off-duty attire: yoga pants and a wool cardigan. “You should listen to him, Nora. He convinced me, and I’m a born skeptic.”
Nora looked from Mickey to Seth. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I’m in no mood for puzzles. Do you need anything, Mickey?”
“No. In fact, why don’t you take a few days off?”
“But—”
“No buts. You two go up and have a nice long chat. Watch Seth’s home movies.” She grinned mischievously at Seth. “Natalie’s picking me up for bingo. I might be late; don’t wait up.” She gave Nora a jovial wave, gave Seth a thumbs-up and wink, and was gone.
Nora stared after her. She was glad to see Mickey feeling so good, but damn it, it was the worst timing. She spied a bouquet of lavender daylilies sitting on the reception desk—Seth’s trademark. At least this time he’d brought only a single bouquet. A few months ago when he’d wanted to reconcile, he’d drowned her in flowers. Her shoulders slumped. She didn’t have the energy to deal with Seth. Not tonight.
Seth climbed to his feet from the low-slung couch, working as if pushing a boulder up a hill, reminding her that his day had been as bad as hers. He held the DVD out to her, some kind of offering. She shoved it back into his hands without looking at it.
“I’m not in the mood for movies,” Nora snapped, turning and starting up the steps to her apartment.
Seth followed her. Of course. It was too much to ask that he take a hint. “You shouldn’t be alone. Not tonight.”
“I told you, I’m fine.” She unlocked the door to her apartment and let him inside. The space boasted high ceilings, wide windows, and hardwood floors. Spare Shaker-style furniture highlighted the clean angles, creating a welcoming yet uncluttered look.
“You could have come home to the town house,” Seth said, following Nora’s example as she kicked her shoes off at the door. “DeBakey would have loved to see you.” DeBakey was the yellow lab they had shared while they lived together.
“It’s your home now, not mine,” she told him. His face tightened with a wince that echoed inside her. Damn it, sh
e did not want to feel anything for this man. Why couldn’t she stop feeling? Make herself numb like she had two years ago, after the attack?
He stepped closer to her, almost close enough to touch her, but kept his hands at his side, one thumb rubbing the seam of his jeans, the other hooked in his waistband. “Is there anything you need? Anything I can do?”
She sank onto the couch, too weary to stand and face him. “No, Seth. Go home. Just go home.”
“I needed to see that you were all right.” He stood silent for several seconds. “I remember the first time I saw you,” he said, one hand opening and closing against his thigh as if he were trying to hold on to something. “Someone was out sick and they sent you up to the SICU to cover. You were so young. Everyone was thinking you’d fall apart. How could doling out Band-Aids for boo-boos compare to critical surgical patients?”
Despite herself, Nora smiled. The surgical ICU had complex and critical patients, but it was a well-behaved, dainty lace doily compared to the ER’s twisted skein of chaos. “Guess I showed them.”
“Yeah, when that fresh coarct repair blew and there you were, helping me open his chest. Standing side by side, it was like you were in my head, handing me instruments without my saying anything; you knew exactly what I was going to do next before I did myself. Like we were two bodies with one mind.”
He sank down beside her on the couch, closing his eyes. “I miss that feeling.”
Nora watched him for a long moment while he couldn’t see her. His eyes were hollowed with fatigue, new creases etched at the corners, his mouth also lined with worry. “So do I.”
Without opening his eyes, he stretched his legs out and crossed his arms behind his head. “Good thing this couch is comfortable.”
“Oh, no. You’re not staying.”
His eyes popped open and he sat up straight, serious once more. “Did you call Jerry Boyle yet? Tell him this nut job might be after you next?”