by CJ Lyons
Her face was a sheet of ice, ready to slip and expose the chaos behind her mask. She couldn’t maintain her composure for much longer. Leah left her boss and drifted down the front hall, passing the room where she and Emily had been sequestered last night. She knew how to do this, knew how to lock away her emotions better than this. After all, she’d dealt with loss time and again, her whole life—how many times had Ruby left, forcing Leah to grieve and figure out what to do next and how to make sense of the world, only to return and repeat the cycle? By the time Ruby finally left Leah with Nellie, Leah had no idea what to believe. All she knew was it had to be her fault—she was the reason why Ruby couldn’t stay, couldn’t bear to live with Leah, not another day.
Her phone buzzed with missed calls and texts, most from neighbors, colleagues, acquaintances from Ian’s church, all offering sympathy, food, help. She knew their hearts were in the right place, but no one could help her with what she really needed: Emily safe and whole. Warm thoughts and prayers and heart emojis weren’t going to bring Ian back. They weren’t going to stop this nightmare.
She shoved the phone back into her pocket. As she moved past the ER’s triage desk and waiting area, someone shouted her name. Then more shouts came—a chorus yelling out.
She glanced up in surprise and saw a bunch of reporters crowded into the waiting room, surging past the lone security guard at the desk. Flashes filled the air as they shouted questions. Overwhelmed, she ducked her head, clutched her gym bag close to her, and spun around to flee.
Only to have her path blocked by a man who didn’t look like a reporter. He wore a flannel shirt over a stained, once-white tee and torn jeans that sagged around his hips. He held a bloody towel around his left hand. “That’s her! That’s the doctor who killed my wife! How’s it feel? To finally get what you deserve?”
Eleven
“You killed my wife!” the strange man screamed as he grabbed the bloody towel wrapped around his hand and flung it at Leah’s face. Leah stumbled backwards, hitting the wall.
A second man came from across the hall and shoved the first man, propelling him into the waiting room. Reporters surged forward, shouting questions as the security guard struggled to fight his way through, chasing after Leah’s attacker. Leah didn’t move, couldn’t move, the maelstrom of activity blurring as if she were very far away—except for the panic that kept her feet tethered, frozen to the ground. She couldn’t speak if she tried, her throat closed tight, hands held up near her face as if warding off an attack.
Her anonymous rescuer guided her by the arm away from the waiting room, down to the secure doors leading to the hallway separating the ER from the main hospital. Leah felt better once the steel doors were between her and the commotion in the waiting area. She slumped against the wall, trying to remember how to breathe; her lungs felt on fire. Too deep a breath, too much oxygen, and she might spontaneously combust.
“You all right, doc?” The man wasn’t cloaked in a lab coat, but instead wore a casual button-down, jeans, worn work boots and a tight-fitting knit cap over his head.
She nodded, unable to speak, her free hand rubbing at her face. None of the blood had gotten into her eyes or mouth, in fact there wasn’t any trace of it, but still, just the idea…
“Sure, doc? You look kinda pale.”
“I’m fine.” The words sounded almost normal. As if being accused of murder and then assaulted by a strange man happened every day. Leah had had her fair share of verbal threats from patients. Usually they were intoxicated or suffered mental illness; nothing personal, just part of the job. But this felt very personal.
Suddenly being alone in an empty hallway with a total stranger didn’t seem like such a good idea. The man must have picked up on her discomfort. He shuffled his feet and pulled open the door leading back into the ER. “Glad you’re okay,” he mumbled. “Sorry about what happened to your husband.” And he left.
Leah’s panic slowly subsided. Until another man appeared at the far end of the hall. Her heart raced, despite the fact that he wore hospital scrubs and was too far away to hurt her. She ran for the stairwell, swiped her ID—had to do it twice, her hand was shaking so badly—and pulled the door shut behind her.
Pediatrics was on three, but she stopped on the landing below it, her breath jagged, her mind spinning out of control. Who was that man who attacked her in the ER? She didn’t know him. Who was his wife? Like every physician, Leah had lost patients, but she didn’t remember the man—and Leah definitely remembered every family she had to give bad news to. Suddenly the face of the stabbing victim from last night danced in front of her.
Not victim. She forced herself to bend her thoughts to use Andre Toussaint’s label for the boy: rapist. What had happened to his victim? Had she died? Was the man in the ER the victim’s husband? What if Leah’s act of compassion, her triumph of resuscitation, served only to create more pain, violence, and bloodshed?
That boy… that rapist… the man accusing her of murder… What if they were all connected? With shaking hands, she slid Luka Jericho’s card from her pocket and dialed.
“Jericho,” he answered, the sounds of traffic in the background.
“It’s Leah Wright.” She faltered, certain her imagination had spiraled out of control. He’d think her a fool.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Wright?”
He never used her title—usually she didn’t care, preferred people to call her by her first name, but somehow it felt as if Jericho made that choice on purpose, to manipulate her emotions. She reminded herself that was his job, but still it rankled. “There was a man in the ER. Accused me of killing his wife. And there was a kid last night. Stabbed. I saved him, but the cops said he attacked a woman—”
“Wait. Who was the man who attacked you?”
“I have no idea. He ran, maybe security—” God, she did sound insane. Rambling.
“But he’s connected to your stabbing victim?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I just thought, if the woman last night died, maybe he blamed me for saving the kid—” Her logic unraveled and she realized she was making no sense—the whole thing made no sense. But the man’s eyes, crazed with fury and grief… maybe his mind was as overwhelmed as her own.
“You’re talking about Eric Winters, the sixteen-year-old who tried to rape a woman last night.” His voice was calm, so rational compared to her own turmoil of careening emotions. “The woman lived, only a few bruises. So did the civilian who interceded. Only casualty was the rapist you saved.”
Leah digested that. “Okay. Sorry for wasting your time.”
“Not a waste. I’ll call hospital security. Have them track down this guy from the ER. Is your daughter ready to talk? We have the forensic interview set for eleven with a Dr. Jessica Kern, but I could do it sooner—”
“No.” The word shot out from her, sharp and final. She cringed at the loud sound echoing from the cement walls of the stairwell. “No,” she said more softly. “Emily’s still sedated. I’m not sure when she’ll be ready.” Leah had performed dozens of forensic interviews on victims; she knew when done well, they were meant to empower, aid in healing, preventing PTSD—as well as help the police and prosecutors. But the mother in her dreaded Emily having to tell her story to strangers, reliving it at all.
“I’ll see you at eleven,” he said and hung up.
She sank down to the floor, held her head in her hands.
She couldn’t do this alone. She needed help.
Ian’s parents would try, although they’d be more work than help, suffering through their own pain and loss.
No. She didn’t so much need someone as she needed someplace. Someplace to hide, where she could protect Emily. Someplace quiet, where they could both begin to heal. Someplace like home—except home wasn’t home anymore and might never be again. Not without Ian.
A safe haven. Before she met Ian there was only one place where she’d ever felt that way. Nellie’s house.
After Nellie died,
Leah’s mother had moved in. Leah hadn’t spoken to Ruby in over six years. Not since Leah threw her out of the hospital’s maternity ward when Ruby came to see Emily and brought one of her boyfriends. Both Ruby and the man had been drunk or high or some combination, pawing and grabbing at Leah’s newborn as if Emily belonged to them. Making her vows and promises, creating grandiose plans of trips to Disney and pony rides, to the point where Leah, in her exhaustion, finally broke down and screamed at them to leave, to never come back. Told them Emily would never, ever be abandoned and betrayed by broken promises like Leah had been. That she’d rather Emily never know her grandmother than to have the kind of childhood Leah suffered through.
She’d never forget the look on Ruby’s face. Stunned, finally realizing the truth of where they were and what they’d done and what was about to happen. If Leah had slapped Ruby she would not have looked as shocked.
Ruby had blinked, her gaze flitting around the room, taking in reality for the first time in probably decades, finally settling on her daughter who had baby Emily curled protectively in her arms, shielding her from Ruby.
“You’re probably right,” she’d said. Then she and her date left. It was the last time Leah had seen or spoken to her mother. Ruby hadn’t even come to Nellie’s funeral, had simply moved herself into Nellie’s farmhouse a few weeks later without a word to Leah.
Leah swiped her tears—how was it possible that she had any left?—and stared at the phone’s screen. She didn’t have a number for Ruby, but she did have Nellie’s old landline memorized from when she was a child. Without even thinking, feeling the same way as she had as a child, blowing out birthday candles and making her desperate wish, the same wish, year after year, she dialed it.
The phone rang. And kept ringing. The noise brought her to her senses, and she was just about to hang up when a woman’s voice answered. “Hello.”
Leah almost dropped the phone, the voice sounded so much like Nellie’s.
“Hello?” the woman repeated.
She swallowed, no idea what to say. But deep within her brain, the part of her who was still that fearful child yearning to feel safe and cherished—the little girl who could never stop believing that her mother would finally, someday, come rescue her, actually want her, choose her—emerged. “Can I come home? Please, I need to come home.”
Instantly ashamed of her weakness, she hung up before Ruby could answer.
Leah’s frantic breathing echoed against the cinder block walls of the stairwell. How could she be so foolish, calling Ruby? She’d spent the first half of her life in a futile attempt to earn her mother’s love and the second fleeing her. No way in hell did she need Ruby back in her life, not now. And Emily most especially did not need to be exposed to Ruby. Not now, not ever.
Except it wasn’t really Ruby she’d been reaching out to. It was Nellie.
And, like Ian, Nellie was beyond Leah’s reach.
Twelve
His breath heaved as he ran. All that blood. He slammed into the side of a pickup truck. Blinked. The world around him swam in a sea of red then steadied once more. His truck. He gasped, spun around, placing his back against the driver’s door. Who was he running from? Why? Where was he?
All that blood…
He hauled in one breath, then another, his pulse slowing, adrenaline ebbing enough that the roaring in his brain subsided. Sweat dripped from his brow. His mouth was dry, tasted of metal. He looked around. Gray concrete with parking markings. The smell of gas and motor oil. He was in a parking garage. There, a sign. Good Sam—what was he doing at the hospital? His son—was he sick again?
Panic surged. Was he coming? Going? Where was his son? What happened?
All that blood… Not his blood.
A man and woman emerged from the hospital, strolling to their car, the woman obviously pregnant. Both talking very fast, heads turned to each other, shutting out the rest of the world, so excited, so happy. He watched them, trying to remember… The way her hand felt against his, her skin under his calloused palm as she pressed it just there, the baby kicking. They’d both laughed so hard…
Ambushed by grief, he turned, leaned his forehead against the truck’s window to hide from the world. Remember. He needed to remember. What had happened? How did he get here?
Where had all that blood come from? His son, was he safe?
He closed his eyes. Took another deep breath to steady himself. His head throbbed. Blood filled his vision, surging, spraying, sluicing… not his blood. His throat tightened with terror. His son? No. No. His son was fine. He remembered now. Getting home last night—from where? What was so important that he’d left his son? He’d never do that—
Getting home. Watching his son sleep. Kissing his forehead, just like his mom used to do checking for fever. Showering and crawling into bed for a short nap until it was time to start the day. His dreams strange, filled with blood and fists, men scowling and, worse, grinning—memories of prison.
He’d woken screaming his son’s name. He’d blinked, the room slowly coming into focus. Through the slivers of sunlight peeking through the cracks in the curtains, he saw that he wasn’t in his bed, he was on the couch in the living room. Had he been sleepwalking again?
He’d leapt from the couch and raced to his son’s room. His boy sat in his race car bed, a picture book on his lap.
“You okay?” he’d asked.
His son had nodded, never looking up from his book. The sunlight streamed through the windows, giving the boy a golden glow, yet also casting shadows on the floor, a black chasm. He inched his toe forward but dared not cross. Times like this when his son was happy, not sick or feverish, he always felt scared to touch him, get too close. Afraid his clumsy loving would trigger… something. Maybe he hadn’t always been the best father, but now it was just the two of them and he vowed to do better.
“Need anything?” he asked, still from the doorway. He remembered wanting more than anything to run into the room, hug his son, plop down beside him, and hold him tight. But he couldn’t. Not only because he was worried about hurting his little boy. It was the blood, staining his memory. As if it might contaminate, corrupt a child’s innocence.
And now he was here, at the hospital. But how had he gotten here?
Before he could worry about it, a sharp pain exploded in his head, radiating through his skull to his jawbones, into his teeth, drilling deeper than any dentist. You shouldn’t be here.
He collapsed against the truck, both hands flying up to cradle his head.
He needed to be watching her.
The widow.
“What did I do?” His shout emerged as a whimper, silenced by the pain thundering through his skull. A man screaming, the flash of a blade, the thud of flesh and bone breaking. He slid to the ground, rocked back and forth, his head caught in the vise of his two hands. “What did you make me do?”
Thirteen
Luka steered through the streets, heading toward Good Sam and his appointment with the medical examiner. After hanging up from Leah, he’d called Good Sam’s security—who had lost the man in the ER but promised to help identify him. He’d also confirmed that they had guards watching Leah and her daughter. The man who assaulted her didn’t sound like the same person who had killed Ian—more opportunistic, less meticulous—but the incident did raise some interesting questions.
The weather guys on the radio were going nuts over a storm that was rolling in; it was expected to take today’s spring-like temperatures and send them plummeting with high winds and blizzard conditions. Luka scoffed. Must be nice having a job that paid you to be wrong more than half the time. Last time they got excited about a storm—schools cancelled, stores depleted of bread and milk, the city ready to implement its Code White emergency plan—all they got was a measly three inches that melted before the snowplows even left their garage. He turned the radio off and called Janine. He had to warn her about Tanya.
“Where are you?” he asked when she answered, unable to restrain
his anger at Tanya’s sudden explosion into his life. “Is Pops okay?” He instantly regretted his tone—none of this was Janine’s fault. Tanya always brought out the worst in him.
“Why wouldn’t he be? What happened? I’m not at the farm yet. It’s grocery day.” Janine was in her mid-fifties, her four children out of the house, either in grad school or already working. She’d raised her kids as a single mother as well as taking care of her own ailing father—a Polish immigrant who’d given his life and lungs to the Cambria coal mines—and she didn’t take attitude from anybody. Which made her the perfect companion to Pops.
“My sister happened. She called me from the farm.” He hadn’t told Janine anything about Tanya. It’d taken all his negotiation skills to convince Pops to allow a stranger into the house at all. The first four aides had quit before the end of their first day. Janine was the only one Pops had tolerated and the last thing Luka wanted was to risk scaring her off. “Tanya’s an addict and she has a history of stealing from Pops. The case I’m working is—I can’t make it over there, not for a while.”
He hesitated—he paid Janine better than the other aides he’d tried but he was worried he was asking too much of her, asking her to deal with Tanya. “Look. I know this is above and beyond. But would you mind watching out for him? Just until I can get home. I told Tanya to leave so you probably won’t even see her, but I need to make sure Pops is okay.” He paused. “And then maybe stay a few nights?”
