Sloane closed her eyes, held the phone, and whispered the sad truth aloud. “Someone like you should run as fast as you can from someone like me.”
37
MONDAY AND STILL NO WORD FROM SLOANE.
Micah had driven by the house several times yesterday, but the police still had crime tape up. The forensics team wasn’t expected to finish before this morning at the earliest. There had been no sign of Celeste either. But she’d told Micah, in his capacity as a crisis responder, that she’d be staying with her daughter and granddaughter for a day or two. Fortunately—if that word could be used in conjunction with a mob hit—the worst of the fire damage was limited to the guest room at the back of the house. The arson team believed an explosive device had been hurled through a window, igniting the carpet, bedding, curtains, and then extending up to the attic space and roof. There had been smoke damage to other rooms. But, thank God, no injuries or loss of life.
Not in that house . . .
Micah stared down at the front page of the newspaper on his desk. It displayed the same image of Paul Stryker and now an old passport photo of Viktor Aristov. Along with brief mention of a teenage girl who’d been at the murder scene and had provided information to authorities. She’d not been named, but Micah knew it was Zoey Jones.
His gaze followed the article to its mention of Sloane, prefaced with “local RN and former fiancée of Stryker.” It reported there was no evidence she’d been complicit in these crimes; she’d been cooperative with authorities but was still refusing all media interviews.
“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.”
Sloane’s words—her threat—right here in this office. She’d meant business; Micah hadn’t doubted that. And all this had made her fair game for countless social media trolls and every tabloid “news” hound in LA. Micah grimaced, thinking of the gossip magazine he’d seen in the hands of a hospital visitor this morning. It had been only a quick glimpse in passing, and he couldn’t be 100 percent certain, but a photo had caught his eye. Black-and-white, a little grainy from enlargement, but very recognizable: Sloane. Kneeling next to Zoey Jones—in the ER parking lot. Coop’s photo. He’d told Micah he’d deleted it. And now . . . he sold it?
Micah clenched his teeth. No way he’d let Coop get away with this. But at the moment Micah was more worried about what he’d just seen here, in the Times.
He reread the short addendum to the newspaper article:
According to Los Angeles Hope hospital PIO Fiona Everett, Ms. Ferrell is currently on administrative leave from her position as an RN in the hospital’s emergency department.
Administrative leave?
From what Micah heard, Sloane had left a message for the emergency department director late Saturday night saying she wouldn’t be coming in this week. Micah was certain she’d felt the need to make a first move before hospital administration insisted on a temporary leave. A preemptive strike was so like Sloane. He had a sudden, daunting image of her eyes that day she ran to rescue Zoey. A woman on a mission, defying anyone to interfere. Who could have known what that day would set in motion?
Only God . . .
Micah’s jaw tensed as the too-familiar feeling washed over him. How did the plans of a loving God allow for what happened here? A young runaway at the mercy of organized crime; a family forced to flee their burning home; a man shot dead, while the woman whose only intent had been to help was . . .
Where? Where are you?
Micah had joined Fiona for the press conference this morning. Reporters were eager for word regarding Oksana Durov, especially since there had been hints from law enforcement of a connection to a Russian prisoner being held at State Prison. And then, even as they were assembling for the current feeding frenzy, there was breaking news: Viktor Aristov had been taken into FBI custody outside Modesto, California. While taking him off the streets would do little to thwart the agenda of the mobsters, it was a start. And he won’t be inking his brand on any more young girls.
After meeting with the media, Micah had stopped by the ER to find Harper. She was assigned to triage and, though the waiting room looked surprisingly empty, told Micah she was busy and could only spare a minute. He had a strong sense she wanted to avoid him altogether; she wouldn’t even look him in the eye. She said she didn’t know where Sloane was “right now” but did say they’d been in contact and that her friend was mostly worried about her cat. Marty had disappeared during the fracas.
When Micah tried to give Harper his cell number in case she heard anything else, she’d finally met his gaze directly. She was sorry, but she couldn’t do that.
He glanced at his phone, not even certain of what he’d say if he did finally reach Sloane. As much as he wanted to know she was safe after such a staggering series of blows, had his concerns, his doubts, changed?
“It’s not like she’s so innocent. . . . Your nurse made her bed; now she’s got to—”
Lie in it? Was that what Micah thought too? He’d gone for Coop’s throat to stop him from saying it, but was the anger really because Micah couldn’t bring himself to accept that he’d been falling in love with a woman whose choices ultimately put her in this situation? Even if she’d worked so hard to put that past behind, to the point of changing her name, changing jobs, and . . . ?
“It doesn’t matter that I’ve been sober . . . dragged myself to meetings for more than six months, stacking up those AA chips . . .”
Yesterday at church he’d seen mention of an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting in the weekly bulletin. It had probably been a regular Monday night meeting for years, but this was the first time Micah noticed.
The kid who’d killed Stephen had sought out a twelve-step program too. Wrote letters, then met with Stephen’s parents and Micah’s in person for “amends.” He’d asked to meet with Micah too, but there was no way he’d let that happen. Amends? How was that even possible?
“Knock, knock.” Fiona tapped on his doorframe, holding out a small stack of papers.
“Oh, hey,” Micah said, grateful for the interruption. “What’s that?”
“More campaign nominations. They somehow got routed to my desk instead of yours.” She released a sigh as she set them on his desk. “I didn’t mind. After what’s been going on, it’s a welcome reminder that hope still exists.”
“Good point.”
“And I’m off to a meeting,” Fiona said. “I feel like Tinker Bell. Sharing some hope, flitting off.”
Micah forced a smile. “Somebody’s got to do it.”
After Fiona left, he thumbed through the nomination forms. She was right; it was a welcome reminder that there was still something positive to look forward to. And a measure of proof that maybe something was going the way it was supposed to.
What the . . . ?
Micah spread the sheets out, ten of them, and scanned the information again. All of it carefully typed, and all—every one—nominating the same employee: Brittany Brill. The board member’s niece.
Micah thumped his fist against the papers, biting back a curse. He was a fool to hope even this one thing would work the way it was supposed to.
“‘And,’” the prison official continued, reading aloud from an inmate’s statement, “‘he told me I’m worth something even after all I done wrong. I’m never getting out of here, but my soul is free. That’s the promise. Bob Bullard made me see it. I’m not the only one he’s helped either.’” The official lowered the paper and glanced at the assembled board members. “That’s it.”
“Thank you,” the leader said. “Are there additional letters of support before we move on to Mr. Bullard’s statement?”
“No further letters.”
“All right then,” the leader continued. “We’ll hear from Mr. Bullard. And then go on to the victim statement.”
Sloane’s stomach tensed and a humming in her ears blotted out all but her
own heartbeat. Her clammy hands left little raised fingerprints, like allergic welts, on the papers in her lap. The room was empty except for the board, her stepfather, and three other participants seated in chairs near hers. Any minute the board would order Sloane to stand and—no, they’d welcome her. Bob Bullard was the monster who’d growled orders. This parole board was giving Sloane an opportunity to speak out and see to it that he stayed behind bars. It had been her primary goal for months, her one true north. And now it was the only thing she could still make right . . .
“. . . I’d give anything if I could go back and change what happened. Undo the wrongs and all the pain I caused.”
Her stepfather was speaking now, addressing the parole board and . . . me.
Sloane’s gaze met his, and she was certain she’d be sick. She tried to summon the shielding anger, but all that came was the scent of solvent and oil and the memory of her shrill rant that night in the garage.
“You can’t hurt me—you’re nothing. Do you hear me? You’re going to die a big fat zero.”
Why was she shaking like this? Why couldn’t she focus on her statement?
“Miss Ferrell?” The board member repeated her name. “Your victim statement?”
“Uh . . . yes.”
Sloane forced herself to stand, one hand on the cold metal back of the chair in front of her in case her knees gave way. Everything was a blur. The paper trembled in her fingers. She fought a wave of nausea as the replay of the garage incident gave way to a more horrifying collage of images: herself hanging upside down in the crushed Jetta, Zoey’s hands covered in Paul’s blood, and the look on Micah’s face when she’d tried to make him understand about her past mistakes.
“You were drunk the night of the accident. So incapacitated that one of your teammates had to drive your car.”
She dropped her other hand to the chair back, crumpling the victim statement. The room began to spin. Please, please . . .
“Miss Ferrell?”
“I . . . I’m sorry.” Sloane’s voice emerged in a strangled whisper. “I have to leave.”
She wasn’t sure how she got out of the room or back to her car. She only knew that she’d failed at one of the last things in her life worth anything at all.
Forty minutes later, Sloane swallowed a mouthful of French roast, black—chosen only for its much-needed caffeine—then took one more covert glance around the Starbucks before sliding her sunglasses to the top of her head. The customers looked benign enough: young women in yoga gear sipping tea, two men in business attire completely absorbed in conversation, and an older gentleman with a graying beard, elbow-patch sweater, dark glasses . . . and a service dog. A few others ordered their coffees to go in the usual morning rush. Mercifully, there was nobody who looked remotely like a reporter. Sloane took one more sip of her coffee, then turned her attention back to her priority task: searching for Marty. She still couldn’t explain what happened at the parole hearing, but she couldn’t let anything—exhaustion, stress, bone-deep uncertainty—interfere with finding her cat.
She refreshed her laptop screen and scrolled down the page of images posted by the local branch of Los Angeles Animal Services. Sloane had begun the laborious task of calling individual shelters before she’d discovered the Finding a Lost Pet search option online. It let her enter type of animal, gender, age, size, and color. Her heart stalled as yet another black cat stared out from the page.
I am a black domestic shorthair. My name is unknown. I’ve been at the shelter since September 1.
Wrong date. Not Marty.
She reminded herself that he had a collar and tags, a microchip, and that he could still be hiding somewhere around the cottage.
She thought of that dark sedan squealing away from her house. Had those killers left the door open after they dragged Paul in, forced him to identify the shipping box?
Sloane closed her eyes. Did they run down Marty as they sped away? She tried not to imagine how little of a cat might be left in the street after the fire trucks, police vehicles, forensic vans . . . and crisis response. Micah.
Was he at the hospital today? Sloane hadn’t watched the news. Couldn’t. And she hadn’t heard from Harper yet. She’d asked her friend not to tell Micah where she was, grateful that her vague “things have changed between us” explanation wasn’t questioned. Sloane couldn’t have said more even if she’d wanted to. There really wasn’t anyone she could tell it all to. The stark truth of that had kept her awake all night. And left her feeling more alone than she had in her whole life. Especially now that Marty was—
Her phone buzzed on the table. She picked it up and her pulse quickened. Wasn’t that the number of one of the animal rescue shelters? Please, please . . .
“Hello?” she said, dropping her sunglasses back into place.
“Sloane Ferrell?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Wonderful. This is Sarah at Four Paws Rescue. Have you lost a cat? A young, neutered black shorthair?”
“Yes. Marty.” A rush of relief made Sloane queasy. “His name should be on his collar.”
“It sure is.” There was a smile in Sarah’s voice. “And he’s been asking for you. Let me give you directions to our location.”
38
HOWARD BRILL LEANED FORWARD in the chair, his eyes meeting Micah’s across a desk spread with nomination forms. “Exactly what are you saying, Prescott?”
“That these . . .” Micah fought to keep his voice even. It was his job to be diplomatic. Maybe even deferential when it came to hospital board members. Which only made him angrier. “These nomination forms aren’t authentic.” Fraud was a better word.
“You don’t believe my niece has such tremendous support?”
Liar fit too.
“I didn’t rule it out, but I did some fact-checking.” Micah was suddenly glad a desk separated them. He remembered the sound of Coop’s head smacking the window of his Durango. Cool it—keep it cool . . . “I spoke with every employee who signed these forms, Mr. Brill. Each one said you spoke with them. And that you were directly involved in completing the forms.”
“I don’t see a problem there.” The shoulders of Brill’s well-cut jacket lifted in an unconcerned shrug. “I was glad to offer technical assistance. Frankly, your nomination procedure was less than user-friendly. We should expect better from you. I’m sure your superior does.”
Micah’s temples began to throb. “Unfortunately, I discovered it was more than technical assistance. You wrote these nominations and asked them to sign.”
Brill’s brows lifted only slightly. “These good people made some complaint?”
“No. They said they didn’t mind doing the favor.” The board member’s smug smile pushed one too many buttons. Micah told himself he should stop but . . . “I got the feeling that if I pressed it, I might discover you’d promised a return favor. Parking spaces, maybe? Coffee cards? A good word to their supervisors?”
“Hold on, Prescott. You’re accusing me?”
“I don’t have to.” Micah lifted the papers, barely stopping himself from hurling them at the man. “These do.”
“I see.” Brill glanced toward the closed door, then turned back to Micah. His eyes narrowed. “What do you intend to do with this ‘evidence’ you believe you’ve found?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet,” Micah admitted. He hadn’t gotten that far. Too many other things on his mind. “But it’s not right for anyone to try and game this selection. To influence the outcome no matter who they are.” He shook his head, tempering his frustration. “Look, Mr. Brill, I’ve heard good things about your niece. Beyond all this effort.” He set the nomination forms on his desk. “I get that you’re proud of her. I understand you’d want me to know that. But I’m not personally choosing the Face of Hope winner. It won’t be up to me. We’re putting together a panel to go over the nominations.”
“But it’s your campaign. And you have influence. You could put in a word. Or two. If push came to
shove.”
Push? Shove?
“What does that mean?” Micah asked.
The shrug was back. “Only that it’s also a panel that reviews your contract.” Brill steepled his fingers; a USC ring glinted in the overhead lights. “The hospital board has a say in keeping you in your position here. Or letting you go.”
Micah stared at him.
Brill raised his brows fully this time. “Something to consider?”
Sloane needed Marty’s cat carrier. She had the key to the cottage in her hands. The forensic team had finished their work. No cars in the driveway, no sign of the media or even the neighbors, but . . .
She sat in her Volvo, frozen to the seat.
I can’t . . . Oh, please. How can I do this?
She lowered the window but found no comfort in the breeze. It still smelled of smoke.
There were tarps on Celeste’s roof. Ladders on the side of the house, a building contractor’s sign pounded into the lawn. A wheelbarrow on the porch—Jerry’s wheelbarrow. He’d offered to help, of course. First with building the garden boxes and now with cleaning up Sloane’s personal path of destruction.
Celeste had sent a text on Sunday to ask if Sloane was okay. She said they were all fine and that she would help watch for Marty. She’d also said that she’d ordered a cleaning crew for the cottage. Sloane had simply replied, I’m so sorry.
It didn’t begin to cover . . . anything. There were no words.
Somehow she managed to make it to the porch and, keys shaking in her hands, open the door, then step inside. The scent made her stomach lurch: chlorine bleach, commercial disinfectant, and something that smelled a lot like Celeste’s apple air freshener. Sloane glanced toward the kitchen and saw the spray can sitting on the tile counter. Febreze to cover up—
Get the cat carrier. And go.
But something drew her, pulled her, toward the pantry doors.
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