by Lisa Eugene
“Ready to go?” Detective Sullivan’s voice broke through her turbulent thoughts.
“Am I…un—under arrest?”
“I just need to speak with you, Ms. Bennett. I am simply going to ask you some questions.”
“Ah…um…can’t we just do the questioning here?”
He gave her a look of patient exasperation, then smiled widely. “Well, I like to keep things official, Ms. Bennett. So we have to do it at the station house.”
Chloe’s heart struck a wild rhythm in her chest, her eyes darting around the room. Sweat glazed her palms and she stared at the detective, still confused as to why they’d be going through her apartment.
“This is all just routine procedure,” he assured, and Chloe knew he could sense her climbing panic. A small whimper crawled from her throat when he produced a set of silver handcuffs and she instinctively took a step back.
“Why do you need those? I thought you said this was just questioning?” Her voice was rising now, high and shrill.
He stopped in his tracks, holding up the handcuffs. “This is routine. I have to use these.” His face folded into a smile. “I said I like to keep things official. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney…”
Chloe felt tears fill her eyes and roll down her cheeks as the detective stepped forward and roughly cuffed her shaky hands behind her back. His motional words droned like bee’s buzz in her ears. The click of the cuffs was like a vice drawing tight around her neck and she coughed out a choppy breath. His face held a stiff smile, but the callously efficient way he handled her was anything but friendly. She couldn’t believe this was happening. Was there something he wasn’t telling her? She didn’t understand why she needed to go with him. She’d done nothing wrong.
“Can you tell me what’s going on?” she choked out between sobs.
“It’s like I said. Just questions. You’ll be back home and visiting your sick mother before you know it.”
Sick mother? Chloe’s heart banged against her ribs. She hadn’t told him her mother was sick. Had he been checking up on her? Asking questions? Was that why Richard had been so crazed this morning? Her mind spun out of control.
“How do you know my mother is sick?”
The detective looked deep into her eyes, and she experienced the coldest chill she’d ever felt. A block of ice froze solid in her chest.
“You know, I had a sick mother once…” He scratched his beard and looked around casually, ignoring her question. “She was old and sick…a lot of responsibility. I loved her, but then I started to grow resentful—all my friends going out, life passing me by…I started to really hate old people, you know, started thinking maybe they’d be better off dead.”
Chloe’s entire body started to shake. Fear ate a hole inside her and all she wanted to do was pull away and run as fast as she could. Was he trying to psych her out? Scare her?
“Do…don’t I get a phone call?” she stammered out, wondering who she’d even call. She thought of Brad and everything he’d done for her already. She couldn’t burden him with this. She couldn’t burden him with more of her troubles. Besides the fact that she didn’t know his number, things had been strained the last time she’d seen him. And she couldn’t count on her brother.
“Yes. You can make your call from the station,” he responded, then nodded to the officer who’d stood by the door.
Chloe was led numbly from her apartment and through the door of her building into the crisp evening air, the sounds and smells of the city surrounding her. The everyday normalcy was a glaring contrast to her chaotic world. A few of her neighbors stopped to stare with wide disbelieving eyes as she was guided towards a dark vehicle parked on the curb. Pedestrians on the busy street stopped to murmur to each other, pointing at her hands cuffed behind her back. Her tears flowed freely, gliding down her face in torrential drops as the stoic detective clutched her arm in a firm grip.
Chloe bowed her head and kept her gaze on her feet, shamed and mortified when a few people took out their cell phones to take a picture. The officer opened the car door, and she felt firm pressure on the top of her head, guiding her numb body into the car. A few seconds later the car was pulling out of the spot. Still trembling and in shock, Chloe dangled her head helplessly back against the seat. Her gaze skated the crowd and she frowned through her blur of tears when she caught sight of the tall man with black hair. Nigel’s dark gaze was steadily following the car as it pulled away.
Brad dialed Chloe’s number once again. He forced his racing heart to slow and his anger to recede. He needed to keep a clear head and could not afford to be ruled by emotion…not now. Not when Chloe needed him. The administrators were able to move up the meeting to Monday morning. It was the best they could do. He’d spoken briefly with Mr. Accardo. With all the police activity at the hospital this morning, they were primarily focused on damage control. There were a few administrators he could meet with today, but Brad knew that other than him venting his rage at this absurd witch hunt and issuing more threats, the meeting would be entirely futile. The important people he needed to speak with wouldn’t be available until Monday.
What he could glean, though, was that there were just too many coincidences for the hospital to ignore, and unfortunately Chloe had been in the middle of all of them. Mr. Accardo had even hinted at more deaths, deaths that had occurred without a Code Blue on other wards during nights Chloe had been working. Everything was prone to scrutiny, every hospital death now investigated. Turns out the hospital had been looking into the deaths since the Code Blue with Mr. Barkley. Ironically, the alarm had been raised by Nurse Wall. He was amazed they’d been able to keep their concerns quiet for this long.
Mr. Kaplan’s death and this Nigel issue had been the spark that set fire to the events of the last few days. Apparently the police had been in on the investigation for some time, but now had more to go on. The one thing Mr. Accardo would not confirm was if a syringe had been found in her locker. Brad had been told all this in the strictest of confidence. He sneered, wondering how many people were told the same information in the strictest of confidence. Larry was right. They’d be lucky if this story stayed off the six o’clock news. He’d listened to Mr. Accardo, not saying much except that it was urgent he meet with the administrators. What a fucking mess!
Brad swore and hung up his phone. Bea had gotten Chloe’s cell number and he’d called her several times. Each time the call just went to voice mail. Where could she be? Was she with her mother? Her loser brother? She needed a lawyer, and knowing her, she’d not want to spend the money on retaining one. She needed his help and she was going to get it, and he didn’t give a damn about her stubborn pride! He didn’t want her talking to anyone without expert legal counsel.
It was just after six the following morning when Chloe finally answered her phone. Brad rolled over in his big bed and rubbed his eyes. The wave of relief that swept through him was stunning even to him, but then he’d been talking himself down all night long. After pounding on Chloe’s apartment door for a good half hour, he’d drudged home to a fitful and dreamless sleep. One good thing was there’d been nothing mentioned about WHM on the news…yet.
His relief evaporated as he listened to her brief, wooden sentences. Something was wrong.
“Why didn’t you answer your door, Chloe?”
“I wasn’t home.”
“Or your phone?”
“I didn’t have it.”
He rolled tension from his shoulders and pushed back his urge to yell, caging the anger clawing for release. Why would she not let him in? Why did she not just let him help? He sensed a storm coming, and knew she needed shelter, but she kept choosing to stand alone, defenseless and exposed, waiting to be ravaged.
“Chloe, fucking talk to me! What’s wrong?”
He heard a mournful wail in the background, a cry of anguish that reached through the phone. His brows
pulled together and he sat upright in bed, the sheet falling around his naked waist.
“Where are you, Chlo?”
“I—I have to go, Brad.”
“Chloe! Ch—!” Fuck!
Springing out of bed, he immediately hit redial and cursed when the call went to voicemail.
He jumped into his clothes, dialed again and shouldered the phone to his ear as he zipped and buttoned his jeans. He let out a grating breath when she answered and he barked into the phone.
“Chloe, don’t you dare hang up on me!”“Brad. Let me call you later.”
“Tell me where you are.”
Again he heard a loud cry in the background, and this time it was followed by whispered voices.
“Where are you, Chloe?”
A saturated silence followed, but he could sense she was there, listening, thinking.
“I’m with my mother.”
“Where?” he pressed. “I need an address.”
He could hear the sigh of uncertainty in her voice, but she disclosed the address. He hung up and called the concierge to bring his car around, then left his apartment.
Chloe’s mother’s apartment was in a small walkup on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. The building was wedged between a row of dilapidated brownstones, but the complex was tidy with a sturdy lock on the outside door. Brad was greeted by a small Spanish woman dressed in a nurse’s uniform who ushered him into a cramped living room that reminded him much of Chloe’s apartment. He inquired as to Chloe’s whereabouts, but the mournful wail coming from the other room divulged her location. He tilted his head towards the room and the woman nodded silently.
Brad walked through the bedroom door and stopped, his gaze fixed on the bed. Chloe was perched on the edge, leaning over a dark haired woman who was clutching a pillow and sobbing hysterically. The woman saw him first and her big hazel eyes latched on to him.
“Peter!” she lamented, crying loudly and sitting up in bed. “Where Peter?”
Chloe’s eyes met his briefly, then her attention focused back on her weeping mother. He couldn’t read her expression, but she didn’t seem upset that he’d entered their private space. She whispered to her mother, brushing her hair back with her hand, trying to calm her.
“Where Peter?” the woman cried as he approached the bed. Her eyes were wide and expectant, latching on to him with hope.
“Mom, this is my friend, Brad. Brad, this is Rose. Dad is not here.”
Her mother cried out again, loud and plaintive, a sound that filled his soul with sadness.
Brad remembered Chloe had said her father died when she was a child. Rose was obviously very confused. He couldn’t believe how much Chloe looked like her mother. The same soulful eyes looked out of a delicately beautiful face. Settling next to Rose, he took her tiny hand in his.
“I’m Brad and I know a Peter too.” He smiled, thinking of his uncle. “The Peter I know is very tall, with a great big beard. When I was a child, I was very afraid of him.”
Chloe’s mother tilted her head and regarded him, her eyes intent. “Peter nice. Afraid. Lost.”
“I bet he’s not scary like my uncle. Does he have a beard, too?”
“Friday! Friday! Too many.”
He looked questioningly at Chloe and she shrugged sadly, apparently not comprehending her mother’s meaning either.
Rose’s eyes seemed to shine with a distant memory. She lifted a finger and pointed to his face. “Blue. Blue.”
“Ah, blue eyes. He had blue eyes?” He cast a sidelong glance at Chloe and she nodded. He smiled. “He must have been very handsome.”
Chloe’s lips tilted marginally, and her mother’s weepy smile grew wistful.
“She keeps trying to leave the apartment to go look for my dad and then she gets agitated and cries when she can’t find him,” Chloe whispered.
Brad absorbed Chloe’s words, his gaze moving over her tired face. Her eyes were red and puffy like she’d been crying, her skin paler than usual, almost paper white with a tracery of tiny veins at her temples. Shadowy smudges rimmed her amber eyes and her hair was tied in a haphazard knot at the nape of her neck.
“Have you slept?” he asked softly, worried.
She looked away from him, biting her lip. “No, not really.”
“Ice cream! Ice cream!” Rose chanted, her voice rising.
“Oh, that sounds like a fine idea.” He smiled at Chloe. “I’ll have some too.”
Her eyes widened and she smiled, shaking her head in exasperation. “She’s already had three bowls.”
He winked at Rose and was happy to see her smile conspiratorially. “What’s one more?”
He ignored Chloe’s mock exasperation and followed her towards the small kitchen. She explained about her mother’s accident, her brain injury, and her subsequent surgeries, then left to speak to the aide. His eyes followed her slim figure. Her faded blue jeans and tee shirt were severely wrinkled and her gait slow and slumped with fatigue.
“Maria is about to leave. I’m staying with my mother today,” she explained when she rejoined him. He’d already found some bowls and spoons in a drawer.
“We need to talk, Chlo.” He pulled her into his arms, loving the feel of her body pressed against his. “I know you have your hands full here, but it’s important.”
She nodded and pulled away, turning to the fridge. He felt bereft setting her loose, a hollowness he couldn’t define. She had her defenses up, that bravado that showed the world she was fine. But she wasn’t. He could tell. She’d been up all night. She’d probably spent it here attending her mother.
“Later.” She pulled the ice cream out, but he noticed that her gaze ran from his. “I don’t want to think about it right now.”
“Why don’t you sleep and I’ll take the ice cream in to your mom.”
Her head jerked up and she regarded him, her golden eyes surprised. “No. Mom needs to be fed or the ice cream ends up everywhere but in her mouth. Maria is leaving.”
“I think I can handle it,” he said, taking away the spoon she was scooping with. “You know…all my years of medical training.” He grinned.
She looked at him skeptically, and he chuckled. He’d hear the nurses sometimes joke about how medical school left doctors inept and poorly trained for hands-on day to day patient care. She was right. He was often awed at some of the things he saw nurses do.
“Just call me Nurse Markson,” he quipped. “I saw a couch in the other room with a blanket. Go.”
She hesitated, giving him another skeptical look. “Are you sure? She can be a handful sometimes.”
He nodded and grinned, pulling playfully on her ponytail. He wanted to unravel it and run his fingers through her thick black hair. “We’ll be fine. Besides, you’ll be right here if I need you. Don’t worry.”
She sighed and stared up at him, her forehead pleating thoughtfully. He could see she was trying to formulate an excuse. “Don’t you have things you need to do?” she asked. “I know you’re a busy man. Really, you don’t need to do this.”
“I’m where I want to be, Chlo.” He bent and skimmed his lips against hers, then forced himself to pull away.
With a flourish he scooped a heaping serving of vanilla ice cream into a bowl, almost causing the small container to tip over and spurring her to laugh out loud. It struck him how much he loved that sound. She was always so serious, so weighted with worry.
“You gonna eat all that?” Her eyes rounded in amazement.
He grinned and nodded. “There’s only one problem.”
“What, Nurse Markson?”
“I like mine topped with whipped cream.”
Chloe slept like the earth was teetering like a see-saw beneath her. He watched her toss and turn on the couch, and at one point worried she might roll onto the floor. Repositioning her for about the fifth time, he let his gaze absorb her natural beauty. A line of worry marred her brow, breaking through the façade she erected when awake. He used a finger to trace it away, th
en bent and kissed the spot, wishing he could just as easily smooth the wrinkles in her life.
He and Rose got along well, especially since they both shared an avid love of ice cream. Swearing her to secrecy, they’d each had another bowl. He wasn’t sure she understood the whole secrecy, cross-my-heart-hope-to-die-needle-in-the-eye thing, and even as he said it he winced at the gruesome visual. Do kids even still say that? God, I’m gonna give Rose nightmares!
But her face lit with joy when he produced the ice cream, so it was all good. At one point she’d become severely agitated and started to scream, trying to climb off the bed to look for Peter. Afraid she’d wake Chloe and wanting to chase away that desperate longing in her eyes, he’d sat with her by the window. She was truly a sweet lady, with the brightest smile when she was happy and radiant eyes that reminded him so much of Chloe.
She seemed to calm by the window with the sun on her face, especially when they commenced a broken, nonsensical conversation about Peter. He supposed in the dead-end streets and cul-de-sacs of her spotty memory, these conversations made sense. He wondered about Chloe’s parents, wondered about the affection they must have had for each other. What kind of love could withstand decades, survive struggles, and breach the yawning void that brain injury made in the memory? He’d never been a believer in love, always been the first to laugh at the fools who professed it. The proof was in front of him and now he felt like the fool.
Chloe awoke after only a few hours and, despite his haranguing would not go back to sleep. She made lunch for them and fed her mother. Rose stubbornly refused to eat her vegetables. Chloe explained that if she promised to eat them all she could get more ice cream. Brad stood behind Chloe and looked on, wondering vaguely if there was any more ice cream left, considering the quantity he and Rose had already consumed. When Rose said she’d eat her veggies but would die from a needle stuck in her eye, all he could do was raise his brows and shrug innocently when Chloe turned and sent him a questioning glance. Rose shot him a big grin, and he couldn’t help but wink secretly, concealing his smile.
He cleaned up after lunch while Chloe attended Rose, who’d had an accident in bed. He helped change the bed linens, thinking he’d had no idea what Chloe’s life was like. He’d gotten a glimpse today, and he’d also gotten a glimpse of the remarkable human being living inside her. His realizations only made him rage further at the hospital and their absurd investigation.
