by Lucy Kerr
I’d call him tomorrow, I decided. Definitely.
Probably.
Maybe.
Ignoring my snickering conscience, I used my freshly minted hospital ID to buzz into the maternity ward, then headed for the neonatal ICU. My steps slowed as I caught sight of Steven Tibbs through the glass door. He sat in the far corner, gloved and gowned, cheek pressed against the incubator where his newborn son lay.
The moment was so raw, so private, that I nearly turned around. But this brief visit was my only chance to visit Rowan before my shift ended, and after witnessing such a tragedy, I needed to see her, to remind myself that sometimes we got a happy ending.
Steven didn’t look up as I entered. No doubt the enormity of his loss would blind him to everything else, at least for a while. If Ted Sullivan was right, this might be Steven’s last opportunity to mourn privately. I had no desire to intrude.
Rowan lay sleeping inside her clear plastic box, monitor leads trailing from her feet and chest, hair peeking out from her knitted cap, one tiny fist raised above her head. The temptation to wake her was irresistible, and I was just reaching for the isolette door when Donna, her nurse, walked over.
“Rule number one,” Donna murmur-scolded. “Never wake a sleeping baby.”
“You wake them all the time,” I whispered. “I’ve seen you do it.”
“It’s my job. You’re the auntie.” She grinned. “You wake that baby before her next feeding, and I’ll make sure you’re paged for every single diaper change until discharge.”
I sank into the plush rocking chair next to the isolette. “How’s she doing tonight?”
“Good,” she said and gave me a quick rundown of Rowan’s vitals. “Doctor Solano thinks she’ll be home before Thanksgiving.”
“Charlie can’t wait.”
“I’ve heard,” she replied. “Frequently.”
Generally speaking, my sister was considered the level-headed one in the family—but Rowan’s early arrival had rendered her short-tempered and panicky. She’d settled down in the last week or so, but it didn’t take much to set off her mama bear instincts.
Mama bear, I thought and glanced over at Steven, still glued to his son’s bedside.
Donna followed my gaze. “So sad, isn’t it?”
“It’s terrible,” I said. “How’s the baby?”
“A miracle, really. He’s shocky, of course, and we’ve started him on steroids to boost his lungs, but he’s doing pretty well. Dr. Solano’s concerned about internal injuries, but nothing has showed up on the scans.” She paused. “Not yet, anyway.”
I knew what the pause meant. It meant that it was early days, that anything could go wrong, that there were miles to go.
She shook her head. “Poor little guy.”
“How’s Jess?”
Donna tipped her head toward the back of the NICU. A wall of windows revealed the nurses’ station on the other side. Jess was seated with her back to us, shoulders hunched, her body rigid. Every so often, she’d turn her head a few degrees, but aside from that, she sat, motionless and solitary.
“What’s she doing?” I wondered.
“Dr. Solano assigned her to a low-intervention baby for the rest of the shift,” Donna said. “When she’s not with him, she just sits there, watching the monitors.”
I glanced up at the discreet black-domed security cameras overhead. “Does she typically take it this hard?”
“She’s soft-hearted,” Donna said, defensiveness creeping into her voice, “but I’ve never seen her like this before, and I’ve worked with her for three years. We have tough deliveries all the time, but not trauma patients. Not like this. It must have been a nightmare.”
Some cases did, in fact, give you nightmares. Every nurse had a few patients who haunted their sleep, sometimes for years. For me, it wasn’t the patients I’d lost, but the ones I’d questioned: What if I’d done something differently? What if I’d done more?
I doubted I’d dream of Katherine Tibbs. But I was one hundred percent certain Jess would.
I studied Rowan more carefully than usual, as if my scrutiny could keep her safe. More than once, my younger sister, Charlie, had accused me of being an adrenaline junkie, but parenthood—taking responsibility for a tiny life, loving it despite all the risks—was more adventure than I wanted to take on. How on earth did Charlie, a control freak since before she could spell, manage so much uncertainty and fear?
Donna went to check on other patients, leaving me with a stern warning not to wake Rowan. I spent a few minutes surreptitiously reaching into the isolette, tracing the shell of her ear and her tiny fingers, humming half-remembered lullabies. As much as I tried to push the memory away, I thought of the bracelet on Katherine Tibbs’s wrist, with its two bloodstained charms.
On impulse, I made my way over to Steven, still bent over his son’s isolette.
“Mister—” I broke off. It felt too strange to call him Mr. Tibbs. “Steven.”
He didn’t look up. His skin was waxen, misery etched into his features. “What now?”
“I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for your loss. I was on the team that treated your wife and son tonight.”
“It’s not right,” he said, turning to face me. “None of it. That doctor—the one who told me about Kate—he said there was nothing they could do. That the head injury …”
“It’s true. It was a miracle she held on as long as she did, but that’s what saved your son’s life.”
“This should never have happened,” he said. “Kate was a wonderful woman. So dedicated. So giving.”
I nodded.
“She would have been a wonderful mother too. I don’t understand why …”
All I could do was shake my head, but Steven didn’t see me, his gaze fixed on his son.
“None of that matters, though, not now. But I swear I’m going to make her proud. I’m going to do everything in my power to make the world the best possible place I can for our child. For everyone’s children.”
His voice grew stronger, less tentative, as if he was gaining confidence as he spoke. He should be holding the baby, I thought. No doubt the doctor had warned against it, as a precaution, but I couldn’t help thinking that’s what Steven needed—not proclamations, but the chance to bond with the only surviving member of his family. To take comfort and give it in equal measure.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Trey,” he said, with the faintest of smiles. “Technically, it’s Steven Jefferson Tibbs the third, but Kate thought that was too much name for a baby, so we were going to call him Trey, just as a nickname.”
I tended to agree with Kate. “That’s sweet.”
He turned, studying me more closely. “Have we met?”
I shifted under his scrutiny. “Stillwater High. I was a year ahead of you. Frankie Stapleton?”
“Frankie, of course.” He trapped my hand between his, pumping my arm like we were at a campaign rally. “It’s been …”
“A long time,” I said, gently escaping his grip. “I wish it were under better circumstances.”
“Thank you.” He swallowed hard. “You’re sure Trey’s okay? You trust the doctor?”
I pointed to Rowan’s isolette. “See that little girl? That’s my niece, and I am trusting Dr. Solano with her life. Trey’s getting the best possible care, Steven.”
He took a deep breath, returned his gaze to his son.
“I need to get back downstairs, but if you need anything, let me know.”
He nodded, acknowledging my words. But words, no matter how well-intentioned or wise, can only do so much. As I let myself out of the NICU, Steven sagged against the isolette, grief swallowing him up again.
Three
Garima’s office door was open a crack, so I nudged it wide and stuck my head in. She sat at her desk, expression shifting from annoyance to relief when she realized it was me.
“It’s after four,” I said, leaning against the doorframe. “You should he
ad home.”
“Just finishing up my report.” She took off her glasses, pinched the bridge of her nose. “I haven’t had a case like that since my residency. I hope I never do again.”
“You kept it from being a million times worse. Imagine if Steven had lost both of them.”
“I know, but I wish …” She shook her head, knowing as well as I did how fragile wishes were—they tended to shrivel under the bright lights of an operating suite. “How are you holding up?”
“We all lose patients.” I waved off her sympathy, but it was too late; melancholy rolled back in like a fog. I forced myself to gather it up, that tangle of sadness and regret and might-have-been, and tucked it away. Early in my career, I’d learned that there was no room on the ER floor for lingering emotions. They would only trip me up, put more lives at risk, and leave me unfocused at a critical moment. Compartmentalization was a survival skill I’d had to master, for my patients’ sake as well as my own. “It’s part of the job.”
She tipped her head, as if hearing something beneath my words. “That doesn’t mean it’s easy.”
“True.” I paused, then forced a lightness I didn’t yet feel. “So Steven Tibbs, huh? Congress? How’d that happen?”
Garima and I had been classmates, but while I had left for college and never really returned, she’d come back after medical school to work at Stillwater Gen and take care of her parents. “Exactly how you’d expect. The town sent him off to college as a golden boy. When he came back from law school, the powers that be got him a job with the district attorney’s office. He’s been on a path to politics ever since.” She stretched and glanced at the clock above her desk. “Are you headed back to the ER?”
“Yeah, I don’t want to give Costello another reason to yell.” I filled her in on the disappearing John Mueller. “I feel like an idiot.”
“Don’t let him get to you,” she ordered.
Easier said than done. I’d known from the get-go that Mueller was shady; I should have called security the first time I stepped out of the room. Nothing good had ever come from ignoring my instincts.
Garima stood and followed me into the hallway. “Let’s have dinner this week. We can celebrate now that you’re officially on staff.”
“I’d love to. Let me check with my mom, find a night that works.”
She smirked. “When was the last time you checked with your mom for permission? Twelfth grade?”
“Tenth, more likely.”
“Ah, yes. Once you and Noah were together, there was no stopping you.” She shook her head. “How is it, moving back home?”
Normally I would’ve launched into a complaint, but something about tonight, the reminder that families could be wrenched apart in a moment, kept me from being too flip. “It’s an adjustment.”
“Charlie said you’re sharing a room with Riley?” She didn’t bother to hide her laughter. “She must be in heaven. If ever a kid had a case of hero worship …”
“It’s only because she doesn’t know me,” I said. “Riley’s sweet, but I’ve been living on my own for twelve years. It feels weird to have a roommate—especially one who’s not allowed to see PG-13 movies. And then there’s my mom …”
Garima winced in understanding. “You could move out.”
“I just moved in,” I said as we rounded the corner to the main hallway. “And it’s not like I’m rolling in money—Charlie’s not paying me for my shifts at the store, I’m only here part-time, and my new sublet barely covers the rent.”
“Not ideal,” she agreed. “Give me some time to think. I’ll have a plan by our dinner date.”
“I’m glad someone will.”
She looked past me. “Speaking of dates …”
I followed her gaze and spotted a familiar figure leaning against the counter of the nurses’ station. My heart tripped briefly, then steadied. “Nope.”
She grinned. “Really? Considering the last time I saw you two together, I would have said a date was definitely in the cards.”
“The last time you saw us together was the last time I saw him.”
Him, of course, being Noah MacLean. High school boyfriend, ex-fiancé number one, current sheriff’s deputy. Our last meeting had been in one of the exam rooms downstairs, shortly after I’d helped capture the person who’d framed me for murder. Since then, it was as if Noah had vanished off the face of the earth. Which, I reminded myself, was his right and not something that bothered me in the slightest.
I shrugged, the very picture of nonchalance. “No dates, no cards. We’re friends.”
“I see,” Garima said in the tone of one who neither saw nor believed. “Officer MacLean,” she called as she set off for the desk. “Looking for someone? Frankie, maybe?”
He said something over his shoulder to another officer standing nearby, then headed straight for us. His steps were deliberate, tension coiled in every muscle. It might have been twelve years, but I could spot the signs of his temper as clearly as I could a storm front. Whoever Noah was looking for would do well to take cover.
“Wish I was,” he said when he reached us. “Is Steven Tibbs around?”
“He’s in the NICU,” Garima replied, shifting from friendly to official in the span of a breath. “Can’t you give him a few hours peace? The man lost his wife tonight.”
The other officer, an older man with ribbons on his uniform and the lumbering gait of a lifelong cop, joined us with his hand outstretched.
“Sheriff Michael Flint. One of you the doctor who delivered that baby?”
Garima introduced herself. “I’d prefer you wait until tomorrow to talk to Mr. Tibbs, Sheriff. He and his son have endured enough this evening.”
The sheriff dipped his chin in acknowledgment, ran a hand over his closely cropped dun-colored hair. “I agree, ma’am. Fact is, it’s already morning, and the sooner we put this to rest, the better. Mr. Tibbs is holding a press conference in a few hours, and I’d like the first questions he answers to be ours, not some yahoo reporter’s. All things considered, it’s a sensitive situation, especially this close to the election.”
“Talk about an October surprise,” I muttered. “Since when has Stillwater politics gotten so dirty?”
The sheriff surveyed me blandly. “Not saying it has, Miss …”
“Stapleton. Frankie Stapleton—I’m an ER nurse here.”
“Are you, now?” He glanced at Noah, speculation gleaming in his eyes. “Good to finally meet you, Miss Stapleton. Heard you were quite a help with the Clem Jensen case. You work on Mrs. Tibbs tonight?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You and I will chat later, then. Might as well let that that bald doctor know too. In the meantime, we’re going to need to talk to Mr. Tibbs. Considering the circumstances, I’m not inclined to wait around.”
“Circumstances?” Ice pooled at the base of my spine, a sign that our bad night was about to get worse.
Noah and the sheriff exchanged glances.
“Might as well,” Sheriff Flint said, hitching up his utility belt. “Word’ll get out soon enough.”
Despite the empty hallway, Noah spoke so quietly we had to lean in to catch the words. “Katherine Tibbs didn’t crash on her own. Someone sent her car over that embankment.”
“Someone hit her?” I said. “How do you know?”
Noah scowled. “Skid marks.”
“She could have swerved to avoid a deer,” Garima protested. “It’s the season. Or maybe she lost control in the storm.”
“Two sets of skid marks,” he insisted. “Plus strange paint on her car.”
“Was it deliberate?” I asked. The words felt frozen, unlike my racing thoughts.
“We don’t know that yet,” the sheriff cautioned. “Could have been an accident and the other car fled the scene. Could have been road rage. Could have been that she was targeted. Lots of questions, which is why we want to talk to Mr. Tibbs.”
Garima started to protest, but I cut her off.
“You
think he did it,” I said flatly. Garima’s head whipped around to contradict me, and I shrugged. ER nurses, particularly those in big-city ERs, spend a lot of time around cops. “You guys always look at the husband. It’s the number one rule of police work.”
“Top three, anyway,” he said with a wry grin.
Garima shook her head. “I saw him minutes after he left the ER. Minutes. He was devastated. Totally in shock. There’s no way he killed his wife—this has utterly destroyed him.”
“I’m not saying he did it. But we have to question him, and I’d rather do it now, get an honest reaction—assuming you can get one from a politician.” His mouth quirked, but there was a hard edge to the humor.
“It wasn’t Steven.” Noah must have heard something in my voice, because his smile faded and his brow lowered.
Sheriff Flint studied me. “Is that so, Miss Stapleton?”
“What time was the accident?”
Noah answered without having to look at the notebook I always teased him about. “The nine-one-one call came in about eight forty-five; ambulance got to the crash site a little after nine. By the time they extracted her and brought her in, it was around nine thirty. As for how long between the accident and when the call came in, we don’t know. Probably no more than half an hour.”
That fit with what the paramedics had said. It fit with my own suspicions too. “Any other crashes reported around then?”
“None that I know of.” Noah’s eyes, green as the deep woods, met mine. “Spill, Frankie.”
“We had an MVA come in about half an hour before Katherine Tibbs arrived,” I said. “He said he hit a deer, but …”
“But you’re wondering if he was lying.” Noah bared his teeth, the smile of a predator about to hunt.
