by Lucy Kerr
“Oh, I’m not wondering.” The heat of my anger drove out the frozen feeling. “He’s your driver, I’m sure of it.”
Noah shifted, his hand drifting to his gun. “Then let’s go see him.”
“We can’t,” I said, and next to me, Garima sagged with understanding. “Your guy ran off, right about the time Katherine Tibbs was flatlining.”
Four
“Let me get this straight,” Costello said as Noah’s team turned Exam Three into a crime scene. “The moron with the shoulder killed our pregnant head trauma? And then walked out?”
“We won’t know until we find him,” Noah said, “but it’s an awfully big coincidence.”
“He gave us fake information,” I warned. “Eileen and I both pegged him as shady from the minute he got here.”
But I hadn’t done anything about it. I’d known John Mueller—or whatever his name was—had lied, and yet I’d done nothing except patch him up and turn my back. My good intentions had been swallowed in the chaos of Katherine Tibbs’s arrival.
Chaos, however, was no excuse. How many times had I claimed to thrive on chaos, that my love of the ER was rooted its unpredictability and frenetic pace? I’d prided myself on being able to manage it, to ride it like a wave. Now I was caught up in it, tumbling below the surface.
Chaos had bested me, and Katherine Tibbs’s killer had escaped.
“We’re dusting for prints,” Noah said, watching me closely. “Between that and the security tapes, we’ll figure out who he is.”
“I should have called you.” I pressed a hand to my stomach, trying to quell the pitching, yawing sensation.
“Why didn’t you?” Sheriff Flint asked me. His tone was gentle, but the question cut deeply nevertheless. “Seems to me that you’d want to keep a close eye on anyone comes in here under false pretenses. Criminal element aside, it’s a poor way to do business, letting people run out on their bill.”
“We’re here to save lives, not worry about nickels and dimes,” Costello cut in. Despite the fact that he was shorter than the sheriff by several inches, it felt as if he was looming over the older man. “You want us to try it the other way when one of your officers comes in?”
Sheriff Flint chuckled. “No, Doctor, I don’t. All I’m saying is—”
“I don’t care what you’re saying,” Costello replied. “My staff did exactly what they were trained to do. Now it’s your turn.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Noah said. The atmosphere had turned so frigid I half expected our breath to turn visible. “Is there anything else you can tell us about this John Mueller?”
I shook my head. “I did the exam, we popped his shoulder back into place, and then Katherine Tibbs came in. I never saw him again.”
“What about Katherine Tibbs? Did she say anything when she came in? Did you notice anything unusual about her?” Noah asked.
“I noticed the four-inch dent in her skull,” Costello said. “Everything else was secondary.”
Noah’s gaze turned to me, and I nodded agreement. “She never regained consciousness.”
“What about Mr. Tibbs?” Noah asked Costello. “How did he seem?”
“Like a man who’d just lost his wife,” Costello snapped. “You’re asking if he was faking? He wasn’t.”
“In your opinion,” Noah countered.
“It’s my ER,” Costello said. “Nobody else’s matters.”
Steven’s press conference began just as our shift was finishing. I watched it in the staff lounge, coat zipped and backpack over my shoulder, desperate to leave but unable to look away. Steven stood in front of the cameras, blinking at the staccato bursts of camera flashes. Ted Sullivan positioned himself nearby, somber and supportive, shaking his head in a photogenic display of disbelief.
Even in a fresh suit, Steven looked gray and rumpled, his hands gripping the podium as if to keep from trembling. His brief statement, read from a single sheet of paper, echoed his earlier words to me.
“Kate, as anyone who knew her will attest, was as dedicated to her family as she was to making the world a better place. We are waiting to learn more about her senseless death, but I believe I owe it to her, and to our son, Trey, to continue working for a stronger tomorrow. Kate fought for families, and so will I. We will be suspending our campaign for the next several days as we lay her to rest, but in her honor, we will carry that fight all the way to the ballot box and then, with your help, to Washington. Thank you.”
Voice breaking, he stepped away. Ted Sullivan took over without missing a beat, asking the press to respect Steven’s privacy and direct all questions to him for the next few days. When, as the sheriff had predicted, someone asked a question about rumors of a homicide, Ted shut them down with practiced efficiency and a vote of confidence in the police. There was no sign of the shock and distress we’d seen with Steven.
The show was over—or another one was beginning, perhaps. Either way, I’d had enough. A few feet away, Costello was watching as well, the set of his mouth flat and unimpressed.
The temptation to leave without saying anything was strong, but my conscience wouldn’t allow it. I turned and faced him straight on.
“Thanks,” I said, and his expression turned quizzical. I clarified. “For earlier. With the sheriff. Sticking up for me.”
My words felt clumsy, as if I’d forgotten how to string them together in any coherent order. Then again, Costello and I hadn’t had much practice speaking nicely to each other.
He waved the words away like he was swatting at flies. “Stapleton, if you screw up, I’m more than happy to point it out. But God Himself doesn’t get to come in here and question my staff.”
“Do you think I screwed up?”
“You did what I told you to do.” Threaded through his irritation and his certainty was the very faintest note of doubt. Impossible to say if he was questioning my actions or his own. “We needed to keep Mom alive until the baby was out, and we sure as hell couldn’t have pulled it off with that ditz from the NICU. Would you feel better if we’d caught the driver but lost the baby?”
“No, but—”
“But nothing,” he said. “Quit wringing your hands like a newbie. You did your job; let your boyfriend do his.”
“Noah isn’t my boyfriend. I mean, we used to—”
“Don’t care,” Costello said and turned back to the television, where Ted Sullivan was fielding questions about rumors that Katherine’s death was intentional.
“Do you think it was political?” I asked. “Someone trying to intimidate Steven or affect the election?”
“Don’t care,” he repeated. “We did what we could, and now we move on.”
“Mmn-hmn,” I said noncommittally.
He glared at me, clearly not buying my act. “If you’re going to play detective again, save it until you’re back in Chicago. Once was enough.”
“Don’t you think it’s suspicious? Don’t you want to find out what happened?”
“What does it matter?” Costello looked tired. I’d had the impression he thrived on the manic energy of the ER, but now he seemed deflated, as if the night’s events had taken too much out of him. He scrawled a signature over the last of his paperwork, then dropped the pile in front of me with an air of finality. “She’s gone. The cops will find who did it, or they won’t. Either way, it’s got nothing to do with us.”
I wished I felt the same.
*
The storm had left debris everywhere. My drive home took me past a nonstop parade of downed tree limbs, roofing shingles scattered like confetti, front yards turned to swamps. No doubt Charlie was already planning a poststorm cleanup sale at our family’s hardware store. She’d have a sign in the window by lunch.
Our house seemed to have escaped the damage, though the flowers remaining in my mom’s garden were sorry, bedraggled looking things. I trudged up the front steps, overcome by a wave of exhaustion. Visions of my bed—the twin-sized lower bunk in the room I shared with Riley�
�danced before my eyes, a welcome antidote to the chaos of last night.
The visions shattered before I even crossed the threshold.
“Riley Grace,” my mother called from the kitchen, “for the last time, get down here and eat your breakfast. We are too busy for you to be sick.”
A groan floated down the stairs as my brother-in-law, Matt, dashed past me, adjusting his tie and throwing on a tweed sport coat. He was in full professor mode—all he lacked was a meerschaum pipe. “Briefcase, briefcase, briefcase,” he muttered, peering around the room.
I spotted the battered leather case poking out from beneath the couch and handed it over. “Riley’s sick? She was fine last night.”
He grimaced, then shouted up the stairs, “Riley, get a move on. I’m late for school, and you’re about to be.”
“I don’t feel good,” she moaned piteously from the second floor.
I poked my head into the kitchen, shuddering as always at the wall-to-wall chicken-themed decor. My mother heaved a sigh of relief.
“Francesca, go handle Riley. Your sister is already at the store, and I promised to stop by and work the counter while she visited Rowan.”
“Good morning to you too,” I said, and she swatted at me with a bright-yellow dish towel.
“Go. Consider this payback for all the times I needed a bullhorn to get you out of bed.” She must not have heard about Katherine Tibbs’s death yet, or she’d be reenacting the Spanish Inquisition. The surge of relief nearly made me light-headed. I wasn’t in any condition to dodge questions or defend myself. No matter what Costello said, guilt was gnawing away at the lining of my stomach.
“Do we still have that thing? Might be handy.”
She ignored me and continued packing a lunch. “Once you’ve woken Riley, you can clean up the mess your cat left on the back porch.”
“It’s not my cat!” I wasn’t convinced the creature was a cat, not entirely. The scrawny orange-and-white beast appeared to be on its sixth or seventh life. It came around periodically, usually sporting some new injury, and would deign to eat a dish of leftovers—but only when my mom cooked. When I had dinner duty, the offering went untouched. I tried not to take it personally.
“You feed it, you own it. That thing is bringing you presents now.”
Rather than argue, I headed to the second floor of our saltbox Cape Cod. Matt shouted a farewell and escaped, muttering about the futility of early classes for freshmen and new parents.
Riley lay on the top bunk in our shared purple room, still clad in pajamas, a curtain of red hair covering her face.
“Let’s go, kiddo. Time to get up.” I looked longingly at my own bed, the narrow bottom bunk with its bright violet comforter and matching pillows. It beckoned to me, promising dreamless sleep and a chance to forget about Katherine Tibbs, at least for a few hours.
“I’m sick,” Riley said.
“Good thing I’m a nurse,” I replied, boosting myself onto the ladder for a better look. “Let’s do a quick exam.”
“No exam,” she said, rolling away. “I’m sick. I should stay home.”
“Tell me your symptoms.”
“I have a fever. A bad one. And my tummy hurts. And …” She coughed, piteously. “My throat hurts. And my ears.”
“That sounds terrible,” I said. “We can skip the exam, I think.”
“Really?” She sat up, my diagnosis giving her a boost. “No school?”
Her forehead was cool, and her eyes seemed clear enough. True, her color wasn’t great—her cheeks were wan beneath her freckles, and dark smudges marred the skin under her eyes—but that wasn’t enough to qualify for a sick day at the Stapletons’.
“No school,” I agreed cheerfully. “We should run you over to the hospital right now, admit you to the pediatric ward.”
“What’s that?”
“The kids’ department. I mean, there’s a lot of babies there, so you won’t get a ton of rest. But you can have all the applesauce you want.”
“I hate applesauce.”
“Bummer,” I said. “It’s good for a sore throat, and it’s easy on the stomach. They’ll probably want to start you on some antibiotics. They might even give you a shot.”
Riley’s eyes went wide. “I don’t want a shot.”
I shrugged, too tired to feel more than a smidgen of guilt for instilling a fear of needles in a child. Sure, it would make some poor pediatric nurse’s life a misery come vaccination time, but desperate times called for desperate measures. “Sorry. An illness this severe that comes on this quickly—we can’t mess around.”
Riley considered, watching me through narrowed eyes. “Maybe I’m just hungry.”
“Could be,” I agreed. “A drink might help that sore throat too.”
“Maybe.”
“Tell you what,” I said. “Let’s get ready and see how you’re feeling. If you decide you’re up for school, I will walk you over. If not, we’ll call the doctor and see what she says.”
“Why can’t I stay here with you?” she pleaded. “We could play soccer. I’ve been practicing my penalty kicks a lot.”
“Can’t wait to see ’em,” I said. “After school.”
With a sigh, she clambered out of bed. “You didn’t come home at all last night.”
“Nope. Remember how we talked about what a twelve is? I go in at seven at night, and I come home at seven in the morning.”
“But when do you sleep?”
“As soon as possible.”
She nodded blearily and trudged downstairs. “Did you help all the sick people last night?”
“I tried,” I said, deliberately vague. “I got to see Rowan for a little while.”
“That’s not fair,” she muttered as we entered the kitchen.
“Your eggs are getting cold, young lady,” my mom said. Riley thumped down in her chair and began methodically shoveling in scrambled eggs.
“Francesca. Outside, please.” My mother didn’t wait, just marched to the back door, held it open, and waited, foot tapping a supremely annoyed beat.
“I’ve been home for fifteen minutes,” I began when we were both standing on the back deck. “What could I possibly—?”
“That,” she said, “was waiting for me last night when I came home.”
I followed the line of her finger to a small motionless lump on the doormat.
“Oh.”
“‘Oh,’ indeed.”
“It’s a chipmunk.”
“It was a chipmunk,” she clarified. “Now it is a corpse.”
“On the plus side, he can’t eat your tulip bulbs anymore.”
“This is your doing.” She folded her arms and fixed me with a glare. “You’ve been feeding that cat, and now my back porch looks like a drop-off taxidermy service.”
“First of all, nobody taxidermies rodents. At least I hope not. Second of all, the cat is scrawny. He’s practically starving. I don’t see the harm in giving him a bite to eat every once in a while.”
“Once in a while,” she scoffed before growing serious. “You can’t feed a wild animal, Francesca. He’ll lose his instincts. And he’ll never be tame, you know. Some things aren’t meant for domesticity.”
She was probably right about that last bit—the mangy orange-and-white tabby showed no signs of warming up to me despite the late-night feedings. The most I’d gotten for my efforts was a swipe across the shins and an assortment of dead vermin. But I wasn’t looking for a pet any more than he was looking for an owner. That was a little more permanence than either of us was ready for.
“Looks like his instincts are spot on, Mom.” I nudged the chipmunk with my toe, wrinkling my nose.
“Get rid of that thing,” she ordered, “and stop feeding the other one.”
Rather than argue, I pivoted. “What’s wrong with Riley? She looks like she barely slept—and since when does she fake sick?”
Mom shook her head. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She was even more of a handful than
usual last night.”
“Is there a problem at school? Is somebody pushing her around?”
“Can you imagine someone pushing that child around?” She pursed her lips, considering. “It’s always hard when a new baby comes along. You certainly weren’t a fan of Charlotte.”
“I was two!”
“Nearly three. You covered her head in stamps and tried to give her to the mailman.” She frowned. “Riley’s had eight years as an only child. It’s a big adjustment, especially considering all the changes around here.”
Changes like me moving in, just as her parents started spending all their spare time at the hospital. Not that Riley had complained about our living arrangement. If anything, she seemed delighted, sticking to me like a burr whenever I was home, schooling me in soccer, keeping me up half the night with her endless musings on superhero rankings, Christmas lists, or ice cream flavors. It was like having a constantly hungry, perpetually chatty shadow.
Bunk bed aside, it was pretty awesome.
“She idolizes you,” my mother said.
“She doesn’t even know me.” Which was my own fault. For the first part of Riley’s life, I’d barely made it home for Christmas each year. For twelve years, I’d stayed away so I didn’t have to hear about how I’d disappointed everyone by turning my back on the family hardware store or endure well-meaning questions about why I couldn’t seem to find a nice guy and settle down, when settling down felt like suffocation.
“As far as Riley’s concerned, you are her exciting, adventurous aunt from the city, who makes everything fun. You caught a murderer, introduced her to sausage biscuits, taught her how to shuffle cards, and always give her seconds of dessert. Most importantly, you have never, ever told her how lucky she is to have a baby sister.”
“I had one,” I said with a shrug. “Charlie turned out okay, I guess, but …”
“Exactly,” my mother said. “Which makes you the perfect person to figure out what’s eating Riley.”
It didn’t seem quite fair—if I was the fun aunt, how come I had to have the tough conversations? I heaved a sigh. “Fine. I’ll handle it.”
“Thank you,” she replied. I reached for the door, and she blocked my path. “But first, handle that chipmunk.”
