No One Can Know

by Lucy Kerr

  “Vargas, did you call the cath lab?” he demanded.

  “They’re standing by,” Esme replied.

  “Time?”

  “Forty minutes since they called in,” Alejandro said from the desk.

  Sixty minutes was our window. Treating a cardiac patient within the first hour of a heart attack made a crucial difference in outcomes. If we were at minute forty, the window was starting to close.

  Costello flashed a grin like a kid who’d just accepted a dare.

  “Plenty of time,” he said, slapping his hands together. A moment later, the ambulance arrived, and we were careening through the halls, Costello shouting orders as fast as I could follow them.

  We were fast, and we were good, and we saved the patient.

  When we were done, I realized it was the first time I’d ever seen Paul Costello truly smile.

  *

  Meg Costello caught sight of me on my way back from the cath lab. “Miss Stapleton!”

  “Meg, you’ve gotta call me Frankie. Miss Stapleton sounds like a substitute teacher. How’s the art going?” I asked.

  She glanced around like someone might overhear. “Okay, I guess.”

  “Have you checked out the School of the Art Institute online yet? I’ve heard they have an amazing program.”

  She shook her head so hard, her glasses nearly slid off her face. “I don’t think my dad would like that.”

  “There’s no harm in looking,” I said firmly. “I grew up hearing that I had to take over the family business. Not just from my mom, but from everybody in this town. My dad died when I was a kid, but I was a Stapleton, so everyone expected I would take over, even though the last thing in the world I wanted was to stay in Stillwater and run the a hardware store.”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “What did you do?”

  “I went away to college, got my nursing degree, and started crisscrossing the country.”

  “Wasn’t your mom mad?”

  “She was disappointed.” The memory pinched at me, even now. The way her lips had trembled, the way her eyes had sought out the picture of my dad on the mantel. She hadn’t spoken to me for days. “Which was worse, in a way. But if I’d stayed, I would have been miserable, and I would have made everyone else miserable. I don’t think either of my parents would have wanted that for me, no matter how my mom felt at the time. I’m guessing your dad feels the same way, deep down.”

  Very deep down. Like, Grand Canyon–level deep down. Mariana Trench–style deep down.

  “Have you told him you don’t want to be a doctor?” I prompted.

  She dug her toe into the ground. “I want to make him proud.”

  I knew exactly how she felt. My dad was gone, but I had to believe that if he were alive, he would look at the work I did—grueling, heartbreaking, frenetic, exhilarating, important work—and he’d ruffle my hair and rumble, “Stapleton girl. Tough as nails,” exactly as he had when I was a child. The knowledge went a long way toward assuaging my guilt over being gone for so long.

  “Your dad will be proud no matter what you end up doing, Meg, because you’ll be the one doing it. But it would probably help if you were honest with him about how you feel.”

  Charlie, I thought, would be impressed. It was the sort of advice a responsible adult would give. I only hoped it was the right advice.

  Meg ran a hand across her eyes and nodded, but there was no conviction to it. “I’m really sorry, Frankie.”

  I slung an arm around her shoulder and gave her a quick hug. “What for?”

  “Ms. Fisher wants to see you. Right now.”

  Grace Fisher. Hospital president.

  I was sorry too.

  Most hospital administrators kept regular office hours. While part of me was impressed that Grace didn’t seem to object to working late, another part of me wondered why—and what she wanted.

  “I’m on duty,” I said. “Your dad …”

  “She already called down and told him he could page you if the ER ran into trouble,” Meg said, her voice barely above a whisper. No doubt Costello would be a delight when I returned.

  If I returned to the ER. Whatever the reason for my summons, it couldn’t be good—Meg’s nonstop hand-wringing as we walked to the office was proof enough that this wasn’t a social call.

  Finally, she stopped in front of a solid wood door, gesturing to the nameplate beside it. “This is Ms. Fisher’s office.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Don’t suppose she mentioned what this was about?”

  “Sorry,” Meg said again.

  I couldn’t tell if she was apologizing because she didn’t know or because she did. Either way, she scurried away as I knocked. The sound reverberated down the empty hallway. Everyone else in the administrative wing must have gone home hours ago.

  Grace answered the door herself, confirming my suspicion. The reception area was empty, the secretary’s desk tidied for the night and a single lamp left burning on a side table. She shook my hand, her grip firm and brisk.

  “Frankie, come on back.” She gave me a small, tight smile, as if she was trying to make this seem a pleasant visit. I forced a smile of my own and followed her inside. The office, like Grace herself, was quietly tasteful. Bookcases lined one wall, the shelves filled with everything from thick volumes on health care administration and management to neatly labeled binders. A few family pictures in gleaming silver frames were interspersed with the books, along with a row of starched white nurses’ caps from different eras.

  “Shut the door, please,” she said, taking a seat behind her heavy oak desk. “I’m glad you were able to stop in. How’s your niece doing?”

  “Great,” I said cautiously. “We’re hoping to bring her home soon.”

  “Good,” she said, and the warmth seemed genuine this time. “Did you know I got my start as a NICU nurse? It was years ago, well before I came to Stillwater.”

  I hadn’t, but the effortless way she handled Costello made more sense now. I waved at the collection of caps. “Are those yours?”

  “Only the last one. The rest belonged to other women in my family—they’re a nice reminder of where I came from.” She gave them a fond glance, then returned her attention to me. “Are you enjoying life in the ER? Adjusting to the slower pace?”

  People often want to put you at ease before they deliver bad news. It’s as if they think that building a rapport, even a temporary one, will somehow soften the blow. It never does—if anything, it makes the damage worse.

  “I’m enjoying it very much.” Before she could make more small talk, I said, “Is there a problem with my performance?”

  “Not at all.” Her expression clouded for a moment, and she glanced down at her desk, remarkably free of knickknacks or paperwork. A pair of stacked brass trays sat on the right corner next to the phone, and on the left, a large computer angled toward her. A single teacup—ivory bone china, roses twining along the rim—sat in the very center of the desk. A credenza along the back wall displayed the rest of the service. She touched the edge of the saucer with a fingertip, then spoke. “I understand you have some questions about Norris Mackie. More specifically, about the fundraiser he attended last week.”

  I curled my fingers around the arm of the chair, willing my face not to betray my surprise. I’d been expecting to defend myself against a complaint from Costello—about Art Gundersen, perhaps, or taking my breaks up in the NICU. How had Grace heard about my visit to Mackie’s office?

  Riley. She’d told Mackie and his staffer that I worked at the hospital. She’d used my name. Easy enough to put it together and reach out to Grace.

  The real question was, why?

  “I visited the Congressman’s office,” I said, pleasant and noncommittal. Until I understood what was happening, I wasn’t going to volunteer anything.

  “I’ve known Norris for quite some time,” she said. “In fact, I attended his fundraiser that evening.”

  “Did you enjoy the event?” I asked, sin
ce Do you think Mackie hired someone to kill a pregnant woman? seemed gauche.

  “I did,” she said and folded her hands in front of her. Her wedding band, a slim circle of diamonds anchored by a single large stone in the center, glinted. “I want to assure you, Frankie, that the Congressman never left the hotel that night.”

  People often assume that not lying is the same as telling the truth. They’re not the same thing at all. I, for example, don’t lie, especially when I’m dealing with a patient or their family. It’s a point of honor. But while I won’t lie, I will evade. I will distract, or not answer, or parse my words more carefully than any lawyer or linguist.

  Which meant that I could recognize when someone was not-lying to me.

  “What about the fundraiser? Did he leave before it was over?”

  The pause before she answered was all the truth I needed. “I’m not in charge of his schedule. However, if the Congressman left early, he would have had an excellent reason.”

  An excellent reason that involved Kate Tibbs, perhaps? As Charlie had said, Mackie could have hired Josh Miller. Maybe he’d ducked out to get confirmation the hit had gone as planned.

  I searched Grace’s expression, looking for some sign that she was complicit, or aware, or involved in what would surely be a massive conspiracy.

  She looked worried—frown lines bracketed her mouth, and her body canted forward, but she didn’t look guilty.

  “Did Mackie ask you to talk to me?”

  She picked up the teacup and sipped, giving herself time. “He mentioned your conversation, and I thought it best if I clarified the matter.”

  Hospital presidents didn’t memorize their staff’s schedules—especially their temporary staffers. Grace had looked up my schedule, waited around after business hours, and sent Meg to pull me off the floor midshift. This wasn’t a clarification. It was warning.

  “Frankie, I know you were instrumental in solving the Jensen murder. Your willingness to act in that situation is what prompted me to bring you on board. In this case, however, you’re overstepping.”

  I straightened as my hackles rose. “Is this an official reprimand?”

  “Not at all,” she replied quickly, and the flush of her cheeks told me she recognized that I wasn’t the only one overstepping. “Norris is a good man. A respected man. To publicly suggest otherwise this close to an election would be reckless, and I don’t believe you’re reckless.”

  With a visible effort, she relaxed her hold on the teacup and sipped, waiting for me to promise I would leave Norris Mackie alone.

  Mackie was hiding something. Grace had all but admitted he’d left the fundraiser early that night. Was he having an affair? Was he involved in something shady? Regardless, it seemed as though his secret could cost him the election if it ever came to light, and I couldn’t help but wonder if Kate Tibbs had died to keep that from happening.

  Eighteen

  My return to the ER was met by a steady flow of minor cases, a few genuine emergencies, and a very vocal kidney stone patient that had the entire department wincing in sympathy. Busy enough to keep Costello from grilling me about the visit to Grace’s office, but not so busy that I could avoid his suspicious glares. When I finally left, after finishing a mountain of charts under Costello’s eagle eye, the sun was a pale smudge in a cloudy morning sky, and I was exhausted simply from keeping my head up.

  “You’re late,” my mother said when I arrived home.

  “Long shift,” I said. The stairs seemed like too far to walk, so I flopped facedown on the couch and pulled an afghan over my shoulders, not even bothering to change out of my scrubs. The couch was soft, the afghan smelled like lavender, and I could feel myself sinking as sleep overtook me.

  “Francesca!” Mom sounded like she’d already called my name several times.

  With an effort, I opened my eyes. “Sorry. What?”

  She gestured toward the kitchen. “You have a visitor.”

  “He’s not my cat,” I protested, burrowing farther under the blanket. “You should be glad he’s catching all those mice, anyway. He’s doing us a favor.”

  “I didn’t say a word about that creature.” Her mouth twisted in momentary disgust, then smoothed, overly bright. “I said you had a visitor.”

  “This is not the time for a setup,” I grumbled.

  She drew herself up, offended. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Not a setup,” Noah called from the kitchen, and I groaned.

  “I tried to tell you,” Mom said. She took her coat from the hall closet and picked up her purse. “Have a nice chat, you two.”

  “Thanks, Lila. You have a good day.”

  She fluttered her fingers at Noah, frowned at me, and disappeared.

  I considered pulling the afghan over my head and feigning sleep, but Noah was likely to drag me off the couch. Instead, I heaved myself off the couch and stomped into the kitchen, elbowing past Noah, who was filling the doorframe and looking very official. “What?”

  “You went after a murder suspect. On your own. Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”

  “He pulled a knife on me. I have a pretty clear picture of the danger, thanks.”

  “Why didn’t you call nine-one-one?”

  “My phone was in the car.”

  “Why engage?” he pressed. “Why not scream your head off and run the opposite direction?”

  “He would have gotten away.” Before Noah could point out that was exactly what happened, I added, “Before we’d had a chance to talk.”

  “There is nothing Miller could have said that’s worth your life, Frankie. Not a damn thing.”

  “You don’t even know what he said,” I replied, then recapped our conversation. The frown lines in Noah’s forehead deepened as I spoke. “Miller was working for someone, I’m sure of it. That’s why he went back to his house—to get proof.”

  “What makes you think he was telling you the truth?” Noah replied. “We’ve been over that house more times than I can count and the only thing we’ve found proof of is his drug dealing. That’s it, and we’ve practically taken the walls down to the studs. We’ve also dug through his finances. There’s no unusual bank activity, no suspicious payments. Nobody remembers him throwing around big wads of money, and based on the amount of cash we turned up, I’d say if someone paid him to kill Kate, they got an excellent deal.”

  “He said it wasn’t about money,” I reminded him as I rummaged in the fridge. “What about Jess? Have you found a connection between her and Josh?”

  “Not yet,” said Noah. “One will turn up.”

  I sat down at the table, yogurt in hand. “Jess wouldn’t be involved with a dirtbag like Josh. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Noah folded his arms. “It makes perfect sense, once you know who you’re dealing with.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He prowled around the room, picking up various chicken-themed knickknacks, giving them a cursory inspection, and setting them down again. “I shouldn’t tell you this.”

  “My mom will have the full story by dinner,” I pointed out. “Might as well save us both some time.”

  He sighed and sank into the chair opposite mine. “Jess’s last name isn’t Chapman.”

  I gaped at him. “She’s an identity thief? All hospital employees have to go through a background check. Anyone with access to meds goes through even more rigorous screening. If Jess was using a fake name, they would have flagged her before she ever got a job.”

  “Not fake. Changed. Jess was adopted. It took us a while to find it because it happened when she was a juvenile and the records were sealed. Once we were able to get into those records, guess what we found?”

  My appetite vanished, and I pushed the yogurt away.

  Noah said, “Jess Chapman—or Bennett, as she was back then—spent most of her childhood on the radar of Children and Family Services. Mom and Dad were addicts, so she and her younger brothers spent a lot of time shuffling between
various relatives and temporary foster care.”

  “That’s awful,” I said softly. Noah hadn’t had an easy childhood, but it sounded like a picnic compared to what Jess had endured. We survived, she’d said, talking about how she shared a room as a kid. Clearly, survival had been no small feat.

  “Not done yet.” His voice was a near-monotone, the control belying how deeply Jess’s story must have affected him. “The parents don’t lose custody for years, even though the kids have been taken out of the home. The little brothers, at least, end up in a long-term situation, but Jess has a history of running away, of getting mouthy with adults. She’s a hard one to place, according to the report. Boys, drinking, violating curfew, barely passing her classes. Finally, a new caseworker comes in and says enough is enough, right about the time Jess turns fifteen. The birth parents lose custody, clearing the way for the boys to be adopted. Jess still has some struggles, but just after her sixteenth birthday, a couple of empty nesters take her in, and eighteen months later … they adopt her. Jess Bennett becomes Jess Chapman, and because she’s technically a minor, we don’t see the name change until we start digging.”

  “So it’s a happy ending,” I said, though his recitation felt bleak.

  “Is it?” He leaned back in the chair, lacing his hands behind his head. “Three guesses who her caseworker was.”

  My eyes met his. “Kate Tibbs.”

  He nodded. “One of Kate’s first cases when she came to the county.”

  “And you think Jess wanted revenge?” I couldn’t hide my skepticism. “For what? Finding her a good home?”

  “Breaking up her family, for starters. Taking her away from her brothers. Letting her flounder in the system for so long. I’ve got a million reasons, Frankie, but the fact is, I don’t need a single one. I’ve got video of Jess taking Trey. A motive’s nice, but it isn’t necessary for me to throw her in jail once I find her.”

  “You honestly think that Jess waited eight years before she swooped in to exact vengeance?” That kind of calculated patience was typically reserved for TV show serial killers.

  “I don’t think she sat around plotting it,” Noah said. “Kate and Steven did a VIP tour of the maternity ward a few months ago. We think Jess must have recognized Kate, and it was too much for her. She snapped.”