No One Can Know

by Lucy Kerr

  He chuckled, dry but genuine, and my lungs eased. “Steven’s donors are making it worth my while. And frankly, this district? It’s a stepping-stone. I’ve been doing this a long time, and your boy’s got what it takes to go the distance. Might as well get in on the ground floor.”

  I couldn’t help the giggle that escaped. “The distance? Do you mean president? You’re not serious.”

  “Stranger things have happened,” he said. “Political careers are all about the story, and his is a great one. Working-class kid from the heart of America, literally risks his life to save people from a burning building, overcomes tremendous personal loss to win an election and put our country on the right path? The story practically spins itself.”

  “Kate’s death is more than a story. It’s a crime.”

  “No reason it can’t be both.” He held up his drink, let it catch the light, and took a sip. “Look, Katherine Tibbs was a nice woman. It’s a shame, what happened to her. But I’m being paid to get results, not to feel sad.”

  Well, that was a disgusting take on the situation. Charlie and Steven’s return saved me from having to respond.

  “They’re planning a party,” Steven told Ted, his voice full of doubt.

  “A fundraiser,” Charlie interjected when Ted looked at her in disbelief. “We wanted to give the community a chance to show their support; all the proceeds will go into a college fund for Trey.”

  Ted appeared to mull over the idea. “Have you lined up press?”

  “Um …” Charlie looked at me, bewildered.

  Optics, I thought. But Uncle Marshall counted as press, so I smiled and said, “Naturally.”

  “It’ll make a nice story,” he mused, trading his whiskey for his smartphone, scrolling through contacts. “Community coming together, taking care of one of their own. Downtown, right? Can we have it close to where the fire was, all those years ago? It’s a great angle to lead with, really brings things full circle.”

  Next to me, Charlie huffed out a breath. I couldn’t make my good-byes fast enough.

  When we were safely out on the porch, Charlie’s smile dropped away. “What were you doing while we were upstairs?”

  “This and that,” I said vaguely. “Putting away the food, making small talk …”

  “Pfft. You were snooping.”

  “Says the girl who went up to ‘see the nursery,’” I said, making air quotes. “How was it?”

  “Sad,” she said, with a look that told me we weren’t done discussing my snooping. “Decorating the nursery, especially your first one, is such fun. You’re making the perfect, cozy home for this little person you can’t wait to meet. It’s obvious how much fun Kate had in there—new furniture, fresh paint. She stenciled his name on the wall; the changing table’s fully stocked. There’s a monogrammed blanket and a little rocking chair with his name painted on it. It’s the perfect room … and now it’s as far from perfect as it can be.” Her voice was thick with tears, and she stared out the window as I drove home.

  “Did Steven say anything about the investigation?” I asked.

  “He’s furious. Scary mad, almost. He wouldn’t leave off raving about how he was going to sue the hospital to have the NICU shut down. He wants Sheriff Flint tossed out of office, says the whole department is incompetent or corrupt or both. I tried to get him talking about Trey, thinking it would give him something else to focus on, but he’s pretty obsessed.” She considered. “I don’t blame him. What if it had been Rowan?”

  True. He’d been so supportive of the police when Kate died—patient with the investigation and realistic about its outcome. But people could only take so much before they snapped, and Trey’s abduction had pushed him over the edge.

  “Why did you ask him about where Kate was going that night? Why would you dredge that up?” Charlie asked.

  “Because it’s weird,” I said. “I’ve never been pregnant, but I’ve seen plenty of women that far along in the ER. You know what every single one of them tells me? Her feet are too swollen to fit into her shoes, her back is killing her, and her hips feel like they’re coming out of their sockets.”

  “The last month is so uncomfortable,” Charlie said. “There’s nothing weird about that.”

  “Sure. But when you were eight months pregnant, would you go for a leisurely drive in the middle of the night?”

  She drummed her fingers on the dashboard. “Depends on how bad my cravings were.”

  “During a terrible storm? Without your cell phone?”

  Her fingers stilled. “What are you saying?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “When I have a patient, we give them the obvious tests and treatments first. People are so different that even for something like strep throat, the symptoms can be all over the board. But if the obvious stuff doesn’t work, we look at the symptoms that don’t fit. Sometimes we find more than one illness; sometimes we end up with a totally different diagnosis. But we never ignore the weird stuff. We might decide, eventually, that it’s insignificant, but we always check it out.”

  Charlie hummed. “So Kate’s going out is weird, but it might not be significant.”

  “Exactly. Did Steven tell you he’s running his own investigation?”

  “Kind of hard to miss,” she said. “The more people looking for that baby, the better, as far as I’m concerned. What’s the harm?”

  “If someone took Rowan, what would you do if you found them before the police did?”

  “I’d kill them,” she said promptly. “Preferably with my bare hands.”

  “Right. And if Steven finds Trey and the kidnapper before the cops do … ?”

  Charlie’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

  “Yeah. That baby’s already lost one parent. I’d prefer he not lose another.”

  Twenty

  I dropped Charlie at the store, leaving her to fend off Mom’s interrogation while I went to work. I felt jittery, flooded with adrenaline, unable to settle my thoughts. Should I tell Noah about overhearing Ted’s conversation? Warn him that Steven was spiraling out of control?

  Too many loose ends—that was the problem. It was like looking at a tangle of wires, impossible to tell which ones carried live current and which ones would simply fall away when the knots were undone. And the more I tried to tug on the wires, the tighter the tangle.

  The temperature had dropped again, and I stuffed my fists deep into my pockets as I dashed from the parking lot to the ER doors. I hoped Trey was somewhere warm. Somewhere safe.

  An hour later, I was wrapping an ACE bandage around the arm of a twelve-year-old skateboarder when the door to the exam room slammed open. “Are you completely incapable of minding your own business, Stapleton?” Costello demanded.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute, Doctor,” I said and smiled at my patient. His mother glanced nervously at Costello, but I continued wrapping the arm. “Almost done.”

  Costello fumed as I finished reviewing care instructions and reminding the mother to follow up with an orthopedist in the morning. Then, mindful of our audience, I slipped out of the room and headed for the staff lounge, knowing Costello would follow.

  “How may I help you?” I asked when we were inside.

  He slapped the Art Institute literature I’d given Meg on the counter. “On what planet do you think it’s appropriate to push this kind of thing on my daughter?”

  I made a show of paging through one of the booklets. “It’s a college brochure, not porn. I thought you wanted Meg to go to college.”

  “This isn’t college; it’s art school.”

  “It’s both. And one of the best in the nation,” I pointed out.

  “My daughter is not going to art school.”

  “Because you’ve decided she should be a surgeon? Have you ever asked her what she wants to do? Or are you so busy dictating to her that you can’t be bothered to listen?” No wonder Meg didn’t want to stand up to him if this was his reaction to a simple brochure.

  A vein pulsed
at his temple.

  “I’ve seen her work,” I said. “She’s a good artist, and it makes her happy. Why not let her pursue it? Medical school is grueling even if you love it, and she doesn’t. Would you really make her go through that just to impress you?”

  “Meg has never said she doesn’t want to go into medicine,” he said, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in his expression.

  “Really? I’ve known her for less than a month, and it seems pretty obvious.” I took a breath. “She’s a good kid, you know. She wants you to be proud of her.”

  “I am. Of course I am. Meg knows that.” He seemed to deflate a little, then pointed a finger at me. “You’re a decent nurse, Stapleton. But you don’t know a damn thing about kids. Quit interfering.”

  “Good talk,” I called as he threw the door open. “Let’s do this again soon.”

  He stepped outside, then stuck his head back in, smirking. “Looks like I’m not the only one annoyed with you today. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

  I followed him out to the nurses’ station, baffled until I caught sight of Noah striding down a side hallway. I chased after him, wanting to pass along the details of my visit to Steven’s, but he didn’t seem to hear me.

  When I finally caught up, only slightly out of breath, I said, “Hey! I need to talk to you.”

  “Not now,” he said without breaking stride. His jaw was tight, his eyes stony and bleak.

  My heart squeezed. “Did you find Trey? Is he—?”

  Noah spared me a glance, though he didn’t slow down. “It’s not Trey,” he said, and I nearly stumbled with relief. “It’s Josh Miller.”

  “You found him?”

  “No. Manager of a local junkyard did, behind the office.”

  The news should have been happy, but Noah didn’t look happy. He looked furious. He should also have been on his way to police headquarters to interrogate Miller. Instead, he rounded a corner and was heading down a back hallway I’d barely seen, except for on my first-day tour.

  Noah was heading toward the morgue.

  *

  In Chicago, murder victims go to the medical examiner, located in a dedicated building inside a medical school with its own morgue and full autopsy capabilities. Stillwater didn’t have those resources. The coroner had an office at the county courthouse, and suspicious deaths were taken to the hospital morgue, where the autopsy could be performed and evidence collected under the watchful eye of the sheriff’s department.

  Based on Noah’s brief description, an autopsy wouldn’t be necessary to find out what killed Josh Miller. Three bullets to the chest at point-blank range were a pretty good indicator of cause of death.

  Unfortunately, the bullets didn’t tell us who had put them there—or why.

  Noah left while I was in with a patient and returned again around midnight. I leapt from my chair at the nurses’ station. “Anything? Have you found them?”

  He shook his head. “I took a team out to the junkyard where Miller was found and checked it over. There’s no sign of Trey or Jess anywhere near there. Found his car, though. It was in the back of the lot, with the passenger’s side all smashed up. Tire treads match the ones at the scene, and we took paint samples, but it seems pretty obvious. Medical examiner says the bruises are consistent with the accident.”

  “That’s something, anyway,” I said. One link in the chain, one bit of closure for Steven. “Here’s something else,” he said. “Six months ago, Miller was brought up on drug charges, and Steven was the prosecutor.”

  “More motive for Josh.” I ushered him into the lounge and handed him a cup of terrible coffee. He grimaced in anticipation but drank it anyway.

  “The case never made it past the grand jury, so he walked without ever being indicted. It’s not much of a motive, especially compared to everything else we’ve got, but every little bit helps.”

  “And Steven never made the connection?”

  “With as many cases that come across his desk?” Noah shrugged. “Not a surprise he wouldn’t remember, especially since the case went nowhere. We missed it initially because his secretary only flagged cases that had gone to trial.”

  “So who killed him?”

  He took another sip of coffee and winced. “Smart money’s on Jess. Sheriff likes her for it, anyway.”

  I goggled at him. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You have zero evidence they know each other, much less that they’re in this together.”

  “Miller kills Kate, and Jess kidnaps her child within the span of a week?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Pretty big leap to say they’re not connected, especially since they both have reason to hold a grudge.”

  “That doesn’t mean Jess was the shooter,” I protested.

  “Hard to see it any other way.” Noah stretched, the lean, rangy lines of his body reaching for the ceiling, twisting to relieve the strain of the evening. “I had two fugitives tied to the same case. Now one of them is dead. If Jess didn’t do it—and logic says she probably did—I’d be very interested to hear her take on the matter.”

  “What about the person who hired him?” Before he could explain why I was wrong, I rushed on, the words spilling over each other. “I know you’re not convinced he was working for someone else, but what if he was and the proof was hidden at the house? It would explain why he risked going back, even when you were watching the place. If the person who hired him realized Josh had real, tangible proof, it makes sense that they’d want to eliminate him.”

  “Eliminate him?” Noah’s eyebrows lifted.

  “It’s a good theory,” I said stubbornly. “Especially if it’s about the election. Josh made the perfect patsy because his history with Kate gave him a plausible motive. It probably helped convince him to take the job.”

  “Maybe,” Noah said, his expression betraying nothing. “We’re still running down a few leads. They should show us if there’s anyone else involved.”

  “What kinds of leads?”

  “The usual. Phone records, background checks, financials.”

  I picked at the fraying upholstery of the couch. “Like Norris Mackie’s financials?”

  “It’s not so simple when you’re dealing with a sitting congressman,” Noah said. “I’m working on it.”

  “What about Ted Sullivan? Are you looking at him?”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Something you want to share, Frankie?”

  Quickly, I filled him in on our visit to Steven’s house.

  His frown told me he wasn’t convinced. “That’s how those people talk. Ted Sullivan is a shark.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Steven’s lead was pretty slim before Kate died. Ted could have decided they needed the sympathy vote for insurance, maybe even started rumors about Mackie’s involvement.”

  “It’s possible,” he said in a way that made it sound as if he thought it was very, very unlikely. “But the man has put senators into office. Governors. Hard to imagine he’d take this kind of risk for a tiny district in Illinois, no matter how good he thinks Steven’s chances are.”

  “You didn’t hear him talking about the optics of a missing baby. Made my blood boil.”

  “Soft heart,” Noah said with a rueful smile. “I’ll look into it, but don’t get your hopes up. Save that for Trey.”

  Twenty-One

  The rest of my shift was a steady flow of minor cases, the kind of things that were time consuming and required lots of charting and phone calls and lab work, but no actual emergencies.

  Easy for me to say, of course. I wasn’t the one with the broken wrist or double ear infection. That’s one of the challenges of ER nursing—you might know that someone’s situation isn’t life-threatening, but to them in that moment, it’s painful and all-encompassing. I’ve had patients interrupt me while I was in the middle of CPR to ask for a cup of juice. They’re not bad people; they just can’t see outside their own situation. Their own pain.

  I wondered what kind of pain had driven Jess to steal Trey. I’d seen the sur
veillance tape of the abduction—everyone in the country had since it was leaked to the local news. She must have known what the fallout would be: the uproar, the manhunt. Yet she’d been calm and steady the entire time, speaking softly to Trey, smiling politely at everyone she’d passed. She’d rolled Trey’s isolette into a janitor’s closet and emerged with him tucked against her chest, well-wrapped against the cold. The footage had spliced together her escape, and every shot, every angle, showed a desperate, terrified young woman who’d guarded the baby in her arms with tenderness and resolve.

  I tried to take solace in one of the last clear shots—Trey bundled under Jess’s coat, only his knit cap and the curve of his cheek visible in the grainy shot as Jess approached a side exit door. She kissed the top of his head, adjusted her coat to better shield him, and left without a backward glance. Surely nobody who took that kind of care with a child could bring herself to harm him.

  Finally, my shift over, I went upstairs to visit Rowan. A security guard was permanently assigned to the NICU now, and he scrutinized my hospital ID and driver’s license before allowing me inside.

  Rowan was awake, and I talked to her about Riley and all the fun we’d have once she came home. I described her tiny pink nursery and snuggled her as I explained what Christmas was and all the presents coming her way. “Milk it, my friend,” I confided. “You only get a first Christmas once, and you’re in an excellent position to clean up.”

  “She’s not likely to ask for a pony,” Donna said, overhearing our conversation. She too was off-shift, already wearing her coat and carrying an enormous flowered purse.

  “I know. But this is probably her only shot at convincing Matt and Charlie.” I kissed Rowan’s downy head and tucked her back into the isolette. “How have things been in here?”

  She tipped her hand side to side, lowered her voice. “So-so. The parents are angry and worried, so they’re spending a lot more time in here, asking a lot more questions.”