“No hurting people or animals,” Sharicka repeated, legs swinging. “I won’t do that.”
Before Susan could say another word, Shaden burst into the room. “Guess what, Sharicka?”
Sharicka sprang to the floor and clutched her hands to her little chest. “I’m going home?”
“You’re going home,” Shaden confirmed, not bothering to contain his excitement. “It’s just a home visit, but it’s a start.”
“I’m going home!” Sharicka danced around the room with the unself-consciousness only children can muster. “I’m going home!” She rushed past Susan and Shaden. “I have to tell Monty! I’m going home!”
“Monty?” Shaden said, then laughed. “She must mean Monterey.”
Susan had assumed that. She had heard Monterey’s mother call her Rey-rey and Monny, but she had never heard Monty before. Since Monterey still seemed to enjoy playing with Sharicka, she must not entirely despise the nickname. “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?”
Susan did not expect an answer, but Shaden gave her one. “I’m sure of it, Dr. Calvin.” He put a friendly arm across her shoulder. “At some point, you have to trust that even a mentally ill child is a child, and love really will make the difference.”
Love. Susan bit her bottom lip. Is Sharicka even capable of it? She tried not to think too hard about it. If Sharicka was not, there was no hope at all for the girl or her family.
The day finished smoothly, without new admissions or emergencies, and Susan even managed to get a reasonable amount of sleep that night in the on-call room she shared with three other psychiatry residents serving other units. Their snuffles, snores, and Vox calls proved a nuisance, but she did not begrudge them. At least she did not have to go traipsing off to the Emergency Room or to a unit as each of them did at least once during the night.
Susan’s turn came at a little after six a.m. Her Vox buzzed to life, startling her from a vivid dream involving a million-dollar bet and a billiards table. Only after she had confidently laid down the bet did she remember she had no particular skill at the game or the money to gamble on it. Susan sat up and tapped the Vox before it could start making noises that might awaken her fellow residents. She looked at the display. Unsurprisingly, the call had originated from the PIPU.
Susan clambered off her cot, straightened her white overnight scrubs, and ran a hand through her hair. Quietly, she threaded her way through the darkened room, turned the knob, and stepped out into the hallway. She pulled the door shut behind her before making the return call across Vox.
It was picked up immediately. “Dr. Calvin?” Usually, the unit clerk answered with the fictitious unit number of the PIPU they used to hide its purpose and location for confidentiality reasons. This time, someone had clearly stood by the phone, waiting for her call.
“This is Susan Calvin, R-1. How can I help you?”
“It’s Justin, Dr. Calvin.” It was one of the night nurses, an older man with white hair and a complexion still scarred by adolescent acne. “Sharicka’s back. The police brought her. It’s . . . not good.”
Susan saw no reason to discuss the situation over Vox. Her heart rate shot up, and she could feel an uncomfortable tingling in her chest. “I’ll be right there.” She ended the call, running toward the PIPU without worrying about her morning toilet. She dashed through the mostly empty hallways, taking a corner too fast and nearly slamming into an empty gurney. In less than four minutes, she was ringing the entry button and pounding on the locked PIPU door.
It was opened almost immediately. Susan found herself in the usually empty hallway between the locked doors, now filled with people. Two uniformed police officers stood with four of the night nurses. There was no sign of Sharicka, or any other patient.
Susan did not care that she interrupted at least two separate discussions. “I’m Dr. Calvin. What happened?” Dread crept up her spine, and a sudden wash of ice overcame every part of her. She had to focus to remain in control.
Both policemen turned to look at Susan. “Are you the guardian of one Sharicka Anson?”
Susan saw no reason to launch into technicalities. The Ansons remained Sharicka’s parents and guardians, but the hospital currently had physical jurisdiction over the child. In crisis situations, only judges and physicians could take over instant custody of a minor. Susan had learned that during her pediatrics rotation, when an abusive parent had insisted on taking his daughter home and the clinic had had to call for law enforcement backup. “I am. What has she done?”
The other cop said, “She killed someone, Dr. Calvin.”
Susan found herself unable to breathe. Light-headedness swam down on her before she forced her chest to expand and the air to flow inside. For the first time in her life, she had to focus on the act, had to remind herself to inhale and exhale. “Who?” she finally managed, her voice a squeak.
“A girl named Misty, ma’am.” A blatter of noise over the policeman’s radio made Susan jump. “Her sister, apparently. Stabbed her multiple times with a butter knife.”
Susan wished she did not have to concentrate so hard on breathing. She found herself unable to speak, unable to harbor coherent thought. She could only stand there, speechless, and attempt to process the words spoken in her general direction.
“Then she went after her brother. Stabbed him a few times before her father wrestled her to the ground.”
Susan knew she had to say something. “Where . . . is the family?”
“They’re in the ER,” the officer explained. “The boy’s being admitted, and the father’s getting patched up. They said to bring her here.” He added firmly, “If you plan to send her anywhere else, you need to contact us first.”
Susan nodded. She had no idea what would happen next. Clearly, they had caught Sharicka in the act, but the police had brought her back to Manhattan Hasbro rather than to a jail or a juvenile facility. She supposed the law would not allow a minor to remain in adult detention, and she had never heard of a serious crime committed by anyone under the age of twelve. A locked psychiatry unit familiar with Sharicka’s history, in a tertiary hospital setting, might well prove the safest place to keep her for all involved.
Susan addressed the nurses. “Get Sharicka out of anything with blood on it.”
A small woman named Rietta said, “They’re doing that right now. Bagging up the bloody clothes for the police.” She tipped her head toward the officers.
Susan continued. “Make sure she gets and swallows her morning meds immediately. Keep her in the Self-awareness Room until I’ve had a chance to talk to her.”
Susan looked at the officers. “We’ll have those clothes out to you in a moment. If you need anything else, let us know.”
The policeman who had done most of the talking addressed Susan once more. “We may need to question her again. Obviously, she can’t leave town.”
Susan raised and lowered her head once, firmly. “She may not even get to leave her room.” Her vision grew blurry, and she rubbed her eyes, surprised to find them moist. The moment she realized she had started crying, a rush of emotions assaulted her. Agony clawed at her guts. Guilt rushed down on her. I told them to take her home; I wanted them to do it. Rage accompanied it. She tricked me, too. Seized by the sudden urge to tear Sharicka’s head off, she bit down on her lip until she tasted blood.