The ward is quiet, the nurses’ station empty. I keep moving. Four doors down, tucked against a wall, I find a cart of first-aid supplies. I slip a roll of gauze and a box of butterfly clips into my hands, then shuffle back to my room, shutting the door behind me. I have to rest. My head is spinning. I chew some ice chips, then crawl into bed. My lips hurt. I chew more ice; then, despite my best intentions, I fall asleep.
When I wake up, the wall clock tells me two hours have passed. Someone has placed a blanket over me, and a small duffel bag rests on the chair. Michael, probably. I feel an ache in my chest, as if my ex-husband has left me all over again. Crazy. I’m going crazy.
I don’t care.
I’m still clutching the first-aid supplies. That fortifies me, returns my sense of purpose. I climb out of bed; my legs feel stronger this time and my breathing remains even.
I peel off my flimsy hospital gown, inspecting the bandage on my side. Dark pinpricks of rust. Old blood. Not fresh. Good enough for me.
I work carefully, wrapping the gauze around my rib cage, pulling it tight with each pass, until the constriction forces me to elongate my back and breathe in shallow gasps. Finally, I secure the binding, stabilizing my ribs and easing the sharpest edge of my pain.
Next I explore the duffel bag. Michael has thrown together the basics: sweats, underwear, socks, flip-flops, toiletries. I have a sense of déjà vu, then it comes to me: The duffel bag holds the same items as the hospital bag I packed for Chelsea’s birth, and the one I’d planned to pack for Evan’s birth, had I not gone into premature labor.
I struggle again. Wanting to finger each item as if it’s a talisman of the life I can’t give up, of the woman I’d hoped to be. I’ll sit here. Cry pathetically with my sweatpants on my lap.
The wash of self-pity disgusts me. I’m sick of crying. I’m sick of loving a man who left me. And I’m sick of nurturing a child who drove a knife between my ribs, then phoned to tell me he’d get it right next time.
The life I thought I was going to lead is over. It’s time for a new beginning, a new woman. One who walks white sandy beaches in a long purple peasant skirt, with a salt-rimmed margarita in hand. Maybe I’ll meet a young, handsome surfer dude. We’ll have sex under the palm trees and get sand in interesting places. I’ll watch the sun rise while listening to the call of the gulls. I’ll think only of myself and what I want to do every minute of every day. And I’ll like it.
I have lost my mind.
Fuck it. I get dressed.
It hurts like hell. I use the pain to stiffen my resolve. Underwear. Sweatpants. T-shirt. Flip-flops. I brush my teeth and comb my hair. World, look out.
I’m sweating. My side burns. I drink the water left in the cup by my melted ice.
I have no money, no passport, no sanity. Not exactly a recipe for success.
And I remember now that I’ve never really liked the sun. I burn too easily, especially the top of my head. I don’t want a margarita. I don’t even want a surfer dude.
Mostly, I want to see Evan again.
Eighth floor, they said. Maybe I could creep upstairs, gaze in on him sleeping…
I will tell him that I love him, whisper it in his ear, the way I used to do every night when he was a baby.
I’ll touch a blonde curl, the stubborn cowlick above his right eye. I’ll finger its softness, and that’ll remind me of all the times Evan hugged me, Evan kissed me, Evan told me he loved me.
To the moon and the stars and back again…
I don’t want to run away. I just want to hold my son. I want us to be all right again.
Eighth floor. Not so far. Not so hard. A short elevator ride to Evan.
I crack open my door, peer down the hall. Coast is clear. I make a break for it, hobbling my way to freedom.
I pass the nurses’ station, getting halfway down the hall, then three-quarters of the way. Almost to the elevator banks. So close. Fifteen more feet. Ten. Five. Two more steps, I’ll be able to reach out-
“Victoria?”
The voice behind me brings me up short. I turn reluctantly, feeling doomed. I can’t go back, I think wildly. I need my son. I need my freedom. I need something other than this incredible ache in my chest.
“Victoria?” my lover says again. His face a picture of concern. “What are you doing up? You shouldn’t be out of bed.”
“I’m feeling much better, thank you.”
“Victoria, I think your side…”
I look down. What do you know? I’m bleeding.
He holds out an arm. “Come on, follow me.”
“No.”
“Victoria?”
“I have to go upstairs. Find Evan. Please. Please help me.”
I realize for the first time that he’s holding a large black gadget between his hands. It looks like a gun, but not really. “What’s that?” I ask.
He looks around. Still no nurses in sight. “Expediency,” he says.
He points it at me. I feel a sudden electric jolt, and then…
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
D.D. and Alex bypassed the elevators in favor of the stairs. They needed to stretch their legs, and the empty stairwell was excellent for talking.
“What d’you think?” she asked Alex the moment the heavy fire door closed behind them.
“About Gym Coach Greg?”
“About all of them. We have Nurse Danielle, whose family history dovetails with the crimes, as well as having a personal connection to both Lucy and Lightfoot.”
“Lightfoot?”
“He was into her, even if she wasn’t into him.”
Alex considered this as they descended the first flight of stairs. “Meaning, if someone were targeting Danielle, the methodology of the first two crimes and the targets of the second two crimes would make sense.”
“Which also points the finger at Gym Coach Greg, who has motive.”
“Unrequited love.”
“Exactly. Worships Danielle for years, can’t even get dinner with her, though she accepts Lightfoot’s invite. He has opportunity-knows the Harringtons, knows the Laraquette-Solis family. He was on duty the night Lucy disappeared, and working tonight when someone spiked Lightfoot’s drink.”
“He claims to have an alibi for the Harringtons’ murders.”
“An alibi not easy to verify, given that the mother has been stabbed and the child’s psycho.”
“Attack gone awry?” Alex mused.
“What d’you mean?”
“The son stabbed the mother. Sounds a bit like our first two crime scenes.”
D.D. shook her head. “Too small. This family is just a mother and child. No father figure, and in the first two attacks, the father figure mattered. That’s who had to be posed just so. The crimes had to reflect on the fathers.”
“Dads are evil.”
“At least the ones who kill their families.”
Alex seemed to accept this. “Problem is, Lightfoot knew the families, too. So now we have two suspects to consider. Both of whom have lied to us.”
“Lightfoot told us he didn’t know Tika Solis, when he did.”
“And Greg said he’d never met Tika’s family, when he had.”
“Actually,” D.D. pointed out, “Greg never said he hadn’t met the family. He just said they didn’t visit the ward.”
Alex gave her a look. “You’re letting him off on a technicality? Remind me to wear more tight-fitting T-shirts and speak in a baritone.”
D.D. rolled her eyes. “Don’t get me wrong-Gym Coach still makes the most sense. After all, Lightfoot wasn’t working the night Lucy was hanged. Plus, there’s the matter of him being poisoned.”
Alex nodded. “Kind of wonder,” he said as they rounded the fifth-floor landing. “First we had no links between the families, now we have all kinds: the unit, an MC/respite worker, and the local spiritual healer. Begs the question, who else don’t we know about? Mentally ill kids appears to be a small and incestuous world. So maybe there are other experts-a psychiatrist, a therapist, a respite worker, a nurse?”