Urgent Care (14 page)

He said nothing, but simply hit the play button and stepped back. Static filled the screen, followed by a black-and-white image of a patient monitor revealing heart rate, breathing, oxygen levels, and an EEG tracing. Then she saw the name on the monitor: SETH COCHRAN.

“I told you I had proof,” he said, still facing away from her, watching as the screen split, revealing a patient lying in bed. Seth. “Lucas couldn’t get me into the sleep lab until last month, but if you watch, you’ll see.”

He fast-forwarded and suddenly there was Seth, crawling out of bed, stripping his clothes off. Naked, his hands went through the motions of shaving, of dressing in invisible clothing—all while the EEG recording on the monitor showed him to be asleep.

Nora’s vision blurred. No way Seth could fake
this
. Not even with Lucas’s help. Seth had been telling the truth.

But even if he had an explanation for what she’d seen in that call room when she’d walked in on him and Karen, it didn’t solve all the problems they’d had.

“I wasn’t lying.” He finally turned to look over his shoulder. His gaze was filled with pleading.

“I see that.” She stood, joining him in the middle of the floor. He surprised her by simply pulling her into a hug, letting her bury her face in his chest, not asking for anything more. Like he had earlier, after Karen died.

God, this was so hard—harder than she’d thought it would be. She couldn’t change what had happened between them, but she could offer something more valuable: her trust.

Blinded by tears, her energy eroded by fear, craving the familiarity, the strength he offered, she said, “Stay. Just for tonight.”

 

 

LUCAS ARRIVED AT THE PICU JUST AS AMANDA and the respiratory tech finished Zachary’s treatment. She rushed over to him, feeling less tired at the sight of him.

“Hey, stranger,” she said, stopping short of giving him the hug she wanted to give him. Instead she led him into the tiny dictation area behind the nurses’ station and closed the door for privacy. “How was your day?”

“Finally over. Did you want to try to grab dinner before I go home? I have more floral arrangements and bridesmaid dresses we can go over.”

“I wish, but I have a few things to finish before I can get free.” Like talking to Zachary’s parents, doing a complete history on Narolie, double-checking Tank’s lab results . . . her mind drifted off, snagged by her to-do list. Lucas brought her back by waving an Almond Joy beneath her nose.

She snagged the candy bar, popping one morsel into her mouth and one into his. “Yum . . . now I know why I love you.” She curled her arm through his and leaned her head on his shoulder as they chewed, side by side.

“Sorry I couldn’t get that MRI scheduled for you,” Lucas said. “I think I can get her in tomorrow afternoon. Maybe.”

“Don’t worry about it. There are only two things I want or need.”

“Tell me, they’re yours.” His voice dropped into a lullaby-soft whisper, so unlike his usual neutral, public tone. This voice was for Amanda only, and it gave her shivers every time he used it.

“I want to match here for my residency with no worries about either of our jobs.”

“With your grades and recommendations, that’s an easy one. No matter what Frantz says. The pediatrics program here would be crazy not to rank you number one in the residency match.” He tilted his head, a lock of hair falling into his eyes as he glanced down at her shyly. “What’s the second thing?”

She grabbed hold of the lapels of his lab coat and stood on tiptoe so that she was level with his gaze. “I want to live the rest of my life with you happily ever after for ever and ever, amen.”

She kissed him. He responded, leaning forward and coming perilously close to bracing himself against the wall before pulling back and wrapping his arms around her, holding her tight.

She laughed as he rebalanced. When they found a place to live, it was going to have to have walls of stainless steel so he wouldn’t have to worry about germs. As crazy as that sounded, she didn’t care.

“Amen,” he whispered when they parted. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. I’m just the luckiest girl in the world, that’s all.”

“Guess that makes me the luckiest guy.”

“Seriously, though. You don’t have to do any of this wedding stuff. My mom can do it all and we can relax, just show up.”

“No. That would be the wedding she always dreamed of. I want to give you the wedding you always dreamed of.”

That was definitely worth another kiss.

Too bad the pounding on the door interrupted them. “Dr. Mason?” Mrs. Trenton’s voice barreled through the thin door. “Harold needs his dinner. Now, Dr. Mason. Or do I need to call Dr. Frantz?”

 

 

LYDIA LET HERSELF INTO HER BOSS’S OFFICE AND turned on the computer. A twinge of guilt ran through her as she examined the flash drive Jerry Boyle had given her. Trey would already be home by now, getting dinner for them.

Trey had lived in the Craftsman-style bungalow on the other side of the cemetery before she had, fixing it up for his mother’s real estate company. Then she’d bought it, and now they lived there together. Maria would have said it was meant to be. That they were meant to be.

At first Lydia had been overwhelmed by all the space—not to mention the freedom and privacy. Fourteen hundred square feet all to herself. But now that Trey was there with her, it felt like sometimes there was no place to go. Not that she wanted or needed to hide anything from Trey, just that he somehow filled the house. His presence, even when he was gone, was everywhere.

She toyed with the flash drive. She could go home, use the computer there, but she didn’t want Trey to be a part of this. Not yet. Not until she knew more of the truth herself.

Stop stalling
, she told herself, inserting the drive into the USB port. She forced herself to go through the numerous files in order, so as to not miss anything, instead of randomly clicking on files with names that sounded promising. A lot of it was boring bureaucratic record keeping written in the dry language common to law enforcement, blurry scanned copies of poorly typed reports.

Was Maria even her mother?
The thought kept pounding at her, and she was tempted to skip to the medical examiner’s report. She’d been twelve when Maria was killed. They’d had DNA testing back then, rudimentary compared with today’s technology, but they could still have easily proven parentage.

She refused to give in to the temptation to click to the autopsy protocol—too painful if the truth was bad news. All her life she’d learned not to form attachments, but here she was, attached to something she’d never realized could be taken away. Her own identity.

Living with Maria, she’d never known how long they’d be at any one place. Lydia could never count on going to the same school from one week or month to the next, much less having the same teacher, seeing the same kids—forget about friends.

If Maria got one of her urges to run, they ran. No questions asked—or as Maria liked to say, “No regrets.” Later, in foster care, Lydia had learned very fast to protect what was hers or it would be taken from her. All she’d managed to hang on to were two photos of her and Maria together, as well as Maria’s only legacy: a charm bracelet Lydia had worn around her ankle, under her sock, hidden from covetous eyes. Now that Lydia was an adult she no longer wore the bracelet, but she’d placed it in a small red and purple paisley silk bag that Maria would have liked.

As she read, memories flitted through her mind like pages turning in a photo album. The LAPD had done a thorough job—as thorough as they could with no victim identification. Lydia began to make a list of possible questions. It seemed likely that the photo of her and Maria, which had appeared in a local L.A. weekly, was connected to Maria’s death somehow. Maybe if Lydia had never won that damn contest, then whatever Maria had been running from would have never caught up with her.

Smeared copies of Maria’s three fake driver’s licenses flashed onto the screen. Marie Ferraro, the name she’d been using when she was killed; Mary Fuentes; Maria Fiore. Maria always used birthdates in February—the fourth, fourteenth, and twenty-fourth—although she varied the year. She let Lydia keep her real birthday, March 25. At least Lydia hoped it was real—and not another lie.

Could Maria have been born in February on one of those three dates? Was she really thirty when she died? The same age Lydia was now. Strange to think she would live longer than her mother had.

The list of questions grew as Lydia questioned everything she knew as a “fact” about her mother and compared it with the LAPD file. Then finally, the medical file appeared. Lydia pulled away as the screen filled with a diagram of a naked woman revealing a multitude of wounds. Images of the real attack, in Technicolor slow motion undimmed by memory, ricocheted through her vision.

She quickly clicked to the next page and the next, skipping over the recitation of Maria’s injuries. Then she found the ancillary tests. Maria’s blood alcohol had been only 0.07—practically sober for her. No other drugs in her system except marijuana. Her blood type was the same as Lydia’s, AB positive, pretty rare. And yes, there was a genetic comparison test as requested by the Department of Child Welfare for one “Jane Doe #17, aka Lydia Fiore.”

Lydia’s finger shook as she clicked to the results. A sob choked her vision. She blinked and focused on the words. Maria was her mother. Was really her mother.

Emotion overwhelmed her. Lydia cursed her weakness, cursed Jerry Boyle for making her doubt, cursed Maria for living the kind of life where her only child could take nothing for granted.

She laid her head on the desk and let herself cry. Might as well get it all out before she faced Trey. Her shoulders shuddered as reawakened grief tore through her.

For someone who had fought all her life against forming any attachments, she was suddenly tied down by responsibilities: a house, friends, co-workers, Trey . . . not to mention his large and loving but meddlesome family.

And now one more: finding out who her mother really was. Not just a name, who the person was.

No more lies. Lydia wouldn’t stop until she found the truth.

She rubbed her palms against her arms, fighting a sudden chill. What had Maria been running from? What had been worth risking her and Lydia’s lives?

Thursday, 7:37 P.M.

GINA PICKED UP HER BMW FROM EMS HEAD-QUARTERS and debated where to go next. Amanda was on call and Jerry would be working all night, but Gina didn’t want to eat alone—too much temptation to binge. She’d been doing so well these past two months. Deciding to play Good Samaritan, she drove over to Diggers, the restaurant across Penn Avenue from Angels, ordered some comfort food to go, and took it over to the medical center.

She drove past the cemetery, where a crowd of hospital workers coming off shift were gawking through the fence. Instead of parking in the employee garage, she drove around to the other side of the medical center where the patient garage sat, closer to the main entrance.

Gina was walking from her car, her hand shoved inside one of the bags, rummaging for a curly fry when a man called her name. She jerked, dropping the bag, her heart leaping to her throat.

“Sorry,” Glen Bakker said as he jogged over to scoop up the grease-stained bag. He inhaled its contents. “Mmm. Smells good.”

“Damn it, Glen! Don’t sneak up on people like that!” Gina’s heart took a moment to settle back to its normal resting place and rhythm.

“Didn’t mean to startle you. I was just on patrol and thought it might be best if I walked with you. Not a good time for women to be walking alone, you know?”

“You’re right. Thanks.” She took the bag from him, opened it, and offered him some fries. “I heard about Karen. Do they have any idea who did it?”

“The cops?” Glen shook his head. “They have no idea.”

“Sounds like you might.”

He was silent for a moment. “Maybe. I don’t know. But once when I was covering a night shift I came across Karen and Mr. Tillman alone in his office. After midnight and she wasn’t dressed for work, if you get my drift.”

“Karen and Tillman?” An image of the pompous CEO and Karen together filled Gina’s mind. It wasn’t an image she wanted to dwell on. “Ew, gross.”

They reached the hospital’s main entrance. Glen touched his forehead in a salute as he held the door open for her. “Call me or one of my men when you’re ready to leave. Or partner up with someone else—we don’t need any more excitement around here.”

“Yes, sir.” Gina left him, still trying to digest the idea of Tillman and Karen together. Talk about sleeping your way to the top—but Tillman? She shuddered and stepped into the elevator, heading to the PICU.

Amanda scowled at Gina’s comfort-food offering, putting a definite damper on the warmhearted glow Gina had been indulging. “Your patient is a jerk, and his mother is a witch.”

“My patient?” Gina asked, pulling up a chair, smiling at Amanda’s vehemence. Nice to see that the Southern belle was learning how to call it like it was. They were in the PICU break room, a tiny glass-walled cubicle with microwave, refrigerator, table, and four chairs. Amanda drew the curtains, concealing them from sight of everyone in the PICU, then joined Gina.

“Yeah. Harold Trenton.”

“Tank.” Gina took a piece of fried chicken, leaving the drumstick because she knew that was Amanda’s favorite. “The parents are friends of my parents—I think I met them once at some shindig at the club. Wait ’til you meet the grandfather; he’s a pompous SOB. A chiropractor; he’ll no doubt lecture you on the harm your modern medicine is doing to innocent patients. I’m surprised he didn’t insist Tank register under an assumed name so that none of his patients learn that he let his grandson be treated by anyone else.”

“I don’t understand how anyone puts up with their attitude.”