By Your Side (26 page)

“Like this, too?” Fletcher snatched an informational brochure from the mail pile. A glossy photo of an elderly couple in each other’s arms, under the heading
Viatical Settlements: Selling your life insurance can buy you peace, comfort.
He stared at his mother, confused. “What the . . . ?”

“It came in the mail. I thought I’d look it over.” She met his gaze. “It’s a way of collecting on an insurance policy early. A lump-sum payoff. And then an investor takes over the payments and becomes the new beneficiary.” His mother seemed to read the confusion on Fletcher’s face. “It’s a benefit that’s offered to people who are terminally ill.”

His stomach lurched. “Wait
 
—no one’s said that. Right?”

“No.” She touched his arm. “No, the doctors haven’t said that. The information came in the mail. Right along with my
Southern Living
magazine. I simply thought there’s no harm in checking it out. It seemed . . . hopeful.” She glanced toward the laptop. “
If
things get worse, it might mean your father could be home. We wouldn’t have to burden you or
 
—”

“Stop.” Fletcher raised his hand. “You’re doing okay
 
—you’ve beaten this thing once. You’ll do it again. If it comes down to a bone marrow transplant, I’ll be set up to do that. No problem.” He turned the brochure over, anger rising. “Who sends this morbid stuff out, anyway? The doctor’s office, hospital . . . ?” His gaze dropped to the ink-stamp logo at the bottom of the page:

Elliot Rush Financial Services

M
ACY SHOOK HER HEAD,
still surprised at the turn of events. “I expected that I’d be visiting you at the rehab center again. Not at . . . this apartment.” She refused to say “your apartment” or to bring up the boyfriend’s name. Even if his presence was everywhere in sight: Photos of the young couple on a shelf above the TV
 
—he was cute, of course, sort of clumsy-puppy endearing. An acoustic guitar leaning against the futon where Macy had slept. Close to a dozen baseball trophies. Plus that pair of huge Nikes lined up next to Leah’s dainty sequined flip-flops. “You weren’t supposed to be discharged until Thursday, right?”

“I told them I had an appointment with a nurse-practitioner in the ob-gyn office.” Leah blinked up at Macy from where she’d sunk into a red plush beanbag chair. Her willowy and too-thin limbs, in a black tee and leggings, made her look like an upended ladybug. She nibbled at her
dry breakfast toast. “I fudged a little. The appointment’s not until Wednesday.” Her eyes held Macy’s. “I guess I just needed to be back here. To think about it all, you know?”

“The counselors . . . they think you’re okay now?” Macy asked carefully. “On your own here?”

Leah planted her bare feet, pushed herself up higher, and set her toast on the coffee table. “Because I could have a stash of Lortabs in my sock drawer?”

“No. Of course not. I wasn’t thinking that,” Macy said quickly, hating herself.

“You were.” Leah’s pallor made her little-girl dusting of freckles even more apparent. “I would be thinking that if I were you. But don’t worry. They let me go because I did the program and earned their trust. It’s weird,” she said, voice suddenly soft. “I think I even trust myself now. I know I won’t do anything that hurts this baby.” Her fingers, nails polished a pale shell pink, brushed her flat belly as gently as if there were a kitten curled in her lap. Her eyes shone with tears. “I’m going to be someone’s mother, Macy.”

Oh, Leah.
Macy slid from the futon to the floor, wrapped her arms around her sister.

“Remember when we talked before,” Leah whispered, drawing back a little, “and I asked you if you believed in a higher power?”

“I think so . . . sure,” Macy acquiesced, thinking only of the Southwest Airlines gift card in her purse. Getting Leah to Sacramento was even more important now.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Leah continued. “A lot. And about Nonni. She was the closest thing to a mother I ever had, you know?”

“I know.”

“And she and God, they were tight.” A faraway look came into Leah’s sleepy eyes. “Once she told me that God knew me before I was born. And he even knew the exact number of hairs on my head.” Her fingers traced a tiny circle on her belly. “The exact number. She said he loved me that much because I’m his child. We all are. Do you believe that?”

An ache rose in Macy’s throat. She wasn’t sure if it was because of the question or because they were talking about Nonni; right now, it seemed one and the same. “I think . . . it must feel really good to believe that.”

Leah was quiet for a few beats. “I want to believe my baby will be loved like that. That it can be different this time . . . starting there.”

Macy stayed silent, though with every fiber of her being, she wanted to shout that it
was
going to be different. Starting when Leah boarded that jetliner. And then walked onto the porch of their house, saw Nonni’s brass door handle and the backyard with the trees and roses. A real home
 
—a place to study, laugh, and plan a future. A home that would soon be filled with childish squeals, bedtime stories, giggly games of peekaboo . . . and the scent of oven-warm oatmeal cookies. And there would absolutely be love.

Macy smiled, remembering her impromptu breakfast with Fletcher and his offer to paint rooms and tote boxes. “Leah?”

“Yes?”

“It is going to be different, better. I promise.”

Macy wanted so badly to talk about Fletcher. Explain how she was beginning to feel about him, the hope it was
bringing her. She ached to share that wonderful news with her sister. But how could she do that when her most critical goal was moving Leah far away from the man she loved?

Taylor checked the time on the triage computer: 3:20. The p.m. shift would be getting assignments from the clinical coordinator, a substitute today. Macy had asked for the day off, something to do with her sister. No one knew better than Taylor how readily family problems could demand priority. And make a person sleepless, even physically sick. Thank heaven Taylor was past that now. Despite her lingering questions about Greg’s death, she was long past the crippling effects of grief that interfered with work and
 
—

“I’m here to set you free,” the p.m. nurse announced, arriving in the doorway. She hiked a thumb in the direction of the waiting room. “It looks fairly decent out there; nobody vomiting in a wastebasket or waving a weapon.” She raked her fingers through her hair, grimacing. “Probably not a good thing to joke about these days.”

“Probably not. But I’m going to trust you’re right.” Taylor offered her a smile, thinking that the nurse looked familiar somehow. Nearly as petite as Andi, but with burgundy-brown hair worn in short, soft spikes. Lavender scrubs with a Velcro tourniquet and a roll of tape hanging from her lime-green stethoscope. Despite her dark humor, she seemed a little anxious. Taylor glanced at her registry name badge. “You’ve worked here before, Ronda? Familiar with the setup?”

“Couple of times.” The nurse glanced back down the hall. “I’ll be okay.”

“Great.” Taylor smiled. “I’m caught up. Have a seat
 
—”
stop hovering, for goodness’ sake
 
—“and I’ll fill you in on who we have out there. In a few minutes we’ll both be good to go.”

“Sure.” The petite nurse sat at last and met Taylor’s gaze. Her dramatic dark-fringed blue eyes prompted Taylor’s sense of déjà vu once again. “Go ahead. Fill me in.”

“Okay.” Taylor scrolled down the registration screen. “Our only priority patient was roomed ten minutes ago. That leaves you a two-year-old with a croupy cough per Mom; he hasn’t made a peep since they arrived. A woman, seven weeks pregnant, spotting this morning. Her OB’s been called. A retired dentist, seventy-six, with ear pain. Looked uncomfortable when he arrived but says it settled down. He and his wife just got off a plane from
 
—”

Taylor stopped, remembering suddenly. She turned, met the nurse’s gaze. “You’re a flight nurse, right?”

“I was.” The nurse swallowed, the anxious look returning. “We’ve met. I usually go by my middle name, Sloane.”

“Sloane Wilder. You’re Paul Stryker’s fiancée.”

“Was.” Her lips compressed. “We broke up . . . six months now.”

Taylor’s stomach sank. Paul Stryker. Greg’s basketball buddy, a volunteer firefighter. The number he’d called the night of the accident. The man who had no idea why Greg would have been driving in that area and
 
—“You live near Elk Grove.”

“Not anymore.” Discomfort flickered across Sloane’s face. “New job, new hair, new zip code . . . Lots of changes.”

“I . . .” Taylor kept her voice steady. The last time she’d seen this woman was at Greg’s funeral. “I understand that.”

“I figured you would. Considering . . .”

Don’t make me cry. . . . I’m past crying.

Taylor shifted her gaze back to the computer, trying to ignore the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. “Now let’s see . . . Yes, you’re all set here. That’s it. Triage is officially yours.”

In less than two minutes she was out of the office, down the corridor, and inside the ladies’ room. She held herself together until the cleaning lady finished wiping down the mirror and clattered her cart back through the door. Then Taylor sank back against the sink. Her throat ached with unshed tears and her stomach was dangerously queasy. The strange thing was that all of it had less to do with Greg’s death than it had to do with her own life. Her continued failure. Wasn’t it only minutes ago that she’d applauded herself for being past the effects of grief? And then a simple encounter with a woman she barely knew sent her tumbling back down that rabbit hole?

Taylor closed her eyes, remembering the nurse’s words.
“New job . . . new zip code . . .”
Sloane Wilder had moved on by moving away. Maybe that’s what it took.

“That artist’s sketch is about as helpful as the one they had for the Unabomber,” the older deputy complained. Hank had caught Fletcher as he exited the briefing room. He grinned, waiting as Fletcher grabbed a shotgun from the
armory. “You going to bring him down, Houston? Hog-tied and branded?”

Fletcher smiled. “Maybe.”

“I’ll watch for the YouTube video.” The man’s grin faded. “Seth says the kids of that bank manager sent a letter to Vince’s kids saying they felt bad about Titus.”

The slain K-9. Fletcher shook his head.

“Say . . .” Hank met Fletcher’s gaze as they walked on toward the parking lot. “How’s your mother doing?”

“Good. A little stir-crazy; they haven’t cleared her to get back to her volunteer work yet. But she’s keeping busy. And waiting for the next lab tests.”

“My sister was like a pincushion with all those tests.”

“That about says it,” Fletcher agreed, grateful once again for what this man had shared regarding his sister’s gastric cancer treatment. Surgery, radiation, chemo. Three years a survivor. She and her husband were “birding” in Copper Canyon, Mexico, right now, another annual celebration of her continuing health. “Hey, when she was going through all of that, did she get hounded by folks trying to sell her insurance? Financial assistance? That sort of thing?”

“Not that she said.” Hank’s graying brows drew together. “But medical information is confidential: HIPAA laws. It’s not like the hospitals bring vendors in and give them a list of potential clients. Heads would roll.” The man mimed a football move. “Because the Feds would be drop-kicking them from here to DC.”

“Bet on it,” Fletcher agreed.

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Something someone said.”

“Well
 
—” Hank tossed him a salute
 
—“strap on those spurs and go find yourself an old Buick, Houston.”

“Yessir.”

Fletcher hefted his pursuit bag and headed toward his assigned patrol car, thinking about what Hank had said. The police artist sketch, obtained from witnesses who’d seen a stranger in the Stockton neighborhood where the plates were stolen, was minimally helpful. A white male, early forties maybe, tall and lanky build, thin face, knit cap pulled low. Glasses. Maybe. Beard. Maybe. Hank had been right: it was about as useful as that hoodie sketch of the infamous bomber. Hank had also been right about federal privacy laws. The hospital or doctor’s office wouldn’t have divulged his mother’s AML diagnosis to a financial planner.

Elliot Rush was also the Sacramento Hope employee retirement adviser. He was on-site frequently. How difficult would it be to obtain patient information? Would he actually do that? Fletcher’s jaw tensed at the image of Rush the day they’d met. Out on the freeway the day of the first shooting. Defending his expensive car and his bloated ego. Even if he’d gone out of his way to be conciliatory since, something smelled very bad about this situation. Fletcher wasn’t going to let it rest.

He slid into the car, secured the shotgun. He’d called Rush’s office twice and left messages. Didn’t give details but requested an appointment later today regarding “some personal business.” Fletcher had almost mentioned his concern to Macy but decided not to bother her with it. Her priority was her sister. He could understand that.

His was protecting his mother from vultures.