Deceptions: A Cainsville Novel (25 page)

I
t wasn’t the middle of the night after all. It was nearly five in the morning. After I explained the vision, I tried to get him to go back to bed, but he wouldn’t listen, so I curled up on his sofa, and we drank coffee and talked and watched the sun come up, and whatever I’d felt earlier passed.

No, I’m lying. It didn’t pass. What I felt for Gabriel wasn’t a chimera of anxiety and exhaustion. What passed was that panic, that sense of needing to escape.

I had breakfast with Ricky. Actually, I picked up breakfast—by cab—and surprised him at his place. He’d been in bed. Which led to a cold breakfast. But it also did an excellent job of banishing any traces of last night’s mood and fears. It wasn’t just the sex. Okay, yes, sex with Ricky was pretty much guaranteed to banish anything. But more than that, it was just being with him; alone with him, I was happy, and any other longings seemed like madness.

“I haven’t quit the diner yet,” I said. I was nibbling my toast, thinking how much I missed Larry’s rye bread.

“Yep. You need to make a decision there. Which I think you already have, but you should let Larry know what it is.”

“I know.” I sighed. “I’m not going back, which I should have told him a week ago.”

“I’m sure he figured it out. It’s just tough to cut that tie. Throwing yourself financially at Gabriel’s mercy.”

I spread extra jam on my toast. “It’s more than that. I don’t think I can even wait on the elders again.”

“I get that, and I’d agree.” He rolled out of bed and headed for the front room. I watched him go. I watched him come back. Both views were equally fine.

He saw me watching and chuckled. “I’d be a lot more flattered by that look if I didn’t suspect you were hoping to distract me from insisting you make this call.” He waggled my phone. “If you still want to jump me afterward, I’ll be here. And if you don’t? That’s fine, too, but just remember that every time I see that look in future, I’ll think you’re only trying to avoid something. It’ll do irreparable damage to my ego.”

“I wouldn’t want that.”

“No, you would not. My ego is a fragile thing.” He handed me the phone. “Now call Larry, tell him you’ll come by later to talk, and then you can have me.”

“Should I hang up first?”

“Larry would probably prefer that.”

I laughed, took the phone, and flipped onto my stomach. As I dialed, Ricky hopped back in bed, sending crumbs and plates jumping. He settled in, his head resting on the small of my back as he checked messages on his own phone.

After we talked, Larry said, “Doc Webster would like to speak to you, as well. She came by asking if I’d seen you. I know the Clarks said you’d been having fevers. Not to pry, but I’m guessing that’s related to why you needed some time off?”

“In a way.”

“You should call Doc Webster. I think she’s concerned, but she probably doesn’t want to seem pushy and follow up if you’re seeing a doctor in the city.”

“I’ll call her.” We talked for another minute before I hung up.

“Better get that call to the doc over with, too,” Ricky said. “I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but Larry’s one of those guys who thinks he’s talking on a tin can instead of a shining example of modern technology.”

I chuckled. “True.”

“Call the doctor. Tell her you’re fine so she doesn’t worry.”

He was right. I also had a niggling feeling I shouldn’t put it off. Just to get it over with, I suppose. So I phoned and I told her I was doing all right, no ill effects after the fever.

“Are you seeing someone in Chicago?” she asked. “A doctor, I mean.”

“No, I’m not sure what my plans are right now, but if I decide to stay in Cainsville, I’ll be transferring to you, if that’s all right.”

“It is. I’ll just need your medical files.” When I hesitated, she said, “No rush, of course. If you decide to transfer, you can provide me with your doctor’s information and I’ll arrange everything. We’ll need your express permission, but I can handle the rest.”

I said yes, that would be fine, thanked her, and hung up. Then I lay there, staring at the phone, deep in thought.

After my first “breakup” with Gabriel, he’d apologized by obtaining my pre-adoption medical files for me. Except there had been a mix-up, and the files my former doctor sent had belonged to a girl with spina bifida. His office was still hunting for my proper records.

“Everything okay?” Ricky asked.

As he sat up, he set his phone on the bed. On the screen, I saw what looked like an artist’s rendition of the sun and moon from my boar’s tusk.

I reached for his phone. “Is that the tattoo—?”

He plucked it from my hand and turned the screen off. “Later. What happened with the doctor?”

“It’s not important. Let’s see that art.”

He held the phone behind his back. “It’s not going to help you forget whatever’s bugging you. And whatever’s bugging you
is
important. So we’re going to talk about that.”

I looked at him. “You always do the right thing, don’t you?”

“I’m pretty sure I spend most of my life
not
doing the right thing.”

“That isn’t what I mean.” I shifted onto my knees, my face rising to his. “With me. You know the right thing to do. Always.”

“That’s because I know you. Always.”

I leaned forward and kissed him, and when our lips met, I smelled forest and rain, I felt the delicious chill of a night wind and heard the pounding of hooves. I felt a boy lifting me onto a horse, swinging me up behind him, me huddling against his back, basking in the warmth of him, hearing his laugh and grinning in return, holding him tight, never wanting to let go. Feeling loved and understood and at peace, that perfect bond with someone who knew me, always.

I kissed Ricky, and I whispered, “I love you,” and he said, “That’s all I want,” and in my mind I heard
All I ever wanted
as he lowered me onto the bed.

—

Afterward, lying in bed, catching our breath, I told Ricky about the medical records mix-up.

“Okay,” he said. “Excuse my ignorance, because it’s not a condition I’m familiar with, but there’s no way you
could
have been this girl, right? That you got adopted by your parents and, with their money, they were able to get it fixed? Maybe quietly, so no one knew you ever had it?”

“According to the doctor, no. I’m not familiar with spina bifida, either, so . . .”

He already had his phone in hand, searching on a browser.

“So, I could have done
that
,” I said.

“No reason to at the time,” he said. “But now it seems like you want to know more.”

He skimmed the page, then passed it to me. It said that spina bifida is a congenital defect in which the neural tube covering the spinal cord doesn’t fully form in utero. The girl with my alleged medical records had a severe form, which would have led to lifelong mobility issues. If I were that girl, I’d be in a wheelchair.

Something twigged in the back of my brain, something someone had said a few weeks ago, but the thought wouldn’t take form.

“No amount of money would have cured it,” I said. “Not today, and definitely not twenty years ago.”

“Okay, so you’re thinking—” He stopped short and rolled from the bed. “Time for a field trip.”

“Um, no, pretty sure that wasn’t what I was thinking.”

“But it’s what we’re doing.” He went into the next room, scooping up my clothing. “You know what you’re thinking. I know it, too—and I know to keep my mouth shut until we have proof.”

“Uh-huh. Well, while this mind-reading thing is very sweet—and hot—most of the time, there are times when it could become . . .”

“Creepy and annoying? Yep. Which is why I’m not doing it now. I know my limits, and I’d like to stick to the sweet and hot side.” He tossed me my clothing. “Although, if you can work in badass, I’d appreciate it.”

I grinned. “Mad, bad, and dangerous to know?”

“Exactly. I’m the Lord Byron of bikers. Except, being a biker, naturally I don’t write poetry. Or read it. In fact, for the record, I have no idea who this Byron guy is.”

“Gotcha.” I pulled on my shirt. “So where exactly is this field trip taking us?”

“The doctor’s office. Which I know you hate, on principle, but I’ll be there for moral support. And to make sure you get all the answers to your questions, whether you’ll admit you have questions or not.”

“Okay, but Gabriel is expecting me to work—”

Ricky was already on the phone. “Hey, Gabriel. It’s Ricky. I’m stealing Liv for a couple of hours to follow up on some questions regarding the Larsen case. In other words, completely job-related.” He paused, and I heard the faint rumble of a reply. “No, we’ve got this. I don’t have classes until this afternoon. I’ll make sure she gets her car back and send her your way after lunch. Sound good?”

I could swear I didn’t hear an answer, but it may have just been too low to pick up.

“We’re off, then,” Ricky said. “Talk to you later.” He hung up and turned to me. “Your absenteeism note has been delivered. Let me get dressed and we’ll go.”

I
hated doctors. Let me rephrase that. I didn’t hate them—I hated the places where they practice, like offices and hospitals. Admittedly, even the sight of a white coat and stethoscope was enough to send me running the other way. I refused to date three otherwise great guys because one was a med student, one an intern, and one a lab worker. So, yes, I may have had a problem with the profession, but it wasn’t personal. I thought doctors were lovely people. I just didn’t want to make out with one.

Why did I have such a problem with hospitals and doctors? I had spent my life wondering that. I was so damned healthy I rarely got a cold. I had never stayed in a hospital. Or so I thought, until I discovered there were two and a half years of my life unaccounted for.

Naturally, I’d asked Pamela. She said I’d spent one night in a hospital, for a fever, actually. Todd wasn’t allowed to stay in my room, so he’d slept in the waiting area and woken to me screaming, alone and terrified. That could explain my phobia, but I felt like there should have been more.

Dr. Escoda was the daughter of my former physician, who’d passed away a few years ago. Her office was packed. It didn’t matter. Give Ricky two minutes with the middle-aged receptionist and we didn’t just get a promise that we could see the doctor between appointments, we were shown into an exam room immediately to “protect my privacy.”

Dr. Escoda showed up less than five minutes later, and as she scurried in, I smelled terror wafting from her body like bad cologne. She shook my hand, her damp fingers enveloping mine.

“Ms. Taylor-Jones,” she said. “I’m so glad you stopped by.”

The sweat trickling down her hairline called her a liar.

Back when we first discovered my file had been lost, Gabriel had mentioned the possibility of pursuing it as a legal matter. I hadn’t ruled it out.

“We’re still looking for your file,” she said. “I deeply apologize for the distress it must cause you. I doubt there’s anything important in those records—”

“That’s not the point, is it?”

Ricky’s voice was low and steady, but there was a note in it that I hadn’t heard since James’s funeral. Charming Ricky had disappeared in the waiting room. The guy beside me held his face impassive, his lips tight, not a hint of a smile in his eyes. His leather jacket lay over his knee, the patch clear. He leaned toward the doctor, forearms on his thighs, tattooed biceps straining his T-shirt sleeves, as he watched her like a hawk. No, more like a raven. Zero predatory interest, but a cold, calculating appraisal.

Ricky continued. “The point is not whether Olivia is healthy now, but whether there is anything in her past she should be aware of. Has she ever had chicken pox? Broken a bone? Minor issues, yes, but she has the right to know them.”

“Of course.” Dr. Escoda looked at me. “Your friend here—”

“Boyfriend,” Ricky corrected.

“Your boyfriend is right. Getting those records is important—”

“How often does this happen?” Ricky asked, controlling the conversation, intentionally cutting her short. “How many records mix-ups have you had in your own career?”

“None, but—”

“And your father’s? How many others have you discovered since he passed?”

“None, which is why—”

“So this appears to be an anomaly. An unprecedented situation.”

She hesitated before answering. “I will admit that mix-ups do happen, when records are misfiled or the wrong one is picked up, but that is both rare and temporary. We discover the mistake quickly, and it is rectified and—”

“Temporary mix-ups aren’t our concern. We mean situations like this. You’re saying there have been none at all.”

She straightened like a witness on the stand. “Yes. None.”

“And you have been unable to find Olivia’s records? Despite a thorough search?”

“Yes, Olivia’s—”

“Ms. Taylor-Jones.”

She bristled but didn’t wrest back control of the conversation. She didn’t seem to know how.

Ricky continued. “So you’ve searched—thoroughly—and been unable to find them. Have you turned up any records of children that could have been her? I’m presuming you’ve looked at that angle—other girls Olivia’s age?”

“My father had two other female patients within a year of Ms. Taylor-Jones’s age. Both continued with him throughout their childhoods, and there is no chance that their records are hers—or that their records are the ones mislabeled as hers.”

“Because of the spina bifida? It’s a rare-enough condition that it would be remembered, correct? Likely by anyone who worked with the child in those records.”

She didn’t answer.

“Dr. Escoda?” Ricky said. “Am I right? Anyone employed at that time would recall the girl with that condition.”

“It—it’s been twenty years. My father wasn’t a young man even then, and his employees weren’t young, either, and—”

“You’ve spoken to them. You’ve asked about the girl in the file.”

“My father ran a very small practice. He believed in absolute patient-doctor confidentiality, so—”

“So he would not have discussed the case with outsiders. But his nurses would know.”

“He only employed three during that time, and two have passed on—”

“But you’ve spoken to the third.”

Dr. Escoda glanced my way. I met her gaze expectantly.

“Dr. Escoda,” Ricky said. “If you have not spoken to this former nurse, then we will, whether you provide us with her name or not.”

“I have, but . . . she’s seventy and not in the best of health.”

“Alzheimer’s? Dementia?”

“No, but—”

“Any mental impairment related to her health issues?”

“No apparent ones, but—”

“What did she say?”

Now the doctor snuck a look my way, pleading with me to get her out of this, only to realize I was the last person who’d spare her.

“She said . . .” Dr. Escoda swallowed. “She remembered when the Larsens were arrested. She called my father, to make sure she was hearing right—she was certain she couldn’t be. When my father found out, he immediately contacted child services.”

“Child services?” I said.

“To be . . .” She swallowed again and cast another anxious look my way. “To be certain they knew how to care for you. Because of your condition. Because the Eden Larsen he had treated six months earlier had severe spina bifida.”

—

Ricky did not back down once he got his answer. If anything, it snapped off the leash, and he went after poor Dr. Escoda with everything he had. There was no shouting, no threatening, no intimidation. But that was all implied in his voice, in his expression, in the very way he held himself on that chair.
You want us gone? Answer my questions.

He asked whether there was any way the damage could have been repaired. She said no, and he pursued every loophole there. Could the condition have been less serious than her father thought? What were the medical procedures at the time? What about experimental procedures? Even now, twenty years later, could it have been cured? She was adamant it could not. He had her check my back. There wasn’t even a pucker. My spine was perfect, my skin unblemished.

Was it possible that somehow, after the Larsens left her father’s care, something happened to their daughter and I replaced her? Dr. Escoda stared at Ricky as if he was crazy. He made her answer the question. No, it was not possible. Her father and his nurse had seen my photo following the arrest. I was the child they’d treated. To be sure, Ricky had her bring the file of the girl with spina bifida and compare every identifying factor in it. Hair color, eye color, blood type . . . it matched down to a tiny scar on the back of my elbow that had needed two stitches.

I was the girl in that file. The girl who couldn’t walk. Who’d been sentenced to life in a wheelchair. Who’d spent two years of her life in and out of doctors’ offices and hospitals and then been taken out of her doctor’s care. Who reappeared, six months later, running and jumping and playing like any other toddler . . . after her parents murdered six people.