CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Present Day
THERE WAS NO reason for alarm. No reason her heart beat a little faster the second Amanda moved through Mercy hospital’s automatic doors and set foot on the pristine marble floor.
No reason for the hair on her body to stand on end, the rest of her prepared for an unknown threat.
Amanda hated Mercy hospital. The last time she’d been inside the place had been the disastrous day the twins were born. When Davis had saved their backsides with two well-placed bullets.
If she’d gotten to the gun sooner…
If she’d had her dominant hand…
The recriminations had been on repeat for six months, quieted only by the fact that the past couldn’t be undone. Salved by the smiling faces of her husband and children. So, she wasn’t going down that path.
Not today.
Right now, being here was necessary. Maybe even better than staying at work.
They’d handed her a bucket of letters as soon as she’d returned from the crime scene. Hadn’t waited for her to put her stuff down, nor asked why Ross had come back before her. Why he was stewing in his office and refused to discuss their morning.
Maybe everyone figured this was normal. Another day in the life of sharing workspace with Amanda Nettles. Captain Dentzen had placed the container into her arms. Announced there were two more inside her little cubicle. Advised that she start responding where she could.
She’d opened a total of five.
While one of them had been a little spiteful and mentioned a long-closed case her predecessor had stumbled into at its end, the other four were from deeply wounded families. Some commended her work ethic, others outright asked for help on everything from missing persons cases to the cold case murders of loved ones. Some of the envelopes were dated six months ago, leaving her wondering if the sender had been holding out hope for a response.
How was she supposed to focus? How was she supposed to explain that while her career showed obvious victories in those areas, she’d come to them at great personal cost? That her commendable career would forever be a crap shoot filled with those waiting for her to turn.
People like Ross at the ready to point it out.
So much so that it put him and the entire crew in harm’s way. He disliked and distrusted her so much it had almost cost them all their lives.
Before she could consider setting a torch to what had the potential to become a constant reminder of the past, Jared had come through with information on Josiah and Fay’s family. Amanda had never bolted from the office so fast in her life.
Toward the second-to-the-last place she wanted to be. But this was for Josiah and Fay. Figuring out who’d put them in that house and left them trapped behind a wall of explosives. Deciphering if that person was the same John Doe who’d been hanging from the banister and if he had any connection to the children’s biological mother and father.
Born and raised in Charlotte, Mr. and Mrs. Wittemoore were college sweethearts—a cute couple, Mr. Wittemoore as dark-haired as his wife was blond, both young and vibrant. They’d somehow managed to fall in love and stay in love long enough to spend ten years together, have a son and later a daughter before a house fire had claimed their lives. A fire their four-year-old had inadvertently started.
Their son and infant daughter had made it out unscathed thanks to a good Samaritan who happened by the property.
Since that time, the children had been with a distant cousin whom they’d found dead last week inside the home he owned with his girlfriend. None of the neighbors—the few who would talk to her anyway—had seen the children in that time.
Which is why she found herself inside the hospital, nearing Fay’s ER bed, a hand gripping the railing on the wall, working like crazy to forget where she was.
Instead of heading inside and gathering information from their only talking witness, she watched the rush of hospital staff around her.
A nurse wheeled an elderly man to the exit, where a car awaited him. A young lady stood at the desk, her arm in a sling with a hot pink cast peeking out, her parents nearby. A woman in blue scrubs pushed a gurney past where Amanda stood.
There weren’t any screams. No panic. Just a normal day inside the ER.
Normal.
“Amanda?” The feminine voice had Amanda’s attention snapping from the people around her to the blond woman who stopped in front of her. She was dressed in a pencil skirt, matching top, and a coordinated Kentucky Derby hat. It slanted across the upper left side of her face, which Amanda assumed had equally flawless makeup that highlighted bright blue eyes and cherry-red lipstick. A manicured hand pointed toward the shield clipped to Amanda’s belt. “You’re Detective Amanda Nettles, right?”
“That’s right.” Amanda drew out the words.
This was another day. Another scene where she needed the truth to help someone in need. Or dodge another lunatic. She could roll with either right now with very little effort.
You’re not a rookie.
Even if she was still a bit shaken from the crime scene. The way they’d all come far too close to losing their lives. Davis and Dexter especially. If Davis had been a ball of nerves, there hadn’t been any signs.
“I’m Simone Archambault.” The woman held out a hand.
Amanda shook the offered appendage, while questions populated in her mind and mingled with her mother’s words of etiquette in all situations.
“I’m a relative of your mother’s.”
What the…? Amanda snatched her hand from Simone’s, the motion automatic. Suspicion froze her in place, curiosity a second behind.
Because it was always right there. Pulling her into a mystery. Good. Bad. Ugly. It didn’t matter.
Simone clasped her fingers together. Dropped them in front of her. “Our mothers were sisters. Eileen was my cousin. We played together when we were kids, but then my mother and Eileen’s mother—your grandmother—Hilde, had a falling out and Hilde passed away. We lost touch and then Eileen was married and busy with you…” The other woman moved her head so that all of her face—equally perfected in layers of makeup—was visible.
This woman’s fair complexion and blond hair didn’t match Eileen Nettles’ dark hair and olive skin. Although, there was some kind of resemblance. Maybe not to Amanda’s mother, but to someone she knew.
Which wasn’t saying much.
“I’m pretty familiar with who’s in my family, Ms. Archambault. Even those distantly related. Your name has never come up.”
The other woman held up a hand. “Just Simone. Please. I’ve caught you off guard and I apologize. I was visiting someone upstairs and was on my way out when I saw you standing here. I-I thought I’d take a chance.”
“On?”
“To give my condolences. Eileen is—was one of the best women I know.”
Right. Okay. Amanda needed to take a breath. Stop looking at everything as a situation that could go south. Just because the morning had started in a rotten place didn’t mean it would continue on that path.
“And…” Simone’s gaze flicked to the ER bed curtain to Amanda’s left. “You know my daughter.”
Her daughter?
“Charleen Davis.”
“What?” Amanda shook her head, the sound of her voice foreign and bouncing in the space. The teen with the cast shot a curious look in their direction.
Simone’s blond hair, fair skin, and confident air clicked into place. It was like looking at the dolled-up and older version of Charleen.
“You’re close.” Simone took her time digging something out of her clutch.
That depended. On the day. The situation. A long list of variables. “Hold up.” Amanda monitored the other woman’s progress. Wasn’t up for any surprises. “Am I supposed to believe this—” She held a fisted hand, pointer finger out and made a circular motion. “Is all random? You happened to be here and I’m here. And I’m supposed to believe whatever you tell me?”
A smile filled Simone’s face. “You’ve heard the story of her traumatic birth.”
Amanda wasn’t sure trauma fit the bill in whole. The other woman had elected to have a late third trimester abortion. “Enough to know I don’t like it.” The only thing about the short version of Charleen’s birth that Amanda liked was that she’d survived, the personal biases she had on the subject carefully tucked away. At least they had been when Charleen had given Amanda the micro version, begrudgingly, in about two sentences last summer.
“Don’t let the chip on her shoulder fool you. She came by it honestly.” White teeth pulled the corner of a red lip inward. “It’s not a choice I can take back.”
Of course it wasn’t. Amanda bit back an angry retort. “I’m not sure what you’re hoping for here.”
A patient smile crossed Simone’s face. “You’re just like Eileen. Ready to change the world. To stand in the face of whatever opposes you. That trait is becoming very rare. Hold on to it. Pass it on.” Simone presented a cream-colored envelope to her. “I’ve been carrying this around for a number of years. If you give this to Dexter, he’ll give it to Charleen. The details are inside.”
There weren’t any creases on the paper. No smudges that often came with carrying an article for a long period of time. “That’s a long time to keep a letter.”
“When something is important, time is irrelevant. I’m not hoping for forgiveness, Amanda. My actions are inexcusable, a relationship between Charleen and myself impossible. Regardless, I’m still the woman who gave her life, as cliché as that sounds under the circumstances.”
As if her hand had a mind of its own, Amanda found herself reaching for the paper, its weight almost nonexistent. “Why not tell her that and give it to her directly?”
Simone shook her head. “She’d never take it. Would you?”
No. Maybe. Amanda didn’t know. “You know she’s likely to light it on fire.”
Carefree laughter came from the older woman. “I know. And I really love and admire that about her. That attitude keeps her safe…and it also puts her in danger.” The emotion died. “It’s important that she read the contents. The only way to get that to happen is through Dexter Knight.”
Curiosity rippled through Amanda. There’d been something between the pair at the crime scene. Not necessarily romance, but something—tension, confusion—which left her wondering if there were more going on between them than they let on. “Why not give it directly to Dexter then? Or will he light it on fire, too?”
“It would be far too dang—”
“Elliot is someone you know?” Davis’ muted voice made Amanda move toward the curtain to her left. The detective sat with Josiah on the gurney, Fay tucked in her lap, the little girl’s hand fisted around her black vest.
Josiah mimicked the screech of brakes as he played with the red and green matchbox cars in his hands and collided them headfirst into each other. The toddler reached for the green one, but didn’t make it far before falling back to Charleen’s lap, her eyes glossy.
“Josiah, I know you and Fay have been through a lot.” Charleen’s free hand tousled the boy’s hair. “You’ve been super brave. Any answers you can give me will help us find whoever did this to you and your sister.”
The boy handed his sister the green car as he straightened. “Is she better? Elliot said you’d make sure she got better.”
Elliot? That name hadn’t been anywhere in the information Amanda had garnered about the children.
“When did Elliot say this?” Charleen’s head shot up, her features resembling Simone’s. The shape of the eyes and mouth. The seriousness in her eyes.
Amanda turned back toward Simone, but the space was empty, the sight of her large hat nowhere in sight. What the…?
Amanda fingered the envelope.
Why would this woman—Simone Archambault if she were telling the truth—come to Amanda with anything? Why now?
Amanda pulled out her phone and stepped a few feet from Fay’s curtain. Dialed the one person who might shed some immediate light. Maybe. At least until she could get back to work and check it out. It rang twice before Walter Nettles answered.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hi, honey. How’s the first day back?”
“Strange.”
“Oh?”
“I promise I’ll fill you in later. Right now I need some information I’m hoping you have about one of Mom’s…someone she might have known. Simone Archambault.”
The line got quiet. “Why?”
She flipped the envelope in her hand. “I ran into her a little bit ago.”
“That’s not possible, Amanda.” His voice was grim. “She died in the seventies.”
___
Elliot made me close my eyes. Then he wrapped a towel over my face.
What they had was nothing. Absolutely nothing. Josiah couldn’t describe Elliot in any manner. Not even the basics. All they had was a phantom with a male voice.
According to a seven-year-old.
But Josiah had talked to someone he believed was Elliot, who’d in return imparted words meant to comfort. Or to draw them closer. The jury was still out there.
The best thing Charleen could do for Josiah and Fay was figure this out. Weed through why she’d held an unresponsive toddler one minute and then Jo had the breathing version the next.
“Tell me what’s going on with Fay.” Charleen drummed her fingers along the surface of the countertop outside Fay’s ER bed. Tried to drown out her cries as nurses attempted to draw blood for additional tests they needed to run. Waited while Dr. Blake Fritz jotted something on his clipboard.
The white lab coat he wore contrasted with his dark hair. His chin sported a layer of stubble, annoyance written all over his stance. There were dark circles under his eyes that hadn’t been there when she’d seen him last month—when his mother had practically dragged Charleen to one of the family dinners. Sophie hadn’t been willing to take no for an answer.
Instead of the suit he preferred, he wore ill-fitting, hospital-issued dark blue scrubs beneath his jacket. “And since when did you give up your formal attire?”
Fay’s shriek went through the space. It had all the hair on Charleen’s body standing on end. Made her want to tear the makeshift cotton hospital curtain open and rip it from the metal rungs.
She didn’t have any rights to either of those kids. Not unless one stressful morning counted when they didn’t have anyone else.
Blake’s hand found her bicep as he glanced toward Fay’s bed. He shook his head. “We don’t have anything conclusive on the toddler yet.”
He wouldn’t tell her if he did. “They are part of an active case, Blake. Any detail you have I want.”
His lips firmed. One hand reached for the area where his tie usually resided. It fell back to his side when there was nothing in the vicinity to fiddle with. “I suspect Cystic Fibrosis. She’ll be okay with treatment and preventative measures. You guys got her here in time.”
Charleen shook her head. Blew out a breath. She hadn’t. Not really.
“And I didn’t give up my suits. We had a bad accident come through a while ago. A suicide attempt from the looks of it. A Jane Doe who’s now in ICU and lucky to be alive. I was about to contact CMPD when I saw Detective Nettles.”
Amanda was here? “She’s a homicide detective, Blake. They have a unit for that.”
“The woman upstairs is a mess of tubes and wires. She lost a lot of blood.” Blake handed his clipboard off to a nearby nurse and moved past the ER bays and into the hallway.
Charleen threw a glance toward Fay’s room before following. The girl was in capable hands. She’d repeat the phrase as needed.
“Since the first responder would be me in this case—as the woman who dropped her off disappeared in the pandemonium that ensued after she handed over the injured patient—I needed to get the details out there before the next trauma pulled me away. Plus, as soon as I described the woman who brought in Jane Doe, Detective Nettles wanted to go up to ICU. It’s the first time all day that someone has talked about something other than the stadium ceremony.” He stopped with his back to the door leading to the stairs. “I jumped at the opportunity. Sue me.”
Ask Blake about the stadium.
And then what? “Blake, about the stadium—”
The chirp of her phone had her digging it out of her pocket. Harwood’s number flashed across the screen. She ignored it.
Blake shoved the doorway open and passed through. “Don’t tell me you’re here to talk me into attending.”
“Well—” Her phone vibrated in her hand, the same number flashing across the screen.
“Because my mom thinks I should be honored. That it should be the highlight of my year. And Melissa is flabbergasted that I’d even think of working instead of standing on that stage. My boss is pissed that I won’t represent the hospital.”
Ask Blake… Ask Dexter… He had a little boy with him.
Charleen followed him through the door and up the stairs. “Have you talked to your mom? Recently?”
He paused at the top and pivoted toward her. “I’ve been here dealing with trauma all morning, so no. And you say that as if I’m the one giving her gray hair.”
Charleen would deal with Sophie’s gray hair later. “Has she said anything about anyone named Elliot or—” No. She couldn’t say his name. It would mean… “—Jo? Anyone new that she interacted with?”
Blake shook his head. “You don’t respond to calls or text messages and I’m getting the third degree?”
“I respond. Can we focus on the questions?” Charleen rubbed a hand down her face. Did they have to go into this right now?
“Really?” He swiped the phone from her fingers. Shook the device. “Whose call did you ignore?”
“I’m busy.” Too busy for anything Brent Harwood had to say.
He flipped the phone open and scrolled through the device. “Oh look. Six text messages—one of them from my mom—one voicemail, and two calls.” Then he handed it back and slipped through the doorway.
Charleen shoved the device in her pocket and rushed to catch up. “I don’t like talking on the phone. No big deal.”
“Or hanging out with people.” Amanda’s voice reached from behind Charleen. The other woman caught up to them with a few long-legged strides. There was a slight smile on her face. It should have set Charleen at ease—a little ribbing between friends. Instead, a flare of annoyance rushed through her.
What did Amanda know? “Why are you even here? Why not let missing persons handle this, Nettles?”
Blake stopped near the abandoned ICU desk, the huddle of nurses near the end of the hall escaping his notice. His eyes centered on Charleen. “Unlike you, Detective Nettles doesn’t mind getting close to someone. Getting involved. She probably understands that attachments don’t always end with someone walking away or dying.”
You’d have to feel something.
Charleen already did. She’d been feeling it since Eileen Nettles died and doing her best to forget the crushing anxiety was real. Amanda had to feel worse, so Charleen couldn’t afford to break down. Couldn’t afford the bubble at the top of her chest to burst. Potential friend or not, she didn’t get to cry, appear upset, devastated—nothing.
That wasn’t her place. Not in public. Not anywhere.
“What’s with your great aversion to the ceremony at the stadium, Blake? Why don’t we talk about why you shut down with a mere mention of it.”
His face lost expression. “Have you ever sewed up a man while he bleeds out on your table? Ever comforted a teenager you knew was going to have an amputation that would change her life forever? Told a mother you did everything you could, but her son’s heart just wasn’t strong enough? Ever been in the middle of complete catastrophe with the injuries piling up and told a mother her baby was breach, but you didn’t have a room? You didn’t have anesthesia. Ever watched fear ripple across her face, because she never prepared for that outcome? And you’re so exhausted—twenty-four hours in—you couldn’t string comforting words together if held at gunpoint.”
The image of a woman erupted in Charleen’s mind. The way her eyes closed as Blake and another woman in scrubs worked to save her child—their hands on her abdomen. The tears that rolled down the sides of her face.
Not only in agony. Something else. Something far more complicated. There was palpable fear swirling in the smoke-filled air. An urgency that made Charleen’s heart pick up speed. A view of a decorative silver band with an inscription on the inside in a foreign language. A hasty removal.
“The baby came out perfectly healthy.” Blake’s voice pulled Charleen back to the present. “A boy. I wanted to get her up to L&D. I turned my back and she was gone.” He took in a breath. “The happy endings are easy. It’s the other faces, Vi. People like our Jane Doe who will be lucky to make it through the night.”
Amanda cleared her throat. “Sounds like that woman disappeared much like the woman who dropped off Jane Doe.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “She was talking to me one minute. I looked away and she was gone.”
“Gone?” Charleen’s voice bounced around the space, a buzz settling in her ears.
Blake put his hand up. “A woman in a derby hat with matching skirt, blond hair, and red lipstick? Doesn’t even look like she could carry a ten-year-old much less a full grown woman?”
Amanda nodded. “Imagine my surprise when I get up here and the entire floor seems to be in a panic about none other than Jane Doe.”
“What?” Blake’s gaze bounced between them both before shooting toward the end of the hall. Then he turned and headed in that direction.
Charleen followed the path Blake had taken.
Amanda fell into step next to her, her hands in her pockets. “She introduced herself, Charleen.”
“Awesome.” Charleen bit back agitation. “So it shouldn’t be hard to find this phantom woman and ask her some questions. Pass the information to the right channels.”
“It’s not that simple.” Amanda stopped in front of the ICU bay. “You haven’t been cleared by Hicks, have you?”
There wasn’t any point in lying. Dodging the truth. Deploying prickliness. None of that would work here.
Maybe that era in her life was over.
Amanda shook her head, her gaze hitting the empty bed, folded back sheets, discarded tubing and monitors. The red lettering on the far wall.
Revival.
The words stuck out against pristine white, much the way the bedding did with the tubing laid in the exact position they might have been with an actual body in the bed. A nurse walked in front of the window opposite the bed. Blake stood nearby listening to whatever she said, two others murmuring near the glass doorway.
A sparkle of light caught Charleen’s attention near the foot of the bed. A silver band glinted in the light each time the nurse passed the window, its decorative metal exactly as she’d seen it in her mind.