And I did. Anybody else, I might have my doubts. But I never doubted Maddie Petrosian.
This called for something absorbing, but not demanding. In Farleigh Field by Rhys Bowen went into my tote. A World War II mystery, though not bloody or violent. For the lighter touch, I added the latest Dandy Gilver by Catriona McPherson. I might not know how to pronounce the woman’s name, but I sure liked the books.
The elevator door opened and I took a deep breath, then headed for the ominous double doors of the ICU. The same burly guard sat at the desk—Ramon, if I remembered right. And beside him stood Officer Kimberly Clark.
Don’t call her Lovely Rita, I told myself. Don’t whistle the tune. Remember you’re on a mission.
Another round of calming breaths. “I’m here to see Madeleine Petrosian,” I said, ignoring the uniformed officer and her gun.
“Name?”
One of the doors opened just as I opened my mouth, and Tim Peterson stepped halfway out.
“Pepper, you’re here,” he said. “Friend of the family,” he told Ramon.
I couldn’t help glancing at Officer Clark. Pepper is an unusual name, though not as unusual as my legal name. I felt her eyes following me until the door closed.
“How is she?” The hospital smells hit me.
“She’s back,” he said, relief mingled with exhaustion. “Groggy. Not completely with it. Long road ahead, but for the first time since it happened, I finally feel like I can breathe again.”
I’d always found Tim to be one of those innately calm people, much like my Nate. A good counterpoint to Maddie’s intensity.
Maybe she and I were more alike than I realized.
“The kids got to see her yesterday. Her mom’s home now and she brought them in after school. Such a relief.” He led the way past several rooms, each with a plate glass window and an open door, so staff could keep an eye on their charges. “But this morning when the police came, she wasn’t very communicative. They kept asking who shot her. I don’t know whether she can’t identify the person, or just can’t get the words out.”
“I won’t stay long, I promise. I brought her a couple of books— something to look forward to. The police told you, didn’t they, that Maddie was shot with the same gun that killed Pat Halloran? You met Laurel, his wife—widow—Sunday. I promised her an update.”
Tim stopped outside Maddie’s door. “Pepper, I know you’ve helped the police in the past. I’ll call Maddie’s office manager and tell her she can talk freely with you, show you any records you want to see, same as the police. I want the guy caught, but what I want most is for my wife to make a full recovery.”
“It’s what we all want, Tim.”
If I’d ever seen more flowers and cards in a hospital room, I couldn’t remember. One of the two chairs was occupied by a stuffed animal version of Sammy the Sounder, the soccer team’s mascot. Rumor said he was an orca, but it was hard to tell.
“That’s going to the pediatric floor,” Tim said, nodding at Sammy. “And Maddie’s already told us to give most of the flowers to patients in need.”
Maddie’s olive skin was pale, streaks of gray visible in the dark hair that had been shaved around a thick white bandage. I hadn’t seen her without lipstick since the eighth grade. Tubes ran out of one arm and a machine hummed beside the bed. She looked so small.
“Maddie, it’s Pepper.” I leaned in to kiss her cheek and she raised her hand to my face.
“You came.” The voice was soft, a little shaky, but undeniably Maddie.
“I came.” I sat on the edge of the empty chair. “Of course I came.”
“Maddie, honey.” Tim stood at the foot of the bed. “I’m going down to the cafeteria to grab some lunch and let you two visit. Thanks for coming in,” he said to me. He gave my shoulder a squeeze and left.
“Laurel Halloran sends you her best wishes.” Would she remember who Laurel was?
Maddie wriggled back and forth until she was sitting up a little straighter. I raised my hands, not sure how to help. She leaned toward me. “Tell her—not Pat’s fault.”
Now why would she say that? Had she forgotten that Patrick Halloran had been dead three years this week? “Of course not.”
“I went there—I only went there because . . .” Her eyelids drifted shut and her breath changed. Had she fallen asleep? Then she opened her eyes and directed her gaze at me.
“Seventh grade? Sister made us—memorize poems.”
“The three of us chose Robert Frost,” I said, remembering. “Yours was ‘Mending Wall’ and Kristen chose ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.’ Me, I had to go all obscure. ‘I have been acquainted with the night. I have walked out in rain,’” I recited in a fake-dramatic voice. “You know, you’re lucky you’ve been in here the last few days—the weather’s been terrible.”
Her hand scrabbled in the air, grabbing for mine. “You—you always—the other road.” She stopped, her voice raspy, and with my free hand, I reached for the plastic water container on the rolling tray. She took a long sip through the flexible straw and set
