Chapter 3 - The Dead Nurse
The nurse’s name was Helen Brooks.
She had worked at St. Matthew’s for twenty-seven years.
When Officer Torres showed her the expired badge more closely, Helen asked to sit down.
Rachel watched from the bed.
She did not understand why strangers were discussing a dead hospital employee in her room.
Ethan barely understood it himself.
“Claire worked nights,” Helen said. “Neurology research wing.”
“What kind of research?” Torres asked.
Helen glanced toward Rachel.
“Memory.”
Ethan felt his skin tighten.
“What do you mean memory?”
“Traumatic memory. Dissociation. Drug-assisted recall. That kind of work.”
“Nineteen years ago?” Torres asked.
“Yes.”
“What happened to Claire?”
“Car accident.”
“Was it suspicious?”
“Not that I knew.”
Helen looked again at the badge.
“But there was a scandal around the department shortly afterward.”
“What scandal?”
“Records disappeared.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
“Patients?”
“And research files.”
Rachel spoke from the bed.
“Claire.”
Everyone turned.
Rachel had gone pale.
“What?” Ethan asked.
She pressed her fingertips against her temple.
“That name.”
“Do you remember her?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Rachel squeezed her eyes shut.
“I don’t know.”
The heart monitor accelerated.
Dr. Nolan stepped forward.
“That’s enough for now.”
But Rachel grabbed Ethan’s wrist.
Her touch shocked him.
She did not remember him, but instinctively she had reached for him.
“Don’t let her leave.”
Helen stopped.
Rachel opened her eyes.
“Claire had red shoes.”
Helen’s mouth fell open.
Ethan stared.
“How do you know that?”
Rachel shook her head violently.
“I don’t know.”
Helen backed toward the wall.
“She did.”
Torres looked at her.
“What?”
“Claire wore red sneakers during night shifts. It was against dress code, but she said patients needed something bright to look at.”
Rachel suddenly gasped.
A memory seemed to hit her with physical force.
A corridor.
Red shoes.
A woman kneeling.
A child crying.
Rachel screamed.
Her hands flew to her head.
Dr. Nolan ordered everyone out.
Ethan was pushed into the hallway.
Through the glass, he watched nurses surround his wife.
Lily held his hand.
“Dad?”
He looked down.
“Yeah?”
“Grandma knew that lady.”
His pulse jumped.
“How do you know?”
“I saw a picture.”
“Where?”
“Grandma’s house.”
“What picture?”
“Mom was in it.”
Ethan knelt.
“What did Mom look like?”
“Little.”
“How little?”
“Like me.”
Ethan stared at her.
Rachel was thirty-six.
Nineteen years ago, she would have been seventeen.
Claire died nineteen years ago.
Yet Lily was claiming she had seen a photograph of Rachel as a child with Claire.
Something did not fit.
“Where was the picture?”
“In Grandma’s closet.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Looking for Christmas presents.”
Despite everything, Ethan nearly smiled.
“Okay. What else was in the picture?”
“Grandma. Mom. The nurse lady.”
“You’re sure it was Mom?”
“Yes.”
“How old?”
Lily thought.
“Maybe seven?”
Ethan’s mind began moving.
If the photograph was real, Claire knew Rachel long before working at St. Matthew’s.
Unless the picture had been taken somewhere else.
Or unless the date of Claire’s employment record was incomplete.
Officer Torres stepped from the room.
“Mr. Carter, Detective Alvarez is coming.”
“A detective?”
“This is no longer being treated as a simple assault.”
Ethan looked at the hospital badge.
“Because of Claire?”
“Because the pharmacy confirmed that bottle was dispensed through a restricted unit.”
“To who?”
Torres hesitated.
“To a clinical researcher named Dr. Samuel Vale.”
“Who is he?”
“We’re checking.”
“What’s the medication?”
“We’re checking that too.”
“That’s all anyone keeps saying.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
Ethan pointed through the window.
“My wife doesn’t know who I am. My daughter says her grandmother put something in Rachel’s drink. There’s a dead nurse’s badge in Marlene’s purse, and somehow my nine-year-old has seen a photograph that shouldn’t exist.”
Torres stayed calm.
“I understand why you want answers.”
“Then give me one.”
She looked at him for several seconds.
“All right.”
Ethan waited.
“The hospital paperwork from Marlene’s purse wasn’t printed this week.”
“What?”
“It’s twelve years old.”
Ethan frowned.
“What does it say?”
“It’s an admission form.”
“For Rachel?”
“Yes.”
“Rachel has never been hospitalized here before.”
Torres’s expression changed.
“According to that document, she was.”
“When?”
“Twelve years ago.”
Ethan did the calculation instantly.
Rachel had been twenty-four.
They were already dating.
“I would know.”
“Maybe.”
“No. I would know.”
“The document lists another emergency contact.”
Ethan’s stomach tightened.
“Who?”
“Marlene Whitaker.”
“What was Rachel admitted for?”
May you like
Torres looked toward Room 417.
“Memory loss.”
