Chapter 2 - The Fourth Nurse
Three months earlier, Hannah had thought the call from the private nursing agency was a miracle.
At twenty-eight, she lived with her eight-year-old brother Ethan in a one-bedroom apartment in Berwyn. Their mother had died from cancer. Their father had died three years later on an icy highway. Hannah had become sister, guardian, bill payer, lunch maker, homework checker, and the person who lied with a smile whenever Ethan asked if his heart surgery was still going to happen.
"Of course it is," she always said.
The truth sat in the kitchen drawer beneath a stack of coupons.
Two appointment cards.
Two surgery dates.
Both crossed out.
The agency offered a live-in position, an excellent salary, and health coverage that included one dependent.
Hannah gripped the kitchen table.
"Why is the job open?"
The recruiter hesitated.
"The household has had difficulty retaining nurses."
"Why?"
"We're not authorized to discuss that."
"Who's the patient?"
Another pause.
"Nicholas Valenti."
Hannah looked at Ethan. He was sitting on the floor making a paper crane with one wing longer than the other.
"Does crooked magic still work?" she asked.
"Better," Ethan said. "Perfect magic probably gets bored."
Hannah almost laughed.
"When do I start?" she asked into the phone.
The Valenti estate sat north of the city behind stone walls, black iron gates, and enough cameras to make Hannah feel watched before she entered the house.
Walter Bell met her in the library. He was sixty-eight, broad-shouldered, silver-haired, and dressed like a retired banker.
His eyes were not retired.
"You had trouble at a hospital," he said.
Hannah stiffened.
Three years earlier she had reported a physician who documented examinations he had never performed. The investigation disappeared. Her complaint did not. Since then, administrators had described her as difficult whenever they meant unwilling to stay quiet.
"I didn't have trouble," she said. "I reported trouble."
Walter studied her.
"Good distinction."
Nicholas sat by the library windows facing Lake Michigan. He was thirty-five, dark-haired, broad through the shoulders, and thinner than the old newspaper photographs Hannah had seen. His wheelchair looked expensive enough to buy her apartment building.
"Fourth nurse since May," he said without greeting her.
"So I've heard."
"Don't try to inspire me."
"I wasn't planning to."
He finally looked at her.
"Don't tell me everything happens for a reason."
"I don't believe it does."
That earned his full attention.
"Then what do you believe?"
"That medication should match the prescription, blood pressure should be measured before somebody guesses, and patients deserve the truth even when they're difficult."
One corner of his mouth moved.
"You may last longer than the others."
For two weeks, Hannah thought his worst problem was anger.
Then, at 2:13 one morning, she found him drenched in sweat, trembling, and staring at the ceiling as though he did not recognize it.
"Nicholas?"
His eyes found her but did not settle.
"Water," he whispered.
She brought it.
His fingers shook against the glass.
Then he looked directly at her and said a name Hannah had never heard before.
"Rebecca?"
"No. It's Hannah."
Nicholas blinked.
"Rebecca," he repeated, terrified now. "Don't get in the car."
Before Hannah could ask what he meant, his eyes rolled back and the glass slipped from his hand.
As she reached for the emergency kit, something small bounced from his bedsheet onto the floor.
May you like
A white tablet.
It was not one of the pills Hannah had given him.
