Chapter Fourteen Raine
Chapter Fourteen
Raine
Hale House groaned like an old man riddled with pain. Wind rattled brittle windows, leaked through cracks, and chilled the air.
My face was cold. I burrowed deeper into my blankets. My brain wouldn’t stop buzzing. Last night’s half bottle of wine tempted me from the kitchen, but I needed a clear head today.
So I hovered in the no-man’s-land squeezed between awake and asleep. Finally, I gave up, tossed off the covers. Bare feet touched the cold wooden floor, sending a shock wave through me.
Shivering, I turned on the shower’s hottish tap. The pipes shook and finally sputtered out tepid water. I quickly washed away the hospital. When the heat waned, I shut off the water, stepped into the chill, and toweled off.
From my suitcase, I scrounged up a heavy lime sweater, jeans, and socks. Wet hair, finger combed, draped my shoulders before I twisted it into a knot. Cell in my back pocket, I hurried past sullen ancestors down the narrow back staircase to the kitchen.
Out the window, heavy mist hovered over the back lawn. Something moved in the fog—just a flicker. Seconds passed. I stared. Watched. Judson’s warning of squatters and illegal dump sites reminded me I wasn’t so alone out here.
But the haze steadied and stilled.
From the cabinet, I grabbed fresh coffee grounds, filters, and a clean coffee cup. I’d been too dazed yesterday to wonder who’d stocked the supplies. But now . . .
Edith? Maria? Gabe? No one had known I was returning to Hale House.
The old coffee maker gurgled. Sunlight warmed the kitchen. Outside, the visibility remained low. I filled a cup. Drank half. Bad coffee was a terrible way to start a day. I tossed the remains in the sink.
I slid on my down jacket with a faux-fur collar. Shouldering my purse, I hurried out the front door. I locked it. Double-checked the dead bolt.
In my car, the engine fired. The heat blasted cold air over my damp hair. A headache thudded behind my right eye. From my purse, I grabbed a bottle of aspirin and downed two. I nosed the car toward the gate. The chilled blast of air slowly warmed as I passed through the entry pillars.
The five-mile stretch of the rural two-lane road that looped around the estate was empty. I jammed the accelerator, revving the engine to seventy, barreling past ruby-red and golden trees.
When Maria and I were teenagers, this was our favorite stretch of road. Windows open, air blowing our hair, she’d crank the radio and demand I drive faster. A few times a deputy flashed his lights and pulled me over. But the Hale name was my get-out-of-jail-free card.
“I wish my last name was Hale,” Maria had said.
My father’s sister, Maria’s mother, Rene, had married a Cooper. Hale was Maria’s middle name, but as Mom said, it wasn’t the same. The Hale surname mattered. “Without Hale, Cooper is meaningless.”
I called Gabe.
“Raine.”
“I’m headed to Edith’s house. I’ll pick you up in ten minutes.”
“Raine, Molly had a rough night. She just fell asleep.”
“I’m sorry. But you should see Maria.”
He cleared his throat. “I’ll be at the hospital in an hour.”
I gripped the steering wheel. “Don’t bail on me.”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t be late.”
“I won’t.”
Last night’s time-out in jail should have shaken some sense into him. But Gabe had never connected actions and consequences.
I stopped at a gas station, filled up, and hurried inside to pay. The scent of fresh coffee drew me to a pot. A large cup filled, I turned to the register.
The old man working the counter eyed me.
I hadn’t been here in years, but he recognized me.
He’d always made it clear he didn’t like the Hales.
He’d claimed my father had stiffed him on a car repair bill.
He rang me up. I paid and crammed a twenty-dollar bill in the tip cup.
If the valley didn’t know I was back, they would soon. I thanked him and left.
This I-64 stretch remained familiar. Navigating the hospital exit, side streets through town, and the parking lot was automatic. I rode the elevator to the ICU unit.
The hospital floor smelled like it had the previous day—antiseptic and fear. An alarm buzzed somewhere on the floor. No one was at the nurses’ station.
I continued to Maria’s room. When I pushed back her curtain, I found an empty bed.
Flowers and cards from coworkers were lined up on the table by the window. The dry-erase patient chart still listed Maria Durant, and the plastic bag filled with her belongings, shredded by emergency room staff, remained bagged and in the corner.
A touch confirmed the rumpled sheets were still warm from Maria’s body. Had I rolled in seconds after she’d coded? Was that lingering alarm for her?
My stomach dropped.
From Dr. Webber’s first call, I hadn’t believed Maria could die. She’d made it to the hospital, and hospitals saved lives, right? Maria was young. Healthy. She would beat this.
This was supposed to be our wake-up call. Maria and I were blood. Thicker than water, right? We’d mend the divide and return to the friendship we’d had as kids.
And now what?
When my father died in the emergency room, devastation and confusion had rushed me. Just two hours earlier, I’d passed him in the kitchen. Newspaper, coffee, buttered toast on a rose china plate set in front of him. He’d smiled. I kissed him, remembered the scent of his aftershave.
The curtain behind me whooshed. Startled, I turned. A short man with thick hair dressed in scrubs was surprised to see me. His name tag read Dan Fitzgerald. A physician’s assistant. I didn’t recall seeing Dan yesterday.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Raine Hale.” Had he come to erase all traces of Maria? “Where’s Maria Durant?” I demanded.
Dan held up a hand as if calming a wild animal. “She’s been moved to another floor.”
“Why?”
“She doesn’t need to be in ICU. Her vitals are improving.”
Relief arrowed through the numbness. “When did this happen?”
“We just moved her.”
His dispassion checked my fears. “Does anyone know what caused the heart attack?”
“That’s a conversation for Dr. Webber.”
“Right. Okay.” He reached for the bag of Maria’s clothes. I grabbed the cards and flowers. “Can I see Maria?”
“Sure. She should be settled now.”
“Has she woken up?” Facts, even unwelcome ones, were always better than the unknown.
“She’s more responsive. But not fully awake.” His smile waned, faltering. “She’s heading in the right direction.”
“But waking up doesn’t mean recovered.”
He shrugged. “It’s the first step.”
“Mrs. Durant’s husband will be here this morning.” I spoke as if it were certain, but Gabe was hard to gauge. “Will they direct him to her new room?”
“Yes.”
“And the doctor?”
“She’ll be making rounds soon.”
“As in how soon?”
“A half hour if all goes to plan.”
“Thanks.”
I took the bag of clothes from Dan. We rode the elevator down two floors and stepped into a louder, bustling hallway filled with nurses, more family members, and random doctors. This floor wasn’t a tomb. A good thing, right?
I entered her room and carefully set the flowers and cards on the counter by a small sink and lowered the clothes bag to the floor.
Slowly I turned to Maria.
She lay motionless in her bed, no ventilator. A little less pale, I thought. So still. Several seconds passed before I noticed the rise and fall of her chest. When I counted three breaths, I moved closer.
A new dry-erase chart displayed her name: Maria Durant. Hale should have been sandwiched between the two names. She hated it when anyone left it out.
“Looks like you’re improving,” I said to her. Small lies didn’t matter in the greater good.
I shrugged off my jacket and draped it and my purse over a chair. “No more ICU.” And repeating Dan’s words: “Heading in the right direction.”
Her face remained still, her jaw slackened and her skin pale. The faint ring around her mouth left by the ventilator. Honestly, I saw few real signs of improvement. She remained a shadow of who she’d been. No telling if she’d ever fully recover.
A sharp intake of breath behind me. I found Gabe standing at the threshold. His wet hair was slicked back, his cheekbones hollow.
My body blocked his view of Maria, so I moved aside to give him an unfettered look at what he’d been avoiding. He stood still, his eyes unblinking for a few seconds before he approached the bed. A cautious hand reached out. Skin-to-skin contact, warm to cold. His fingers recoiled.
“How is she?” He swallowed, stepped back.
“The PA said better. Doctor should be making rounds soon. Then we can find out more.”
“She doesn’t look anything like herself,” he said.
“When she opens her eyes, she’ll look better.” Another small lie. “How’s Molly this morning?”
“Mom is taking her to the park around lunchtime. We still haven’t told her. But she senses a problem.”
“You’ll have to tell her soon.”
“I know. I will.”
I heard footsteps and hushed voices in the hallway, before I saw Judson and Dr. Webber enter the room. Dark circles smudged under her blue eyes.
Dr. Webber pressed the sanitizer dispenser, worked the gel over her hands.
“Dr. Webber, you remember Maria’s husband, Gabe,” I said.
“Yes, I do.” At a computer station, Dr. Webber pulled up Maria’s record. She studied the screen, trailing her finger down a line of numbers. “Mrs. Durant’s vitals are improving. She was in excellent shape, which is why she’s still alive.”
“Do you know what caused the heart attack?” Judson’s masked expression gave no hint of his thoughts.
“Still waiting on the test results,” Dr. Webber said. “In some cases, we never discover the root cause.”
My five-alarm-fire life had frayed my nerves. Left me short tempered. “What about permanent damage?”
“A scan of her heart shows muscle damage on the left side. But if the rest of her systems come online, she should be able to work around it with modifications.”
“She’s a distance runner,” Gabe said.
“That hobby might have to change,” Dr. Webber said.
“What about brain damage?” I asked. “The lack of oxygen could have caused issues.”
“MRI shows no visible damage. But when she wakes, we’ll know more.”
“You’ve changed her rooms, declared her a little better, but it’s still anyone’s guess,” Gabe said.
At the bedside, Dr. Webber lifted Maria’s eyelids, flashing a penlight over the pupils. Did they react or not? She checked the pulse in her wrist and ankles. Listened with a stethoscope to her chest. “Her heart rate is weak but steady. She’s stable. That’s good.”
Gabe took Maria’s hand. He traced his thumb over her ring finger where her wedding band had been. “Where’s her ring?”
“With her possessions in the bag,” Dr. Webber said.
I reached in the bag, skimmed the slim silver rings in a side pocket, and handed them to him. “It’s here,” I said.
He slipped the small solitaire diamond and slender silver band on his pinkie finger. Absently he touched the diamond.
“Folks,” Dr. Webber said, “too many of you in the room.”
“I’ll leave,” I said before Gabe could speak. “I’ll be outside.”
In the hallway, I inhaled and shoved my hands in my pockets. My phone dinged with a text.
Ken: My people tell me Maria’s heart attack definitely wasn’t natural.
My vision narrowed to the line of text.
Me: How do you know?
Ken: Dr. Webber suspects cyanide poisoning.
Me: Cyanide?
Ken: Small doses can kill over time. But give it to someone with an underlying heart problem—heart attack.
Me: How do you know this?
Ken: I’m that good.
Me: Stay out of it, okay?
Ken: I’m always here for you.