sedatives here for emergencies, but Harry settled down after Caro and I got him away from the garden shed and convinced him to put down those gigantic shears.” She winced. “He could have just as easily wandered into traffic, Nick. Or set the house on fire. It could have been a horrible tragedy for both of them. I know how much Antoinette wants him here, but . . .” Her words faded at sounds in the distance. Caro and Antoinette, rattling teacups. Followed by a familiar whistle and Cha Cha’s throaty call. “Forever and ever. Forever and ever.”
“He’s mimicking Harry,” Nick said, glancing at the dresser beside the bed—dark mahogany topped with a tatted lace runner, a vintage silver hairbrush set, and at least a dozen framed photos of the couple. Including one of them dancing at their wedding. “It’s what he’s told Antoinette every day they’ve been married: ‘I’ll love you forever and ever.’” His eyes met Leigh’s.
“Still,” she said, glancing away. “These wandering episodes—nighttime agitation, ‘sundowning’—tend to escalate with dementia patients. It’s worsened by his emphysema; his oxygenation isn’t what it should be. I should talk with Antoinette about finding a care home.”
“Don’t. Not yet.” Nick scraped his fingers across his mouth. “Antoinette told me that their wedding anniversary is coming up. Sixty years.” He met Leigh’s gaze again. “They should have that. It’s only a few days.”
A few days. Leigh nodded, her heart hitching. “I won’t say anything.”
“And I’ll check on them,” Nick assured her. “I’ll trim that hedge, too. When you’re not home. I won’t bother you; don’t worry.”
“I won’t,” she said, knowing it wasn’t true. She would worry. About Harry and Antoinette. And she was bothered . . . about the irrational way she’d been acting lately. She’d hoped that with the divorce in its final countdown and her sister getting back on her feet after treatment, things would finally feel better. And life would move steadily toward normal. Or at least toward merciful numbness. Numb was so much better than what she’d had. But if yesterday—a miserable day that left her racing from the physicians’ library to clutch a toilet bowl—was any indication, this final week was going to seem like—
“Forever,” Cha Cha crooned in the distance. “Forever and ever.”
+++
Kurt told himself to get out of there. He shouldn’t have come back to Golden Gate Mercy so soon. There were fewer staff on evening shift, and though people had assumed he was new or that he was passing through on his way somewhere else, eventually someone might get suspicious and question him. He hunkered against the wall near the pediatrics utility room and laughed out loud. But this was so easy; some housekeeper had even offered him a piece of banana nut bread. Good thing, since he couldn’t remember the last time he ate. Yesterday maybe. But then he never felt hungry or sleepy or bugged by anything when he’d scored some great crystal meth. He had done that and now he was energized. No—he was energy. He was pure, powerful electric current. Like one of those stinkin’ heart defibrillators you saw on TV medical shows. Yeah. Zap, zap—whoa! Look out!
He laughed again, then clamped his hand over his mouth, fingers trembling against his dry lips like a high-tension wire. It was funny, though. To be able to jam right in here in Kristi’s scrubs and keep a watch over his kids. Keep that investigator away, and dodge the old crippled security guard. Kurt laughed again, clutched at his stomach, and felt his jacket pocket sag with the cold weight of what he’d stuffed into it when he got out of the car. He shook his head, a new jolt of energy making him shiver, making him taller and smarter and completely invincible.
A heart defibrillator was nothing compared to the blast of a gun.
Chapter Eight
“I’m not sure you’re being honest with me, sir.
“He’s mimicking Harry,” Nick said, glancing at the dresser beside the bed—dark mahogany topped with a tatted lace runner, a vintage silver hairbrush set, and at least a dozen framed photos of the couple. Including one of them dancing at their wedding. “It’s what he’s told Antoinette every day they’ve been married: ‘I’ll love you forever and ever.’” His eyes met Leigh’s.
“Still,” she said, glancing away. “These wandering episodes—nighttime agitation, ‘sundowning’—tend to escalate with dementia patients. It’s worsened by his emphysema; his oxygenation isn’t what it should be. I should talk with Antoinette about finding a care home.”
“Don’t. Not yet.” Nick scraped his fingers across his mouth. “Antoinette told me that their wedding anniversary is coming up. Sixty years.” He met Leigh’s gaze again. “They should have that. It’s only a few days.”
A few days. Leigh nodded, her heart hitching. “I won’t say anything.”
“And I’ll check on them,” Nick assured her. “I’ll trim that hedge, too. When you’re not home. I won’t bother you; don’t worry.”
“I won’t,” she said, knowing it wasn’t true. She would worry. About Harry and Antoinette. And she was bothered . . . about the irrational way she’d been acting lately. She’d hoped that with the divorce in its final countdown and her sister getting back on her feet after treatment, things would finally feel better. And life would move steadily toward normal. Or at least toward merciful numbness. Numb was so much better than what she’d had. But if yesterday—a miserable day that left her racing from the physicians’ library to clutch a toilet bowl—was any indication, this final week was going to seem like—
“Forever,” Cha Cha crooned in the distance. “Forever and ever.”
+++
Kurt told himself to get out of there. He shouldn’t have come back to Golden Gate Mercy so soon. There were fewer staff on evening shift, and though people had assumed he was new or that he was passing through on his way somewhere else, eventually someone might get suspicious and question him. He hunkered against the wall near the pediatrics utility room and laughed out loud. But this was so easy; some housekeeper had even offered him a piece of banana nut bread. Good thing, since he couldn’t remember the last time he ate. Yesterday maybe. But then he never felt hungry or sleepy or bugged by anything when he’d scored some great crystal meth. He had done that and now he was energized. No—he was energy. He was pure, powerful electric current. Like one of those stinkin’ heart defibrillators you saw on TV medical shows. Yeah. Zap, zap—whoa! Look out!
He laughed again, then clamped his hand over his mouth, fingers trembling against his dry lips like a high-tension wire. It was funny, though. To be able to jam right in here in Kristi’s scrubs and keep a watch over his kids. Keep that investigator away, and dodge the old crippled security guard. Kurt laughed again, clutched at his stomach, and felt his jacket pocket sag with the cold weight of what he’d stuffed into it when he got out of the car. He shook his head, a new jolt of energy making him shiver, making him taller and smarter and completely invincible.
A heart defibrillator was nothing compared to the blast of a gun.
Chapter Eight
“I’m not sure you’re being honest with me, sir.
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