The tension in Dottie’s shoulders released fractionally. “Can I see him?”
“Briefly. He’s not conscious, but you can sit with him.” Dr. Chen’s expression softened. “Head wounds bleed extensively. The paramedics cleaned him up, but he looks worse than he is.”
“I’ve seen worse,” Dottie said, but her hand found mine and squeezed hard before she disappeared into the bay.
I watched through the small window as she approached the bed where Hank lay surrounded by monitors and IV lines. She stood there for a long moment just looking at him, then bent and pressed her lips to his forehead with such tenderness it made my throat tight.
“There’s a waiting area on the second floor,” Dr. Chen said. “Quieter. Dr. Simmons has your number—she’ll call if there’s any change.”
Frank found me in the waiting area ten minutes later, still carrying the manila envelope. He looked uncomfortable in the way people did when they ventured into hospitals for reasons other than their own medical care.
“Any news?” he asked.
“Stable. Small brain bleed but not expanding.” I gestured to the chair across from me. “They’re keeping him sedated.”
Frank settled into the chair, the envelope balanced on his lap. He held it carefully, like it might catch fire if he wasn’t vigilant. “I should probably leave this with you and go. Let you handle things.”
“Thank you,” I said. “For everything. For driving me here, for trusting us with Tommy’s evidence.”
“Thank Tommy.” He set the envelope on the table between us. “He’s the one who documented the truth when everyone else was looking away.” He stood, hesitated. “Be careful. People who’ve kept secrets this long won’t give them up easily.”
After he left, I sat alone in the waiting area with the envelope on the table. I didn’t open it. Somehow spreading crime-scene photographs across a hospital coffee table felt wrong—disrespectful to Ruby Bailey and George Pickering, disrespectful to Hank lying sedated in a trauma bay because someone wanted these secrets to stay buried.
My phone buzzed. Walt.
Bea and I are en route. Deidre is closing the library early. ETA 40 minutes.
I sent back: Hank is stable. Dottie is with him.
Good. We’re bringing food. Hospital cafeteria is inedible.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway—rapid, purposeful. Dash appeared in the doorway, and his eyes found mine immediately, catalogued that I was whole and unharmed, and some of the tension in his shoulders released.
He crossed the room and pulled me into his arms—brief, fierce, more telling than words. “You’re okay.”
“I’m fine. Hank’s stable.” I pulled back enough to gesture at the envelope. “And Frank brought Tommy Wheeler’s evidence. Everything Milton buried.”
Dash settled into the chair beside me, his hand finding mine. “We’ll go through it. But not here.”
“Agreed.”
We sat in silence for a moment, his thumb tracing circles on my palm—a gesture that had become familiar over the past weeks, grounding.
The door opened and Dottie appeared, looking steadier now that she’d seen Hank breathing. “He looks terrible. Like someone tried to cave in his skull, which I suppose someone did. But his vitals are stable and Dr. Chen seems competent.”
She settled into a chair, finally noticing the envelope on the table. “Is that?—”
“Tommy Wheeler’s files,” Dash confirmed.
“We should—” Dottie started, then stopped. “No. Not here. This deserves better than a hospital waiting room.”
“After we talk to Stephanie Donaldson,” Dash said.
He pulled out his phone, made a call. We could hear his half of the conversation—Sheriff Beckett, badge number, requesting staff information for an active investigation. Professional, clipped, the voice of someone who expected cooperation and usually got it.
He hung up a minute later. “Stephanie Donaldson works in the pediatric ward here. Three days a week including Tuesdays. She’s scheduled until 7 tonight—still has another hour on her shift.” He looked at his watch. “If we’re going to talk to her, we do it now before she leaves for the day.”
The revelation settled over us. We were in the same building as the woman who might have killed Ruby Bailey and George Pickering.
