“I’m coming with you,” I said, picking up Frank Holloway’s file.
Dash nodded. “Let’s go.”
The elevator to the third floor moved with the grinding reluctance of machinery that had seen better decades and resented being reminded of them. A small sign near the buttons announced that scheduled maintenance was planned for next month, which—based on the groaning sounds the elevator made—seemed optimistic bordering on delusional.
The pediatric ward announced itself before we’d even stepped off the elevator. Cheerful in the aggressive way that only spaces designed for sick children could be—primary colors splashed across walls, cartoon animals wearing stethoscopes and displaying improbable joy about medical procedures. A giraffe near the nurse’s station was demonstrating proper hand-washing technique with a grin that suggested it had never actually encountered germs in its life.
The corridor stretched ahead of us, lined with more murals—elephants juggling medicine bottles, lions taking temperatures, a rhinoceros that appeared to be explaining the food pyramid to a group of zebras. The absurdity of it pressed against the seriousness of why we were here, making everything feel slightly tilted, off-balance.
Office 312 sat at the end of the hallway, its door partially open. Through the gap I could see a woman at a desk—blond hair that had gone silver at the temples in that expensive way that required either excellent genes or an excellent colorist, wearing scrubs printed with teddy bears holding balloons. She was bent over paperwork, pen moving in quick, efficient strokes that suggested decades of practice at documentation.
Dash knocked—not aggressive, just firm enough to announce intent.
“Yes?” She looked up with the harried impatience of someone trying to finish paperwork before shift change, her pen still poised over whatever form she’d been completing. “Can I help you with something? I’ve only got about twenty minutes before I need to be out on the floor.”
“Stephanie Donaldson?” Dash kept his voice neutral, professional.
“That’s me.” She set down her pen with a slight edge of annoyance—not rude exactly, just the briskness of someone whose time was limited and who dealt with interruptions constantly. “Is this about one of my patients? Because if it’s a CPS issue, you’ll need to coordinate with?—”
“I’m Sheriff Dashiell Beckett from Grimm Island. This is Mabel McCoy. We’re following up on an old case, and we were hoping you might be able to answer a few questions.”
The shift was subtle but immediate. Her shoulders went from busy-nurse posture to something more guarded. “An old case.” The words came out careful, measured. “I’m not sure how I could help with anything from Grimm Island. I haven’t lived there in years.”
“But you did live there in 1985,” I said, watching her face.
Her hand, which had been resting on the desk, curled slowly into a fist. “Sure. I’d just finished nursing school and was living with my parents to save money. That was all a long time ago.”
“Tell me about Ruby Bailey,” Dash said, as if he were simply mentioning the weather. “And George Pickering.”
The pen she’d set down rolled off the desk and clattered to the floor with a sound that seemed far too loud. Neither of us moved to pick it up. Stephanie’s face had gone the color of hospital walls—that particular shade of beige that wasn’t quite white but wasn’t quite anything else, just the absence of healthy color.
“I—” She swallowed, her throat working visibly. “That was a terrible thing. Everyone on the island was shocked.”
“You knew them,” I said. Not a question.
“Everyone knew about them.” She’d found her footing slightly, though her knuckles were white where she gripped the edge of her desk. “The affair was the scandal of the year. You couldn’t go to the grocery store without hearing about it.”
“But you knew them personally,” Dash clarified. “You were a nurse at Charleston Medical in 1985. You were dating Matthias Crenshaw Jr., whose father was Elder Crenshaw—on the church board with Reverend Pickering. You got a front row seat to the scandal.”
“It’s not like they tried to hide it.” Each word was coming out more clipped now, more defensive. “Matt’s father was very involved in the church. The whole situation with Reverend Pickering was embarrassing for the family. But I didn’t know either of them on a personal level.”
“Where were you the night of September 15, 1985?” Dash asked.
“At work.” Too quick, too practiced. “I worked the evening shift at Charleston Medical. 7 to 3 a.m.”
“Can you prove that?”
Her jaw tightened. “It was forty years ago. I don’t exactly keep my timesheets from 1985. But yes, I was at work. I remember because everyone was talking the next day about what had happened.”
“A witness reported seeing a blond woman in a nurse’s uniform at Turtle Point that night,” I said, keeping my voice gentle. “Around 9 p.m. The woman was arguing with Reverend Pickering near his car.”
Stephanie’s face did something complicated—a series of micro-expressions that cycled through too quickly to identify individually but left an overall impression of panic poorly suppressed. “Then your witness is mistaken. Or saw someone else. There are lots of blond nurses.”
“In 1985, you drove a white sedan,” Dash continued. “A Honda Accord, according to DMV records.”
“So did half the nurses at the hospital. White was a popular color.” But she’d stood now, her chair rolling backward and hitting the wall with a thud. “Look, I don’t know what you think you’re investigating here, but I had nothing to do with what happened to those people. I was at work. I didn’t even find out about it until the next day when it was all over the news.”
“What do you remember about that day?” I asked. “When you found out?”
