“Someone did,” said Doc Shaffer. “We assumed it was Susan.”
“So, just one of them did this?” Peyton demanded. “One patch? What, did she forget to take it off?”
“There wasn’t one patch,” said Doc Shaffer. “There were five. Spread up and down her back.”
Peyton’s hand fluttered to her mouth as the color drained from her face. She looked like she would vomit all over the shiny ER floor.
“Hold on a minute,” she said, shaking her head as she struggled to sit up, dropping my hand. “Her medications are in a lock box. That’s what the home health nurse is there for. That’s why the doctor sent her! How—how did she manage to put five fentanyl patches on herself?”
Doc Shaffer looked between Peyton and me as pure adrenaline shot through my body like an explosion of chaos, making my limbs and muscles freeze with tension.
“The home health nurse,” I said, thoughts automatically rehashing the conversation I’d had at work only moments ago. “Amanda.”
“Yes, Amanda,” said Peyton, flustered. “Mom said she’s been great for her. So how could this happen?”
“Doc,” I said, tearing my gaze away from Peyton’s terrified face to look at him. “Do you have a hospital record of employees?”
“Of course.”
“Could you check it for us? For a name?”
“What name?”
“Amanda Briggs. I need to know if she’s employed through this hospital or not.”
* * *
Peyton sat beside Susan’s bed, holding her cold hand and watching her chest rise and fall with the air pumping through the ventilator. She looked just as bad, if not worse, than she had during her worst chemotherapy moment. It killed me to watch her go through this again, probably almost as much as it killed Peyton. Nothing was making sense; the story didn’t add up. And both Peyton and I knew there was something more sinister at play, and we could guarantee that it had something to do with Amanda Briggs.
“Honey, are you hungry?” I asked, leaning forward to rest my hand on Peyton’s shoulder. “I can get us some food.”
“I’m fine.” Exhaustion tugged at her expression, but I knew she wouldn’t let it win.
“Are you sure?” I asked softly. “I can see how tired you are.” I leaned forward and rested my lips on the side of her head, and she turned her head to kiss me, lingering in the only moment of bliss we’d felt in so long.
“I’m sure,” she promised. “I’ll eat soon.”
I nodded and sat back in the chair, eyes still on Peyton. She watched her mother, frail and pale, in the ICU bed, barely hanging between life and death.
“Amanda Briggs,” Doc Shaffer said suddenly, coming into the room with a file full of names. Both Peyton and I turned to look at him, my heart jumping in my chest at the sound of the woman’s name.
“Yes,” I said. “Is she a hospital employee?”
“No, she’s not,” said Doc Shaffer, frowning at the sheet in front of him. “There’s no record of that name.”
Peyton looked at me, the fear in her face deathly evident as we stared at each other, unsure of what to say or how to react to this. It was a ploy the entire time. We’d been played.
“Korbin,” Peyton said, looking over at me. “You were right. This was her.”
“Of course it was.”
“How do we find her?” Peyton asked, her eyes traveling between Doc Shaffer and me. “What happens now?”
“We call the police,” I said, getting up from the chair. Doc Shaffer nodded at us and turned to leave, looking shaken.
“I’m on it,” he said.
I pulled up my cell phone, grateful for the first time I had google on my phone. I had some research to do, but not on Amanda Briggs. On Amanda Goad.
