“Yeah?”
“Jami? It’s Trent. We’ve got a patient we’d like you to see before she’s discharged. Can you head this way?”
I sit up in bed and reach over to switch my bedside lamp on, forcing my eyes open. A dim glow fills the room, making me wince, and I close them again.
“Yeah, of course. Let me get dressed, and I’ll be right over.”
“Thanks, kiddo.”
“Sure thing.”
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I force myself out of bed and stumble to the closet to find some clothes. I pull on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, forgoing the bra, and stifle a yawn, then head downstairs for my jacket and keys. I slip my cell phone into the back pocket of my pants and pour a cold cup of weak coffee into a travel mug before heading out the door.
I don’t live far from the hospital, five minutes or so, I’m still bleary-eyed when I park and head through the corridor of the ER.
“Hi, Jami!” says Margaret, the ER receptionist. She’s a middle-aged woman with a kind, homely face and energy for days. I’m about to say ‘good morning’ before I realize that it’s still the middle of the night, not even four a.m.
“Hi, Maggie.” I lean over the desk and smile at my friend. “Busy night?”
“Not particularly,” says Margaret. “Until a few hours ago, that is. Did Doc Shaffer call you in?”
“Yeah, he said he had a patient he wanted me to see before discharge.” Before Margaret could say anything to this, ER Doctor Trent Shaffer comes around the corner, a tablet in his hand and a tired smile on his face.
“Hey, you,” he says, nodding in my direction. “Sorry to pull you out of bed at this time of night, but we needed a social worker here to talk to a patient before she’s discharged.”
“Did they ask for one?”
“Nope.”
“Wonderful,” I roll my eyes playfully and flash him a smile, but it isn’t returned, and an uneasy feeling forms in my gut. “Is it bad?”
“It’s not good,” Doc Shaffer says with a sigh, and I follow him through the ER doors and towards a patient room, side-stepping the night shift medical staff as they run around the floor like chickens with their heads cut off. I’ve seen worse nights, but Denver Med is one of the busiest hospitals in the city, and that rings true even now, at four in the morning.
“Tell me what I’m walking into,” I say, trailing behind Trent and wishing I had a hot latte instead of a freezing cold cup of black coffee.
“A thirty-three-year-old patient was admitted by ambulance about an hour ago. She says she fell down the stairs. Her six-year-old daughter called 911.”
I don’t have to say anything to this because we know the same thing. If I’m being called in, it’s only because the stair story isn’t an accurate one. They seldom are.
“Is she married?”
“Yeah, she’s married,” says Doc Shaffer. “To Kasper Hill.”
“You mean Detective Hill?” The uneasy ball in the pit of my stomach plummets, and a shiver crawls up my spine.
“Yeah,” Trent says. “That one.”
I don’t say anything to this. I don’t have to. This isn’t the first time Kasper Hill’s wife has ended up in the ER after supposedly falling down the stairs or running into sharp objects. And if I know anything about the situation now, it won’t be the last time it happens, either.
“Hi, Tara,” I say softly, stepping into the patient room. I nod at Trent, who steps back and closes the door behind him on the way out, leaving Tara and me alone. Detective Hill’s wife is sitting on the edge of the hospital cot. Her purse is in her lap, and she’s twisting her fingers around and around as though waiting for something – or someone – to jump her from behind and beat on her.
“Hello,” she says politely, and the shiner around her eye is still puffy and swollen. It’s clear she’s been crying at some point anyway, but now she just looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here. I can’t blame her. I wish that, too.
I sit in an empty chair near the bed, across from Tara. At one time or another, I imagine Tara Hill was a stunning woman, a really beautiful girl, but years of marriage and close calls have worn her down, and the wrinkles on her face make that pretty clear. Her blond hair is dull and limp, and despite the layer of makeup on her face to hide whatever marks are there, she looks much older than her thirty-three years.
“I don’t know if you remember me, but I’ve seen you once or twice before. My name is Jami, and I’m a social worker. Can you tell me what happened?”
“I already told the doctor,” Tara says. “I fell down the stairs. I’m not sure why they didn’t let me go.”
