Matt Zersky. She remembered he’d been twenty-four, a MBA student at Pitt. A friend of a friend had introduced them at a party. He rented a house in Squirrel Hill with several other students, but she’d never been there or met them—in fact, she hadn’t even really
liked
-liked Matt.
But he was fun and it was the holidays and he said he’d love to take her to the nursing school’s annual alumni New Year’s ball. She’d thought at the time that he might be more interested in the chance to meet her fellow nurses than being with her, but she’d been dreading going without a date, so it seemed like a win-win.
At the time.
She couldn’t for the life of her remember his face, his voice, his smell, the way his hands had felt helping her into and out of their cab. . . . She strained to reclaim him as a person, struggled for the most minute details.
His ringtone had been the Steelers’ fight song. He drove a black Miata. She remembered thinking what an impractical car for western Pennsylvania and what a waste that it was automatic instead of manual. . . . That was it.
Her foot twisted on something soft and slimy. She careened to the left, hugging the wall and not looking down. Panic closed in around her and suddenly she was certain that her attacker was up there in the darkness, waiting for her. It had to be hovering around freezing inside the house, but sweat coated Nora’s flesh.
Lydia’s hand pressed against the small of her back, supporting her. “Here,” she said, “take the light. I can see fine without it.”
Nora didn’t argue. She fastened her fingers on the light and aimed it in front of her. She stumbled to the top of the steps, where Jerry waited, still talking on his cell phone.
“Did they find Matt?” she asked as if a miracle of modern police investigation could have taken place in the last three minutes.
Jerry merely shook his head. Nora’s heart sank. Lydia moved past her, glancing into the two rooms that opened off the top of the landing. Nora followed her with the light, illuminating more graffiti and debris, trying to still her shaking hand. Her teeth were clenched as she fought against their chattering.
Lydia disappeared into a room, Jerry a few steps behind her. Nora was tempted to turn the light off and follow her memory, but settled for half-closing her eyes, simulating blindness. Yes, they had moved to the right, down the hall, to the room at the far end, in the rear of the building.
She held one hand out in front of her as if she were blind, her fingers trailing along the fraying wallpaper. She stopped short in front of a wood-paneled door that perched halfway open, inviting her into the blackness beyond. Her mouth was dry, but when she tried to swallow, to find some moisture, all she tasted was the acid bite of the bleach
he
had made her swallow.
Her hand brushed against the door. It opened the rest of the way. She didn’t step inside, but instead swung the flashlight around, searching for the danger every nerve in her body alerted her to.
The neon glow of graffiti greeted her, reflected eerily in the small, intense beam of light. Her chest was tight and she realized she was holding her breath. She released it as the light hit the far wall.
Caught in the light, the colors faded but still vivid in her mind’s eye, was her own bloody handprint.
Nora didn’t hear the thud as the flashlight fell from her hand. She sank to the ground, the room swimming in darkness, unable to stop the sensations bombarding her as her mind raced back two years.
His hands tightening around her throat, the pressure building in her chest, her head pounding as she lay crushed beneath his weight. The giddy euphoria, the last defense of an oxygen-starved brain when he didn’t let go. Her prayers echoing through her mind as she begged for release. His breath against her cheek as he prolonged his deadly embrace.
Her final gasp as she slipped away, thanking God that it was finally over . . .
EIGHTEEN
Friday, 9:42 A.M.
GINA AND KEN LEFT THE STOREROOM ONLY TO find Gina’s mother pacing the hallway in front of the nurses’ station.
LaRose rushed toward them, actual worry lines marring her creaseless skin. “Regina, are you okay?”
“What are you doing here?” Gina asked. “Thought you went to find Tank.”
LaRose didn’t answer her. Instead she was staring at Ken. More specifically at Ken’s name tag. Ken silently accepted the scrutiny, his face as indecipherable as a Rosetta stone.
“Ken, this is my mother, LaRose Freeman,” Gina said, even though it was clear both of them had already figured that out.
“Dr. Rosen,” LaRose said, her voice strong and loud—a little too loud. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Gina noticed that LaRose didn’t extend her hand. Neither did Ken. Instead Ken squared his shoulders, bracing for a blow.
“Your daughter is an excellent doctor,” he said. “You should be very proud of her.”
Then he left—turned and strode down the hall, shoulders hunched as if waiting to get shot in the back.
Gina stared after him. Even when they were both under fire in the drive-by last summer, she’d never seen Ken so rattled.
“I didn’t know he was so young,” LaRose murmured, clutching her handbag to her chest.
“Ken? He’s thirty-six. That’s not so young,” Gina protested. “Jerry’s thirty-seven and you keep telling me he’s too old.”
LaRose shook her head as if only half-hearing her. “So he would have been only thirty-two when it happened—barely older than you are now.”
“When what happened? Is that when Moses took Ken to court?”
LaRose nodded. “It’s so rare for your father to admit a mistake. And you know how passionate he is about exploring the gray areas of the law.”
“Ken is practicing, getting grants, on the tenure track—so even if he lost a malpractice suit, it obviously didn’t hurt him. Not like that doctor who killed himself after Moses shredded him to pieces in court.”
“That was a car accident. A very unfortunate accident. Had nothing to do with your father.”
Yeah, right. “So what did Moses do to Ken?”
LaRose looked at Gina, then back at the empty hallway where Ken had last been seen. “I’ll tell you if you help me find Harold.”
Gina hated the way every conversation with her parents became a negotiation. Nothing was ever free, Moses would say. Not even a parent’s love.
She was ready to walk away, let LaRose waste her time running all over the hospital searching for Tank. Would serve her right, seeing how people with
real
problems lived. But Gina wanted to know what had happened between Ken and Moses. Then she spied a familiar figure in the exam room down the hall.
“Come with me,” she told LaRose, leading her to the dictation room behind the nurses’ station. LaRose followed, holding her purse against her chest, elbows into her sides as if fearful of contamination. “So, what happened?”
“Dr. Rosen didn’t lose his case. But sometimes there are unintended consequences.”
Gina faced her mother across the tiny space. “What did Moses do?”
“His job.” LaRose bristled with defensiveness. “It was really bad timing, that’s all. No one could blame your father.”
“What happened?”
LaRose sighed, actually pursing her lips enough to allow wrinkles to appear at the corners of her mouth. It was the most upset Gina had ever seen her. “You understand enough about your father’s work to know that he often must list several defendants before he can get to the truth of who is responsible. Well, he made a mistake accusing Dr. Rosen—a mistake compounded by tactics the hospital took in defense of the other doctors, trying to shield them.”
“You mean he dragged Ken through a trial, knowing he was innocent? Do you have any idea what that can do to a doctor, facing those kind of accusations?”
LaRose looked away as she continued. “During the trial, there was an—accident. Dr. Rosen’s family was killed.”
“His family?” Gina slumped against the wall, remembering the anguish in Jeremiah Boyle’s ex-wife’s face. She knuckled her fists into her thighs, trying to grind out any feeling.
“His wife and daughter. They were on vacation, but because the trial went longer than expected, Dr. Rosen had had to stay in Pittsburgh.”
Jesus. A wife and a kid. Gina dug her knuckles in deeper, the pain keeping her anger at bay. “For the trial.”
LaRose only nodded.
“A trial that Moses had no right involving Ken in in the first place.”
LaRose was silent.
“Did Moses ever apologize? Say anything to Ken?”
“To my knowledge, they’ve never spoken or met outside the courtroom.”
“How could he? He destroyed a man’s life.”
“Your father did no such thing. He did what he thought was right—for the law.”
“For himself.”
“Regina Freeman, show some respect.”
“What about respect for Ken? For the hell Moses put him through?”
“You can’t understand. There are some things you cannot apologize for. And your father was never one for apologies—especially not when he was doing the right thing.” She smoothed invisible wrinkles from her Donna Karan. “Now, let’s find Harold.”
“Wait here. I’ll go get him.”
“You know where he is? Let me call Catherine.”
“No. We do this my way or not at all.”
LaRose frowned, eyes narrowing as if suspecting her daughter of something criminal. “Very well, if you insist.”
A SOUND PRIMAL AND RAW SCREECHED ITS WAY up Lydia’s nerve endings. It wasn’t loud, but still it made every hair on her arms stand up.
Before she could do more than pinpoint where it came from, she was running in that direction. Despite every instinct telling her to stop, turn around, go the other way. That sound meant pain, anguish . . . death.
She slammed into the room, her hand gripping her gun, her pulse thudding in her fingertips. Boyle ran in right behind her—a good thing, because he had a light.
Nora was balled up on the floor, one hand splayed against a red mark darker than the rest of the graffiti on the wall. She was rocking her body, trying to curl it up tighter, chin tucked against her knees, eyes squeezed shut.
Making herself into a smaller target.
This was where it happened.
Lydia met Boyle’s eyes, dilated wide despite the bright LED light, and knew he also understood. He holstered his weapon as she returned hers to her pocket. Her breath was coming so fast it fogged the air, but she didn’t feel the cold. She knelt beside Nora and took her into her arms, pulling her away from the wall she was huddled against.
“It’s okay,” she whispered over and over, knowing the words were nonsense. It wouldn’t be okay, not until this guy was locked up. For good. Even then, there was no way to repair the damage he’d done. Maybe heal it—with time—but never make it go away, make everything okay. Not for Nora.
Boyle aimed the light past Nora to the wall. There was a faint outline of a palm print in what looked like dried blood.
Lydia gripped Nora hard, hauling her back as fast as she could. The rapid motion snapped Nora out of her trance. Nora’s soft keening stopped, and her eyes opened. Her face was pale as she and Lydia knelt together on the floor in the dark.
Boyle stepped away from them, keeping silent. He seemed to recognize how fragile the moment was. Lydia panicked, not quite sure what was best to do for Nora. Thankfully Nora quickly regained control. After squeezing Lydia in a tight hug for a moment, she pulled back, brushing her fingers over her jacket as if brushing away the tenement’s dirt and grime that had contaminated her.
“I’m okay.” Her voice was flinty, ready to break. But it didn’t.
Lydia stood, offering a hand up. Nora’s fingers were cold, her arm trembling as Lydia pulled her to her feet. She swayed, then took a breath and steadied herself. “Thanks.”
Lydia put an arm around Nora, as much for herself as for Nora, and led her to the door. “We’ll wait in the car,” she told Boyle without looking back.
Once inside the SUV, Lydia was prepared for hysterics, ready for another breakdown—after everything Nora had been through, she deserved one. Instead, she was amazed at Nora’s calm. Wondered if, like the storm raging around them, something would soon break loose.
Thunder rocked the Escape; between it and the pounding sleet there was no chance for conversation even if either of them wanted to talk.
Lydia sure as hell didn’t. What could she say? She had no words of comfort, could do nothing to erase the horror of Nora’s attack two years ago. She offered to call Nora’s parents, Mickey, Amanda, Seth, or even Gina, had volunteered to go get Tommy Z, but Nora merely shook her head in silence with each alternative.
So now they sat. Lydia drumming her fingers, tapping her feet, shifting her weight as water from her soaked jeans seeped into the seat. Nora curled up, arms hugging her knees, shivering, and Lydia turned the heat up higher.
“I thought you said he didn’t cut you,” Lydia finally blurted out. She couldn’t help herself; as much as she didn’t want to know the details, she just
had
to know. As if by knowing, she could tamp down the fury building in her. In the ER she could have shut her emotions off, but this wasn’t the ER. This was her friend.
Nora didn’t look up. “He didn’t. I did. I used a nail in the floorboard to cut myself free of the duct tape. Made a bloody mess.”
Lydia shook her head at the way Nora said it. Like they were talking about forgetting their umbrellas. “What you went through. What you’ve been through. I don’t know if I could have handled it as well.”
There was a long moment in which the only sound was the drumming of the rain. Lydia worried that her words had been presumptuous, that she had said the wrong thing.
But then Nora unfurled her body and turned to look at Lydia. Shadows from the rain played over Nora’s face in gray streaks like tears. “That means a lot. Coming from you. Thanks.”