Live to Tell (Detective D.D. Warren, #4)(24)

For an instant, she wore an expression that could almost be called happiness.

I gave her a bit. When she finally seemed to be tiring of sun and shadows, I picked up the sponge, dipped it in the bowl of water, and held it over my bare forearm. I squeezed out droplets, letting the water trickle down. I wanted her to notice this new, intriguing game.

I played for a bit. I dropped water here and there, making dark patterns on my clothes, the flooring, wherever I felt like it. When working with kids, it’s always helpful to be childish.

After a while, I could tell Lucy was watching me. She wouldn’t draw closer, but she was curious. So I stretched it out five more minutes. I splashed water on my face, trickled it in my hair. Then I got up and walked out of the room, leaving the water and sponge behind.

It was tempting to stop and watch. But she was a child, not an exhibit at the zoo. So I kept marching. One of our recent charges, Jorge, ran up to me. I agreed to play dominoes with him. Then it was craft time with Aimee, a twelve-year-old girl admitted for attempted suicide. She sat with her body collapsed on itself, drawing a black sky with black rain. I suggested she add color, so she dotted red on top of the black. Now the sky was bleeding.

I hugged her before I headed back down the hall.

I found Lucy, sitting back in the sunbeam. She had the water bowl beside her, the sponge in her hand.

Her face was finally clean. She’d wiped off streaks of feces, used the water to smooth back her matted hair. She sat now, with her clean face held up to the sun, and the small curve of her lips almost made my heart break.



The next time I checked in, she was gone. The empty water bowl and sponge were stacked neatly in the sunbeam. Otherwise, the room was empty. Lucy had flown the coop.



I didn’t worry at first. We’re a lockdown ward, meaning Lucy was here somewhere. I just had to find her.

I contacted the milieu counselor in charge of “checks”—accounting for every child’s position every five minutes. Greg had the duty, meaning he’d been roaming the unit for the past hour. He hadn’t seen Lucy—she was the exception to our five-minute check rule; her assigned staff member, namely me, was supposed to write down her location every twenty minutes. Greg passed the word along, and soon we were all on a Lucy hunt.

Kids joined us. This was hide-and-seek on a grand scale, and the kids who’d been with us for a while knew the drill and were happy to help. Since our unit didn’t have video cameras, we took advantage of the silver globes in the ceiling, searching for Lucy’s reflection. According to the globes, she wasn’t in the main hallway, the dorm rooms, or the family room. Now we got serious.

We went through cupboards, wardrobes, nightstands, bathrooms, and closets. The kitchen area was locked, but we checked anyway, just in case. The Admin space was locked; we tossed the warren of small rooms as well.

By three-fifteen, when we still hadn’t found Lucy, the staff, not to mention some of the kids, started to grow agitated.

Greg took charge of the kids. Time for afternoon snack. The staff peeled off, returning to the business of running the unit. Karen, the nurse manager, pulled me aside.

“When did you last see her?”

“Two-fifteen,” I reported.

“What was she doing?”

“Sitting in a sunbeam, making shadows with her fingers.”

Karen arched one brow, intrigued. “When did you notice she was missing?”

I hesitated. “Two forty-five.”

Karen looked at me. “That’s thirty minutes, Danielle, not twenty. We agreed someone would check her every twenty minutes.”

I had no good excuse, so I simply nodded.

Karen regarded me for a moment. She’d been working most of her adult life with troubled kids and her gaze was penetrating. I could tell she’d finally noted the month and day and made the connection I thought she’d make at least a week ago.

That’s the life of the sole survivor: You never escaped the anniversary date.

“Is Lucy too much for you?” Karen asked abruptly.

“No.”

“We’ve always been willing to work with you, Danielle,” she stated crisply. “But you have to be willing to work with us. Understand?”

“Lucy’s not too much,” I said, voice stronger.

But Karen remained uncertain. She finally sighed, moved along. “Is Lucy still naked?”

“Last I saw.”

“Then she couldn’t have gotten far.”

Karen made the decision to contact the medical center’s security. The full hospital went to lockdown, and I felt about three inches tall. I’d lost my charge. I’d breached protocol in a place where protocol breaches were unacceptable. And while my personal life wasn’t anything to write home about, I took my job seriously. I was a dedicated nurse. Some days, I was even a great nurse.

Apparently, today wasn’t one of those days. We had an emergency staff meeting, with Karen briskly assigning hospital floors to each of us to search. Security was also making a sweep.

I had the first and second floors. I headed out, feeling sick in my stomach.

Where would Lucy go? What would she do?

Then I had an idea.

I bolted for the hospital solarium.



Ten minutes later, I’d found Lucy. She was behind a potted palm, in a full-blaze sun, curled up like a cat and sound asleep with her head on her joined hands. Somewhere during her adventures, she’d found a green surgical scrub top and was now wearing it like a gown. She nearly blended into the floor, her dark hair obscuring her freshly scrubbed face.