The Night Shift(3)
The woman in scrubs is still pacing out front. Ella sees her discreetly put a fist to her mouth, suck in a deep breath, followed by a plume of vape mist.
We all have our secrets.
The receptionist inside barely gives her a second look. The woman has probably seen it all working the ER night shift. Ella once dated a med student who’d done an ER residency rotation, and he regaled her with tales of the guy with a Barbie stuck up his ass, the PCP fiend who’d eaten two of his own fingers during a bad trip, the construction worker with a nail deep in his brain yet still conscious and talking. A therapist in nightclub attire probably didn’t make the Top 10 for weird.
The receptionist says something into the phone, then waves Ella inside the treatment area. The door makes a jarring buzz and Ella walks into a large room bathed in fluorescent light, beeping and voices echoing from behind beds surrounded by blue curtains. At the far end, she sees Mr. Steadman talking to a group of white guys. Three uniformed police officers and a stern-looking man with a mustache whose polo shirt is tucked tight into his jeans. He and Mr. Steadman seem to be having a disagreement.
For a split second, Ella feels a flight instinct. A memory slithers into her head, the procession of cops, doctors, and social workers asking the same questions. Did you get a look at him? What do you remember? Did he touch you? She looks at the floor for a moment, trying to collect herself, then catches a glimpse of her bare thighs again and is transported back to the exam room, her legs in stirrups.
Ella had been nonresponsive after the attack. The hospital’s psych team was unsuccessful, and Ella’s parents were at a loss. The school sent over Mr. Steadman. He wasn’t trained in trauma response, he was merely the fill-in for a guidance counselor out on maternity leave. The cool teacher. Young, good-looking. The one the moms fawned over. At the same time, he was capable, no-nonsense, the kind of person who you wanted in charge, which is probably why they later made him the school’s principal.
Mr. Steadman sees her and gives a small wave. He doesn’t react to the muffled screams coming from a curtained room near the huddle of men. A doctor emerges from the room, grimacing. He says something to the group gathered with Mr. Steadman, shaking his head. Mr. Steadman puts a reassuring hand on the doctor’s shoulder, then walks over to Ella.
“Thanks for coming. I’m sorry to interrupt your night,” Steadman says, the only acknowledgment of her getup.
He fills her in. After midnight, the teenage employees of the Dairy Creamery were found murdered in the back room of the ice cream shop. The mother of two of the girls, sisters, got worried when they didn’t return home from their shift and didn’t respond to texts. The mother is sedated now.
“There was a survivor?” Ella knows the answer. It’s why she’s here.
Mr. Steadman nods. “A student at my school. She didn’t work there. We think she was just a customer. Maybe interrupted him.” Mr. Steadman takes a cleansing breath. “I was hoping you could talk to her. The doctors and detectives aren’t getting anywhere. She’s—well, you’ll see. The Union County prosecutor called me, since…”
He doesn’t need to complete the sentence, the reason clear: because it worked for Ella after Blockbuster.
“But she won’t talk with me or anyone else or let the doctors examine her. I hoped you could try before they’re forced to sedate her.”
“I’m not sure I have the—”
“You’re our best hope. And I won’t be able to hold them off for much longer.” Mr. Steadman directs his gaze to the man in the polo and jeans, a detective, she presumes, who undoubtedly is itching to interview the girl. A killer’s on the loose.
“What’s her name?”
“Jessica Duvall, but she goes by Jesse.”
“Where are her parents? Won’t she talk to them?”
“She’s in foster care. I’m not sure why. She’s new to my school, and they don’t give us much information.”
The murmuring from the huddle of cops grows louder. They’re looking at Ella.
She takes a deep breath and steps into the room.
CHAPTER 3
KELLER
Sarah Keller reaches for her phone, which is pinging on the nightstand. Three texts at 5:30 a.m. She’s been lying awake for an hour anyway. Feeling the two sets of feet inside her belly kicking wildly, fallout from the Thai food last night. She spent those sixty minutes listening to Bob snore. Worrying about keeping up with her job and money when the twins arrive. In their five-year marriage, she’s never known Bob to lie awake about anything. Not a worrier, her husband.
She reads the texts from her boss.
Locals need assistance.
Union County.
That’s unusual. The FBI usually doesn’t get involved with local law enforcement unless it’s something big—terrorism, kidnapping, or the like—and Keller’s still a relatively junior agent.
Another text pings. A link to a news story. She feels a flutter in her chest as she reads the details, which are still sketchy. A mass killing at an ice cream store in Linden, three dead. A possible survivor.
She taps out a return text.
Sure, need me there right now?
There’s a long delay as the dots pulse while he types. He likely thumbed out an annoyed response—of course, now—then erased it. A good boss deletes annoyed messages before sending them. And despite his cold, Swiss-banker demeanor, Stan Webb is a good boss.