Cole hooked his thumbs in his vest. “The security guardknows what he’s looking for. I’m gonna go out and search for Russell.”
“No, I need you to stay here.” Emmy spoke with a steely intensity. “Shane Russell’s already spoken to your aunt twice. Once is a coincidence. Twice is a warning. He knows what I look like. He probably knows where we live. I’ve got this whole county turned upside down searching for him. He’s gonna be desperate and violent. He’s not gonna want to go back to prison. I don’t want you anywhere near that man. Do you understand?”
“No.” Cole’s eyes flickered to Jude, then back to Emmy. “Why?”
“Coleman, this isn’t a discussion. Text me when that CCTV is ready.”
Jude shot Cole a look of sympathy before following Emmy to the elevator.
Emmy opened a text on her phone. “I’m telling Julian to check Russell’s visitor log while he was in prison going back to day one.”
The elevator doors opened. Emmy let Jude go first. Her hand went to the button for Myrna’s floor, then she caught herself and hit the number for hospice. The doors closed. The backs were coated in a flat white vinyl. Emmy’s silence lasted eight floors.
She asked, “You ever get tired of being right?”
“About your not wanting to put Cole in danger?”
“Yep.”
“Did Dad ever hold you back?”
“Dad didn’t grow me in his belly and almost die pushing me out.”
The doors slid open. The lights were low in the hallway. Jude felt her own tension mirrored by Emmy as they walked toward the nurses’ station. They were both intimately familiar with the layout of the Azalea Place Assisted Living and Nursing Home. Tommy had joked that the building was like a ladder to Valhalla. Active seniors filled the lower floors. The rehab patients were housed above them. Then long-term care. Then the memory care center. The top floor was devoted to hospice.
When people talked about the five stages of grief, they tended to erroneously ascribe them to the grieving rather than the dying. Elisabeth Kübler-Ross had designed the model to help terminally ill patients face their own deaths. By the time most people entered hospice, they had reached the stage of acceptance. There was a calmness about them, a quiet resignation. Jude saw cheerful signs, photographs, and greeting cards on the walls as they walked to the nurses’ station. TVs softly chattered behind closed doors. It was so different from the memory care center, where every step toward acceptance was lost to memory. Over and over, they forgot where they were, why they were here, the very fact of their dying.
Jude likened it to a cruel form of stasis.
Teena Nixon looked up from her computer when they approached. She was older than Jude, her white hair curled tight to her head. Heart stickers bordered her name tag. Her pink scrubs were dotted with flowers.
“Ms. Nixon,” Emmy said. “I’m Sheriff Clifton, this is Dr. Archer. She’s consulting on a case with my department.”
“Teena.” Her smile was warm and open. “Sheriff Clifton, what a well-mannered son you’ve raised. He told me your mother was a patient here. May her memory be a blessing.”
“Uh—thank you.” Emmy’s hand went into her pocket again to hold on to the watch. “I know you’re working, but if you don’t mind, I have some questions about Mitch Bellingham.”
“Poor Mr. Mitch. He was a real Oscar the Grouch.” Teena laughed with fondness. “I like a challenge, but he tried my patience, I can tell you that. Man was never happy with anything. Bed was too hard. Light was too bright. Room was too hot. Dinner was too cold. Some of them, they get to the end, and they feel out of control. If it makes them feel good to boss me around, then I figure they’ve earned it. Especially our veterans, bless them.”
“Did he have any visitors?”
“Just Allison. I never saw his family.” The smile had ebbed. “These old gentlemen, most of them didn’t put in the time with their children, so they don’t get many visitors. The ladies, now, they’re covered up in people. Too many, some of them. But it’ssad with the gentlemen. You can see they want to go back and change things, but they don’t know how. Or they’re too proud to admit it.”
Jude thought that sounded a lot like the Gerald Clifton she’d grown up with.
Emmy said, “I’m interested in Mr. Mitch’s visits with Allison Vickery. Did you ever notice anything about their interactions?”
“Well, she loved him, and he loved her.”
Emmy’s visible surprise was shared by Jude. “Why do you say that?”
“She’s the only one he ever smiled for.” Teena shook her head. “We called her the Lion Tamer. He’d be grumblin’ and complainin’ then she’d show up and flowers would come out of his mouth.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Well, everybody said it was because she was pretty, and I’m sure that’s part of it—even with half a lung and one kidney, these old gentlemen think they’ve got a chance—but if you don’t mind my saying, I’ve spent a lot of time on this floor. It teaches you about people. Death shows you who they are. Sometimes, they’re so broken you can see the hard edge of ’em. Then another person comes along who’s just as broken, and somehow, their edges fit together.”
“Why did you think Allison was broken?”
