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Finley had been waiting what felt like forever but was really only an hour and a half or so. She was tired. She had freed her hair from the stretchy band that held it in a ponytail and massaged her scalp to relieve some of the stress there. She was so ready for a shower and to crash on her sofa with Matt. She had sent him an update about the neighbor. He was home already, promised to have dinner waiting for her.
A smile tugged at her lips. For a year she had barely remembered to eat. Rarely kept food in the house. To have dinner prepared and waiting was fairly new territory. She liked it. Was grateful for Matt in so many ways.
She glanced at the time on her cell once more. The minutes seemed to drag by.
The paramedics had prepared Finley for what Roberts would need at the hospital. Identification. List of medications. Et cetera. When the ambulance had left with Roberts, who had regained some semblance of consciousness, Finley had taken the dog inside, fed him in case Roberts hadn’t, and refilled his water bowl. She’d grabbed the woman’s handbag, checked to ensure her wallet containing her ID and medical card were inside, and plucked the house key from its place on the table by the door. Before leaving she had checked for prescription medications and found none. Finley was very grateful for the heads-up from the paramedics, which prevented her from arriving at the hospital only to have to return to the house for the needed items.
Since her arrival there had been nothing to do but sit here in the waiting room and, well, wait. So she had occupied herself with continuing her perusal of the World Wide Web regarding the new case. Lucy Cagle’s murder had happened in October, thirteen years ago. She had just turned eighteen. She was an honor student bound for premed at Vanderbilt University. Her middle school and early high school years were filled with extensive travel and distinguished academic awards. All this had been included in the many newspaper articles about the victim. The links related to the tenth-anniversary documentary had been particularly helpful in Finley’s online search. But it was her mother, Louise Cagle, a.k.a. Louise Scott, who fascinated Finley on a totally different level. Her work in investigative journalism was unparalleled. The cases she’d dug into were gritty, grisly murders and horrifying missing persons.
Lucy’s father had been a doctor, which may have been her reason for choosing the medical path. A prestigious heart surgeon, no less. Sadly not even a month after Lucy’s murder, and on Halloween no less, he had died, ironically, of a heart attack. Finley supposed even a top cardiologist couldn’t save himself if his ticker decided the stress was just too much. Grief was a massive stressor.
As for Ray Johnson and his family, theirs was a whole other story. The old man had been suspected of all manner of criminal activities, from prostitution and drugs to human trafficking and murder. Nothing ever stuck, and the rumors had dropped off over the past decade since the son had taken over. Still, not exactly nice people. The rumors and unsubstantiated allegations made her wonder about Johnson’s fear of DNA connecting him to old crimes.
“Roberts family.”
The announcement snapped Finley from her musings. She shot to her feet and moved toward the man in the scrubs who’d spoken. Tall, slim, salt-and-pepper hair, thick-lensed glasses. The doctor, she hoped.
“I’m Finley O’Sullivan,” she explained. “Mrs.Roberts’s neighbor.”
“Dr.Rick Herron, cardiac surgeon. I was called in to evaluate the patient.” He frowned, glanced at the chart he held and then studied Finley via those thick lenses. “Does Mrs.Roberts have any family?”
Finley shook her head. “Not to my knowledge. I’ve lived across the street from her for more than a year, and there’s no one that I know of.” Finley abruptly remembered her neighbor having mentioned a husband. “She said her husband had passed away. Other than that, I’ve never noticed her even having visitors.”
Herron took a big breath, let it go. “Mrs.Roberts has a very serious heart condition. There are indications of several other mild heart attacks. She’s going to need open-heart surgery, and that surgery won’t wait. Unfortunately, at this stage, the risks are elevated. If she’d come in a year or more ago, it would have been far easier.”
Worry twisted tighter inside Finley. “Can you do it now? I mean, without a family member to give consent?”
“She’s awake. Groggy, but awake. She has agreed to the surgery, but I feel like any family she has should be made aware of the seriousness of the situation. Since you aren’t aware of any family, perhaps you can speak with her and see if there’s anyone. When the nurse asked, she didn’t respond.”
That was Mrs.Roberts. She had her own way. “I’ll talk to her.”
He nodded. “Good. I’ll have her nurse take you back. Try not to tax her, though. She doesn’t need any added stress. We have the surgery scheduled for tomorrow morning. It would be good to have any family she has here for the surgery. Just in case.”
Nothing he said sounded good as far as odds went, in Finley’s opinion.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Finley promised.
“Until then, we’ll keep her medicated and comfortable. Follow me,” he said as he turned back to the double doors that led into the bowels of the ER.
As soon as Herron introduced Finley to the nurse assigned to Roberts, one Hazel McCarthy, they quickly moved on to Roberts’s room. On the way, Nurse McCarthy explained that Roberts was awaiting transfer to the cardiac intensive care floor.
McCarthy paused outside the door. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will. Thank you.”
When the nurse had headed back to her station, Finley opened the door and stepped inside. Helen Roberts lay on the bed, her face even more pale than usual. Her thin body too still. All manner of tubes and wires snaked from machines to her body or vice versa. She looked old and helpless ... alone.
Regret knotted in Finley’s belly. No one should be alone at a time like this.
She stepped to the bedside. “Mrs.Roberts.”
The older woman’s eyes fluttered open. She stared up at Finley, looking like a frail and vulnerable version of the person Finley knew her to be. The one who had fearlessly wielded a shovel against a hired assassin.
“You gave me quite a scare,” Finley said when her neighbor didn’t speak. “Your little dog alerted me that something was wrong, and I found you in your backyard.”
“I need to go home.”
The rusty words were scarcely audible. Roberts stirred as if she might try to get out of the bed. Finley put a hand on her shoulder. “You need to save your strength. They’re doing surgery in the morning. Do you understand the situation, Mrs.Roberts? Your condition is very serious, and surgery to hopefully alleviate the trouble has been scheduled for tomorrow morning.”
