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  After a few moments, she realized Heath had gone into arrhythmia, and the medical staff had to do some pretty fancy footwork to stabilize him. Which they did, thank God. Now it was a matter of keeping him stabilized, and that’s something she could help with.

  Guy was standing at the foot of the incubator, his skin paler than she’d ever seen it before. She touched his arm. “I’ll call,” Rachel said softly.

  He barely acknowledged her.

  She wished she could do more. Say something, be someone who could ease his torment. But she couldn’t.

  GUY WENT TO HIS OFFICE and sat down, his head still muzzy with so many thoughts. Heath was stable for the moment, but the information Rachel had gotten from the lab strongly indicated that the boy had a genetic problem, perhaps Noonan’s syndrome, though more tests had to be run.

  The thing was, he knew for a fact that there was no indication of Noonan’s in Walter’s or Tammy’s background. So if that was the final diagnosis, the disorder had to have been transmitted through the father.

  Noonan’s. It was a relatively common birth defect, and Guy had seen his share of cases. Some severe, some blessedly mild. From Heath’s current physical symptoms, the slight webbing on his neck, his low-set ears, it didn’t appear that he had severe Noonan’s, but there were still heart tests, the karyotype analysis and the genetic tests for mutation in the PTPN11 gene. What no one knew yet was if the boy would be developmentally challenged, which happened in about a fourth of the cases.

  Nothing was more important than finding Heath’s father and getting his medical history. If the same genetic testing could be done on the father, Heath’s chances for survival would be greatly enhanced, but Guy didn’t have a clue where to begin.

  Rachel was checking into Heather’s belongings, and he’d put in four calls to Walter. Guy wanted to kill the son of a bitch for not calling him back.

  He wanted coffee, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to get up and get it. He didn’t like asking Connie, but today would have to be the exception to the rule. Leaning over his desk, hardly looking at the paperwork he couldn’t deal with yet, he buzzed his secretary.

  “Yes, Doctor?”

  “I hate to ask, but could you make me a pot of coffee?”

  Connie chuckled. “It’s already made, just five minutes ago. So you just sit right there, and I’ll bring you a cup.”

  Guy smiled. “Thank you.”

  “No sweat.”

  He sat back in his chair, knowing full well why there was a fresh pot of coffee made. Everyone in the hospital, including Connie, knew about Heather. About Heath. And they would all be solicitous and pitying and it would be a nightmare on top of a nightmare for Guy.

  Putting his hand on the back of his neck, he rubbed the tense muscles as Connie entered his office, tapping first, as she always did. She looked bright and sunny today, her dress a brilliant red that made her café au lait skin appear smooth and vibrant, belying her fifty-plus years. She’d been with Guy for the past three years, and their relationship was one of businesslike companionability. He appreciated the fact that he never had to ask for anything twice. Connie was proud of her work, and it showed.

  Today, however, her concern wasn’t about hospital matters, but him, and he could see it in her eyes, the way her smile was filled with concern. “How are you?” she asked.

  “As well as could be expected.”

  She nodded, then disappeared into his call room. It held only a bed, a locker, a small radio and of course, his coffee supplies. When Connie reappeared, she held a steaming mug, which she put in front of him.

  “Thank you.”

  “Hold on,” she said, then she hurried out of the office, leaving the door slightly ajar.

  It wasn’t but a moment till she was back, this time with a plate. “I made some spiced pumpkin bread last night before we lost power. Luckily, it baked all the way through. I know it’s one of your favorites.”

  He couldn’t tell her that the thought of food made his stomach turn. “Thanks, Connie.”

  “And I don’t care if you’re not hungry. You eat a piece. You need to be at your best for that little boy.”

  “So it’s all over the hospital, is it?”

  “Of course.” She sat down across from his desk, in one of the two brown leather wing chairs. “Which means what it means. What I want to know is how I can help.”

  Guy sipped some coffee. It was perfect, just as he’d expected. “There’s nothing to be done, except your usual excellence. It might be a little tougher in the next few days because of the storm. I’ll need an updated schedule of the staff. Has everyone checked in?”

  “Yes, sir. Only Williams still can’t get in. But he thinks he’ll be cleared out by tonight.”

  He nodded, thinking about his team. They were good. In fact, it was the best E.R. in the state, as far as he was concerned. Recently they’d handled things even metropolitan hospitals never saw. He thought of his brother, Alec, and how brilliant he’d been during the virus outbreak last summer. Then there had been the weather anomalies, the fires. It had been the most hectic year Courage Bay had known, and Guy’s E.R. had done more than anyone could have expected. “I may have to leave town for a few days,” he said, “so we’ll need a working plan for a week without me.”

  “Of course,” Connie said.

  “The baby isn’t out of the woods, not by a long shot. I want—” He stopped, startled at the direction of his thoughts, at the depth of his emotions. “I want to spend as much time as I can with him, until he is.”

  Connie tilted her head a bit to the right. “You’re family. It’s only natural.”

  But it wasn’t natural. It was nothing like Guy. Why he cared so much, why Heath’s condition meant so much to him was a puzzle that shook him. He’d had other family members in trouble before. His own mother, for God’s sake. He’d been there for her, as much as he could be after the car accident that had killed his father and eventually taken her life, but he’d never felt this much at sea.

  It was unprecedented and the stupid thing was, Heath wasn’t even his blood. It didn’t matter. He would do whatever it took to take care of the boy.

  “Is that it?” Connie asked. “I feel like I should do more. Help more.”

  He knew just what she was talking about, but he couldn’t think of a thing. As long as she kept him and the team organized, that was all he could ask.

  As long as Rachel was there…

  What a thought to have about Rachel Browne. Up until today, he would have said she was a colleague, one of his staff. He noticed her beauty, of course, but since very early on, there had been no question of crossing the line, of being anything more than her boss. And yet today, he’d acted as if she was more. A friend. Someone to turn to.

  It was official. His world had turned upside down. There was a life depending on him that hadn’t been there yesterday, and for once, he had no excuses to back out. No other priorities. And where just a few short hours ago it seemed he was in this alone, he now had a friend. Rachel.

  Go figure.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  RACHEL HELD the plastic bin tightly, as if it would drop any second. It wasn’t a special bin, except that inside it were all the worldly goods of an eighteen-year-old who’d died on Rachel’s watch.

  She’d gone over the medical procedures in her mind a hundred times, reread her notes six times, maybe seven. And still, she couldn’t think of a thing she’d have done differently. She’d taken extraordinary measures to save Heather’s life. And still, she’d failed.

  It happened. Rachel had also heard that Bruce Nepom had died this morning, which didn’t make things better. God, she’d tried so hard. The damage that had been done to that man’s skull…

  She reached her office and kicked the door shut behind her. Then she put the bin on the table, wincing at the grooves embedded in her palms.

  Going through Heather’s things was a breach of protocol, but in this case, it was done out of kindness. If
there was anything disturbing in the meager belongings, she wanted to see it first, then tell Guy. Since the death wasn’t suspicious, there would be no police involvement. And since Guy was acting as next of kin, there was no harm here, only help.

  Heather’s coat was on top. It wasn’t in good repair, and there were stains on the poor-quality wool. The blue color had faded, leaving it washed out and sad looking. There was one piece of paper in her pocket, and on it were two phone numbers. Rachel recognized the one for Courage Bay Hospital. The other had a 213 prefix. Los Angeles. She carefully put the paper, wrinkled and still a bit damp, in her jacket pocket.

  After folding the coat, Rachel picked up Heather’s dress. Another thrift-store bargain, she imagined. Yellow, with little green flowers. No pockets. Next was Heather’s purse. It was a large cotton tote, with lots of pockets inside. Unfortunately, they didn’t hold much of consequence—breath mints, a hairbrush, dark glasses, a faded ticket stub to a movie. But then Rachel found a small notebook. She opened it to the first page. The handwriting was small, tight.

  I’m here, finally. Away from all of them. Safe. Well, not now, because he’s not here. But he’ll be back soon, and then it will be dinner and maybe we’ll watch an old movie on his crappy TV. I won’t care because we’ll be together. It was so easy. I still can’t get over that. Mom didn’t even check. Dad was busy with his bimbo of the month. And I disappeared, like on that TV show where someone’s there one second, and gone the next. Only, no one’s looking for me. And it feels…

  Rachel turned the page, but it was a new entry, written with a different pen. Leaning back in her chair, Rachel wondered if she should go immediately to find Guy, but something kept her in her seat. Fear. Protectiveness. She turned back to the book.

  We went to his friend’s house last night, but I don’t remember all that much. I got totally wasted, and this chick, Perry, scored some Ecstasy, which I’d never done before. Mixed with the Southern Comfort, it was so cool. I like his friends, although Perry’s boyfriend scared me a little when we were in the kitchen together. He touched me, but then Perry came in so it was cool again. After, S and I made love until, like, four in the morning. Then he went to sleep, and I think if it had been quieter, I would have, too, but the sirens went on and on, and then there was this helicopter. I could see the light, really bright, on the walls. They’re cracked between the posters, and the paint is really chipped. I wonder if this is where we’ll always live, or if he’ll get that job, and then we can move somewhere nice, where the carpet isn’t stained, and we can have a washer and dryer, ’cause I hate going to that skeezy Laundromat. We’d have a new bed, too, one that didn’t make my back ache every morning. And I could buy new sheets and a comforter and stuff. I really want to decorate my way for a change, and have all the money in the world to buy whatever I want. He says we’ll have everything, and I believe him. I just have to wait. But I don’t know how long to wait. I said I should look for a job, but he got really pissed, and so I didn’t mention it again. He’s going to take care of me. He promised. I know he will, ’cause he loves me. More than anything on earth. He loves ME.

  Rachel’s chest constricted with pain for this child. She did a little elementary math. Heather had to have been pregnant nine months ago, yet she didn’t appear to be when she’d written this. How long ago would that have been?

  Flipping through the pages, Rachel saw that the entries were made in different colors of ink, mostly black, but some in blue, red, and a few in purple. The handwriting got even smaller toward the end, which was probably where Rachel should have looked to start with.

  She found the last entry more than three-quarters of the way through the small notebook.

  I’ve been gone for almost a week. Does he think I’m dead? Hit by a car, or mugged, or maybe he thinks I had the baby? I still don’t understand what happened. How it all went to hell. He loved me. He told me so over and over. Loved me, and he would take care of me, and take care of our baby. And then he wouldn’t let me out of the house. I thought it was because he was worried about me. But even when I wanted to go, when I felt fine, he kept me locked up. Got mean. He wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t explain. And when I tried so hard to understand, he just hit me. It hurt so bad.

  And then he left, and it was three days before he got back. I tried to get out, but he’d done something to the door. He took his cell phone and didn’t leave me any money, so what was I supposed to do?

  And then, yesterday, when he was gone again, that guy from the apartment came. I couldn’t believe it at first, but then I started screaming and I didn’t stop until he’d gotten the door open. He didn’t want to help me, but I guess he felt sorry for the baby. He got me out, took me to the bus station, gave me some money. And now I’m waiting for the bus.

  The scariest part is the headaches. They’ve gotten so much worse. The baby keeps kicking so I haven’t slept, and I have to keep going to the bathroom.

  I don’t want to call my mom or dad. But Guy will help. He was the best, when he was there. I wonder if he’s forgotten me. I remember the times we went on the boat together. That was cool. I wish he could have been my real father. Then he might have stayed home more, and we could have been a real family. I guess I’d

  That was it. The last entry. Rachel closed the book and got up, put the lid back on the plastic bin and headed for Guy’s office.

  Connie was on the phone in the outer office, but she waved at Rachel to go inside.

  Rachel knocked lightly, then opened the door enough to see Guy at his desk. His head rested on his hands, his shoulders were slumped, and he didn’t look up.

  “Yes, Connie.”

  “It’s me,” she said. “May I come in?”

  He raised his head, and smiled at her. God, he looked like hell, red-rimmed eyes, his dark hair unkempt and spiky. For the first time she could remember, Guy looked every one of his forty-three years. But in his sad smile was a welcome that she took to heart.

  “I have something,” she said, holding up the notebook. “It was in Heather’s things.”

  He changed instantly, becoming fully alert. The intelligence that made him so appealing lit up his eyes.

  She went to his desk and handed him the book. He took it anxiously, but when he opened it randomly, somewhere in the middle, he glanced up from the small script to her.

  “I’ll leave you,” she said. “You should read it.”

  “Have you?”

  “Just a bit,” she told him, embarrassed. “I hoped there would be something obvious.”

  He nodded, looked down at the page again. “Are you on shift?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are there patients?”

  “Yes. Nothing too urgent.”

  His gaze met hers. “Come back.”

  She took in a great breath of air, trying to steady herself, to mentally step back, get some room, but there was no place she could go. He needed someone, and she was it. “As soon as I can.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She didn’t reply, but at the door she turned back to ask, “Have you eaten?”

  “Now you’re sounding like Connie.”

  “Good. Someone needs to look after you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “And the baby?”

  Guy didn’t speak, and his gaze went to the window. “He’s in trouble. I was just up there. They think it’s Noonan’s syndrome, but they’re not sure. We need to find the father.”

  “Maybe that will help,” she said, looking at the notebook.

  “I hope so. I still haven’t heard from Walter.”

  “I have to go,” Rachel said, “but I’ll be back as soon as I can. And Guy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m off tomorrow. After that, I switch to days. So whatever help I can offer, count on it.”

  His lips tightened, and he was staring at the window again. Rachel closed the door quietly behind her.

  BY THE TIME Guy finished reading Heather’s diary, it wa
s nearly nine-thirty. He looked at his desk and saw the piles of reports neatly laid in his in-box. He hadn’t even heard Connie come in or leave for the day.

  When he rubbed his face, he was startled that his eyes, his cheeks were wet. He’d cried? God, he was falling apart. Everything felt surreal—Heather’s death, this book of sorrows, Heath.

  Heath.

  He stood up, carefully putting Heather’s notebook in his top drawer, and headed for the NICU. Again, the staff treated him diffidently. Gave him more room in the hallways, smiled with that tinge of sympathy that made him want to punch through a wall. He retreated into familiar behavior, acting as if nothing had happened, nodding but not speaking.

  The elevator held only strangers, and for that Guy was grateful. On the fourth floor, he listened to the soft strains of Bach wafting beneath the bustle of nurses and orderlies. On this floor, aside from the NICU, was the nursery. If he walked to his left, he would see the healthy babies, the exultant parents. Just past the nursery was a waiting room, and then there was the delivery room.

  He knew that Heather had been in the right place last night, and because of Rachel’s deft handling of the delivery, Heath was alive today. And yet he couldn’t help but wonder what if.

  What if he’d called Heather more often? What if he’d paid attention? What if he hadn’t been such a selfish prick for the last five years?

  He felt the blood beneath his skin and was aware of his rapid heartbeat. His breath became shallow and harsh, and he ducked into the men’s room. Alone, he went to the sink and threw cold water on his face. Tried for calm, settled for nonpsychotic.

  He leaned on the granite counter, stared into his own wild eyes. He’d gone through the looking glass this morning, and it had just turned into a mirror again. He didn’t like what he saw.

  Who the hell was he? A doctor, but why? Did he even care about the people he helped? Or was it all self-aggrandizement? Had he ever loved Tammy, or was it just that she was beautiful? That she thought he was God’s gift? That she fit into the pretty little picture he’d created that represented his life. Only, where was the life part?