Chapter 2 - Thirteen Nurses Before Me
The photograph loaded at 2:14 a.m.
It showed a woman I had never met.
She wore blue medical scrubs and stood beside Gabriel’s wheelchair.
A red circle had been drawn around her face.
Below it were two words.
NURSE THIRTEEN.
I stared at the screen.
Then the photograph vanished.
Not metaphorically.
The message itself disappeared.
I checked the thread.
Nothing.
My pulse jumped.
I took a screenshot of the empty conversation anyway and wrote down the number.
By seven, I was in Gabriel’s kitchen.
He was drinking espresso.
I put my phone beside his cup.
“Someone sent me a photograph last night.”
He did not look surprised.
That frightened me more than surprise would have.
“What photograph?”
“A nurse.”
His hand stopped.
“What color scrubs?”
“Blue.”
Gabriel looked toward Vincent.
Vincent closed the kitchen door.
“Her name was Marissa Cole,” Gabriel said.
“What happened to her?”
“She quit.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Why send me her photograph?”
“No idea.”
“Bad lie.”
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed.
“You’ve worked here less than twenty-four hours.”
“And already someone is threatening me. That puts us ahead of schedule.”
Vincent took my phone.
“Number’s spoofed.”
“You knew that by looking at it?”
“I know the prefix.”
Gabriel rolled away from the table.
“Forget it.”
I followed him.
“No.”
His chair stopped.
“No?”
“You hired a nurse, not a goldfish. Someone sent me a warning connected to your previous caregiver.”
“Hannah.”
“And there was an unexplained pill in your medication.”
“Hannah.”
“And a label under your wheelchair.”
That did it.
Gabriel turned.
“What label?”
I told him.
His face changed.
Vincent crouched and examined the underside of the chair.
The label was gone.
Neither man spoke.
“Thursday,” I said. “Three o’clock.”
Vincent stood.
“Carmine visits Thursdays.”
Gabriel looked at him.
“Check every camera.”
For the next two weeks, nobody threatened me.
That almost made it worse.
I settled into a routine.
Medication at seven.
Breakfast at eight.
Therapy at ten.
Gabriel complaining at ten-oh-one.
He hated physical therapy with the passionate commitment of a man who had once controlled every room he entered and now needed help getting into bed.
One morning I found him attempting a transfer alone.
His hand slipped.
He hit the mattress.
I stopped in the doorway.
He saw me.
Humiliation moved across his face faster than pain.
I did not run toward him.
“You finished proving your point?”
“Leave.”
“I can make coffee first.”
“Get out.”
“Sure.”
I turned.
“Hannah.”
I stopped.
He held out his hand.
That was the first time he asked.
I helped without speaking.
Afterward, he stared at the floor.
“I hate this.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know anything.”
“You’re right.”
That surprised him.
I adjusted the chair.
“But I know what it feels like when people help you in a way that makes you feel smaller.”
His eyes lifted.
“My mother got sick when I was nineteen. Everybody talked over her. Doctors. Family. Social workers. Like illness made her stupid.”
“What happened?”
“She recovered.”
He nodded.
“So I’m not going to tell you I understand being paralyzed.”
“Good.”
“But I am going to tell you when you’re being an ass.”
His mouth twitched.
Our strange friendship began there.
I learned he liked old action movies and hated bananas.
He learned Pickles slept on my head.
I learned he could remember entire financial reports after reading them once.
He learned I sang terribly while cooking.
Then Thursday arrived.
Carmine came at 2:42.
At 2:55, the west-hall camera stopped recording.
At 3:04, Gabriel’s medication tray changed.
I knew because I had photographed it at 2:30.
One white tablet was missing.
A blue capsule had appeared.
I did not administer it.
Instead, I put the capsule into an evidence bag.
At 3:18, Carmine entered the room.
He carried coffee.
“For my nephew.”
Gabriel accepted it.
I reached out.
“I’ll take that.”
Carmine did not release the cup.
Neither did I.
His smile remained pleasant.
“Surely Gabriel can drink without supervision.”
“Surely.”
I pulled harder.
The lid shifted.
A drop landed on my wrist.
Carmine released it.
“Clumsy,” he said.
“So I’m told.”
I took the coffee to the kitchen.
Then I did something ridiculous.
I poured it into a sterile specimen container.
That evening Gabriel found me labeling it.
“You’re collecting my uncle’s coffee?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Thursdays are weird.”
He laughed.
I did not.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. That sentence is insane.”
I showed him the medication photographs.
His smile disappeared.
Then I showed him the west-hall camera log.
Every Thursday.
2:58 to 3:22.
Blank.
Gabriel called Vincent.
“Find Marissa Cole.”
Vincent left.
At midnight, he returned alone.
Marissa had not quit.
Her apartment had been empty for three weeks.
Her bank account had not been touched.
Her car was found at Albany International Airport.
No ticket had been purchased in her name.
Gabriel stared at Vincent.
“Why wasn’t I told?”
“We believed she left voluntarily.”
“Who told you that?”
Vincent hesitated.
“Carmine.”
My stomach dropped.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
Gabriel nodded.
I answered.
For several seconds, there was only breathing.
Then a woman whispered.
“Are you Hannah?”
“Yes.”
“You found the pills.”
Every hair on my arms rose.
“Marissa?”
Silence.
Then:
“Don’t let him drink anything his uncle brings.”
A crash sounded on her end.
She gasped.
“Marissa?”
“Hannah, listen to me. The bullet wasn’t the first attempt.”
My eyes met Gabriel’s.
“What do you mean?”
“The accident before the shooting. The brakes. Someone—”
A man’s voice sounded behind her.
Marissa screamed.
The call ended.
Then someone knocked on the kitchen door.
Three slow knocks.
Vincent reached beneath his jacket.
Gabriel turned his wheelchair toward the sound.
May you like
The handle moved.
And whoever stood outside had already unlocked it...
