Chapter 2 - The Patient Who Never Existed
The emergency department was ready before we arrived.
That was the advantage of an ambulance.
The disadvantage was that Sloan Marquetti entered behind it.
Security noticed him immediately.
So did nurses.
So did two police officers standing beside triage.
Nobody approached.
Power had a way of clearing hallways without asking permission.
I stayed near the wall while Cora disappeared through double doors.
Sloan went with her until a nurse stopped him.
“Family waits here.”
“I’m her brother.”
“I understand.”
“I’m going with her.”
“No, sir.”
Bishop moved.
I touched his sleeve.
“Don’t.”
He looked down at my hand like I had lost my mind.
“Doctors need room.”
Sloan stared through the doors.
Then backed away.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
He did not sit.
He paced the same six feet of floor.
Bishop stood near the elevator.
Two Marquetti men guarded the corridor.
I hated how quickly my mind noticed exits.
Old habits.
Finally Sloan turned to me.
“Show me the paper.”
I had expected the question.
I handed it over.
He read it twice.
“What is patient 417?”
“A hospital room number.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“And Cora was here three years ago?”
“Apparently.”
“She never told me.”
“Were you living with her then?”
His jaw moved.
“I was handling problems overseas.”
“What kind of problems?”
His expression told me that was not my business.
Fair.
“Our father had just died,” he said. “Cora was sixteen. Lucia stayed with her most of that year.”
“Who managed her medical care?”
“Vale.”
Of course.
“Your family doctor?”
“For fifteen years.”
I glanced down the hall.
Vale had arrived separately.
He stood at the nurses’ station speaking to an administrator.
Too comfortably.
“Sloan.”
He looked at me.
“Why was Dr. Vale at dinner tonight?”
“He joins us most Thursdays.”
“Socially?”
“He was my father’s doctor before becoming ours.”
“And business?”
His eyes sharpened.
“You ask dangerous questions.”
“So does medicine.”
“What happened three years ago?”
I considered lying.
Then remembered Cora trying to form her own name.
“I was working here.”
He went completely still.
“The patient in 417 had neurological symptoms very similar to Cora’s.”
“Who was she?”
“I never knew.”
“How can you not know?”
“The chart used an alias.”
His brow furrowed.
“Why?”
“VIP patient, I assumed.”
“Age?”
“Seventeen.”
His eyes locked onto mine.
“Cora was sixteen.”
“I know.”
“You said seventeen.”
“That was what the chart said.”
He looked toward Vale.
“What happened?”
“She was brought in confused, weak on one side, slurring words. The attending physician documented a recreational overdose.”
“Was she using drugs?”
“The blood work didn’t support it.”
“Who was the attending?”
I did not need to answer.
His gaze followed mine.
Vale.
Something dangerous entered Sloan’s expression.
“Keep talking.”
“I questioned the diagnosis. The patient had received medication before arrival and again after admission.”
“What medication?”
“The record disappeared.”
His attention snapped back.
“Records don’t disappear.”
“They did.”
“And you?”
“I reported it.”
“What happened?”
“I was investigated instead.”
“For what?”
“Unauthorized chart access.”
“Did you do it?”
“I accessed the chart because I was her nurse.”
“I didn’t ask whether you had permission.”
“No.”
The answer came quickly.
“No, I didn’t access anything I wasn’t authorized to see.”
“And they blamed you.”
“Yes.”
“What happened to the girl?”
“She stabilized. Then she was transferred before I returned to my next shift.”
“Transferred where?”
“Nobody would tell me.”
“Why did you leave nursing?”
I looked at the floor.
“Because every hospital in the system got the same disciplinary notice.”
“They blacklisted you.”
“I resigned.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
I met his eyes.
“Yes.”
He did not offer sympathy.
I appreciated that.
Sympathy from men like Sloan usually carried a debt.
The double doors opened.
A neurologist emerged.
“Mr. Marquetti?”
Sloan crossed the hallway instantly.
“How is she?”
“She’s stable. Imaging shows an ischemic stroke caused by an arterial blockage.”
My chest tightened.
At nineteen.
The doctor continued.
“We’re evaluating her for intervention. Her symptom onset was documented very quickly, which helps.”
Sloan glanced at me.
“Will she live?”
“We expect her to.”
“Will she recover?”
“Too early to know. Her age works in her favor.”
“What caused it?”
“We don’t know yet.”
I stepped forward.
“Did you see her medications?”
The neurologist looked at me.
“And you are?”
“Delphine Hart. Former ER nurse. I was present at onset.”
Recognition flickered.
Maybe my name remained in some system.
“The paramedics brought the pouch.”
“Check whether the propranolol tablets actually match the bottle.”
His eyebrows rose.
“Why?”
“Because the bottle was marked.”
“How?”
“417.”
Sloan added, “And we have reason to believe she was hospitalized here three years ago under a protected identity.”
The doctor became guarded.
“I’ll need to check.”
Vale appeared behind him.
“That won’t be necessary.”
Sloan turned.
Vale smiled carefully.
“Cora had a migraine episode three years ago. I treated her privately. There is no conspiracy.”
“You told me she’d never been hospitalized.”
“I said she’d never had a serious hospitalization.”
“That seems serious.”
“She was discharged quickly.”
I stepped closer.
“What medication did she receive?”
Vale’s expression cooled.
“Ms. Hart, you are not her physician.”
“I was the nurse they destroyed for asking that question.”
Sloan looked between us.
Vale lowered his voice.
“You lost your position because you violated hospital protocol.”
“No. I lost it because someone erased a medication log.”
“That is an accusation.”
“Yes.”
“You should be careful.”
“Why?”
Sloan stepped beside me.
Not in front.
Beside.
“Because she’s talking about my sister now.”
Vale’s face changed by less than an inch.
But I saw it.
Fear.
Not much.
Enough.
The neurologist cleared his throat.
“We need to focus on the patient.”
Sloan nodded.
“Do it.”
Vale moved away.
I watched him.
“Do you trust him?” I asked.
“Until tonight, completely.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
Sloan turned toward me.
“No.”
Hours crawled.
Cora underwent a thrombectomy.
The procedure removed the clot.
At 11:42, the neurologist told us blood flow had been restored.
Sloan finally sat.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not letting me put her in my car.”
“You would have gotten her here.”
“Later.”
“Maybe.”
“That word is going to keep me awake.”
I knew the feeling.
We sat silently.
Then a nurse approached.
“Mr. Marquetti? Your sister is waking. One visitor.”
Sloan stood.
He looked at me.
“You come.”
“She’ll want you.”
“She trusted you while she couldn’t speak.”
“So did you.”
His mouth almost moved into a smile.
Almost.
Inside ICU, Cora looked impossibly young.
No makeup.
Hair loose.
Hospital gown swallowing her shoulders.
Sloan approached carefully.
“Hey, pest.”
Her eyes opened.
Her mouth moved.
“Slo…”
The word was imperfect.
But it was a word.
He closed his eyes for half a second.
Then took her hand.
“I’m here.”
Cora noticed me.
Her expression changed.
Recognition.
Fear.
“Del…”
“Yes.”
She tried again.
“Bag.”
Sloan leaned closer.
“What?”
“Bag.”
“Your purse?”
She nodded.
“Medication?”
Her eyes widened.
Then she shook her head violently.
The monitor accelerated.
“Easy,” I said.
She looked directly at me.
“Book.”
“What book?”
Her left fingers moved as though writing.
“Log?” I asked.
She blinked.
Once.
Yes.
Sloan looked confused.
“What log?”
Cora fought for words.
“Vale…”
Her brother’s face hardened.
“What about Vale?”
She swallowed.
“Don’t…”
The monitor climbed again.
I raised a hand.
“Stop. She needs rest.”
Sloan looked like he wanted to tear the answer out of the air.
He forced himself backward.
Cora’s eyes remained on me.
Then she whispered one more word.
“Daniel.”
My heart stopped.
Sloan looked at me.
“Who’s Daniel?”
I could not answer immediately.
Daniel Hart had been my fiancé.
He had worked in St. Catherine’s pharmacy.
Three years ago, on the same night Patient 417 was admitted, Daniel had called me after midnight.
He told me he had found something wrong in the medication dispensing system.
He promised to show me in the morning.
There had been no morning.
His car went through a guardrail before sunrise.
Police called it an accident.
I had believed them.
Mostly because the alternative would have destroyed me.
Cora’s eyes closed.
Sloan repeated the question.
“Who is Daniel?”
“My fiancé.”
“Where is he?”
“Dead.”
His expression shifted.
“When?”
I looked toward the sleeping girl.
“Three years ago.”
A nurse entered and asked us to leave.
Outside, Sloan did not speak until the doors closed.
Then he said, “You’re going to tell me everything.”
My phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
I looked down.
One message.
YOU SHOULD HAVE LET ROOM 417 STAY BURIED.
May you like
A second message appeared before I could show Sloan.
DANIEL DIDN’T DIE IN THAT CAR.
