The Orchid Tattoo, page 7
That made her laugh. “Yeah, well, haven’t seen my parents in a while. Our foster family doesn’t have money for stuff like that.” She didn’t say that this was their third foster family in a year. That the Garrisons might be more interested in the income than the calling of foster parenthood. That she used to pray her mom would kick Lawrence out of the house and stop using drugs, but she’d come to accept that wouldn’t happen. That all she had was school, and Brandon, and a hope that once she graduated, she and her brother would move on with their lives.
“Where do you live?” Drew asked.
She shot him some side-eye. He was a stranger. Nice. Cute. “A few blocks away.”
“Smart girl. If your parents don’t give you a phone for protection, at least you know not to give out too much personal information. Not till you trust me.” He winked. “And you will. I am very trustable.”
His swagger endeared her. Brandon’s coach blew a whistle and all the boys clustered around him. Practice was over.
“Your brother plays?” Drew asked.
She nodded. “Not very well, but he’s just six.”
“When does he practice again?”
Kitten felt a bubble of eagerness at the question. It meant he wanted to see her again. “Tuesday at four,” she said.
“I’ll be here, beautiful.”
As he started to climb the stands she yelled out, “Hey! What’s your name?”
“I’m Drew.”
“Drew,” she repeated. He tipped his fingers in a mock salute and scurried off.
“Man of mystery,” she whispered to herself.
Drew came to every Tee-ball practice that month. She asked him if he had a friend or sibling on the team and he answered, “No, I’m here for you.” The third time he came, he handed her a small package with a gold ribbon around it. “Open it,” he said.
Inside was a smartphone, the kind other kids had at school. She marveled at the colorful icons scattered on the screen. She’d never actually held one before.
“For you, beautiful.” Drew took her hand and kissed it so lightly it felt like a butterfly dancing on her knuckles.
“I . . . I can’t accept this.” Tears pricked her eyes as she tried to hand it back. The Garrisons would never pay for a cell plan, and if they did, one of their kids would steal it.
“You can. I’ve bought you three months of service. My cell number is programmed in. You can text or call me any time you want.”
She took a shuddery breath. Nobody had ever given a gift like this. Not her mom. Not her caseworker or any of her foster parents. No one.
Drew reached over and stroked her hair. “Maybe we keep this gift a secret. Don’t tell your foster parents. Don’t tell anyone. Can you keep it hidden?”
She nodded. She was very skilled at squirreling away things. She kept crackers and Oreos in her underwear drawer, in case Brandon got hungry after supper. Her mother’s turquoise earrings, which she’d borrowed the night they were taken away—rested in the toe of a rain boot.
Her phone fit nicely under the mattress when she slept. The rest of the time she’d keep it with her, in the one pocket of her book bag that had a working zipper. Her pack would shimmy during class when texts came in, and she’d imagine the sweet or funny message that arrived at least ten times a day.
She loved every moment she spent with Drew. The gifts kept coming: a sweater, a pink pair of Keds, a romance novel, and even though she’d never read one, and found it too suggestive, she told him she loved it.
Sometimes, when he held her gaze, an intensity pulled at them, like he could pour himself into her through his black irises. She couldn’t breathe. She could not get close enough to him. It was new and exciting and filled every part of her. Drew was hers and hers alone—until he turned her world upside down.
Best not think about that now. The betrayal still cut deep. She grabbed the flowered top and tucked it into her skirt. Outside her bedroom door, she could hear Roman on the phone, speaking in an animated half English, half Spanish voice. “Vete a la chingada,” he shouted.
She wished Dulce was there to translate, though she was pretty sure he was just cussing. Frowning at the mirror, she skimmed a comb through her hair, her scalp still tender from Lito’s kicks. Her hair hung like wet yarn, except for her bangs, which tilted upward in complete defiance of gravity.
Roman’s voice quieted, becoming almost polite. “Yes, sir. But she’s been out of commission for a few days. But we’ll make it up.”
Great! She’d have to work longer hours tonight. Roman was probably talking to Jefe. Just outside the window, her lizard was back. He seemed to be peering in, his pale stomach against the screen. Under his throat, a bright pink ball appeared, then shrunk as he exhaled. She loved the color of it, a Gatorade hue, contrasting against the emerald green of his skin. An anole, she realized, remembering a photo in one of Brandon’s books back when he was in his all-things reptile phase. She touched the mesh where the lizard’s belly rested. “Wish I had something to feed you . . . and me.”
In the living room, Roman continued his conversation. “We could use another girl or two, especially working the streets with Dulce.”
The lizard moved up the screen. A hole gaped open at the top, and she coaxed him to it. She would catch him, bring him into her room and hide him in a shoebox. She’d love to have a pet. Roman and Dulce would never know he was there. “Come closer, little guy,” she whispered. “Just a few more steps.” But he had other plans. He flared his dewlap again, quite the showoff, this one, and moseyed up the screen, soon out of sight.
“I don’t blame you.” This was better.
One prisoner in this room was enough.
She moved to the small dressing table and chose the brown eyeliner, using a heavier hand than normal, a fierce slash to frame each eye. It made her look older, and that felt right. She applied the dark blue shadow in a wide arc under her brow, then dabbed an extra stroke of blush on her cheek. Could she pass for eighteen? Twenty?
“Yes, sir, I will,” Roman said, and she heard him hang up. A second later, he stood in her doorway. Sweat dampened his black hair. His unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, covered with too vivid orange poppies, flapped open around his stomach. He scowled and said, “Not that outfit. The light pink dress. Now hurry.”
She didn’t want to wear the light pink one because it was so short it showed the marks on her thighs. Roman seemed to enjoy the bruises, as if they were something to be proud of.
She closed the door, found the ugly pink dress, and slipped it on. Her ribs stung when she touched them, but not as bad as before. Every day, she got a little better. A little stronger. This was important, because soon she might be ready to escape again.
When Roman pushed his way back into her room, she hurried back to the mirror.
“Take that crap off your eye. You look like a whore.”
“Isn’t that what I am?” Kitten spoke to his reflection in her mirror.
“Watch your mouth.” When he grabbed a tissue, and rubbed it into her face, it felt like sandpaper removing paint. She snatched it from him. She could smell the weed he’d been smoking. As she swiped the makeup from her eyelids, he said, “Better. A pretty little girl. Just what they want.”
“What shoes?” she asked.
“White sneakers. Pink socks. Hurry.”
She did not hurry. Roman moved to the narrow hall, rapping his ring against the jamb like a ticking clock, as she slowly laced up her shoes. So what if he was pissed at her again. He was always pissed at her these days.
“Ready, Princess?”
She followed him out the door, down the steps, and up the dark, dusty road to the cantina. He didn’t hold the door to the bar for her like he used to, but she didn’t mind. This was more honest. Before, he’d fuss over her, walk her to the back table, order a soda for her with an umbrella and straw. It was all show, of course; he wanted the men who came there to see her as something special. Once outside of the cantina, Roman treated her like a stray dog begging for scraps.
She went to her usual table and scanned the crowd. The man with the fat arms and tattoos wasn’t there, but he didn’t usually arrive until late. The short man who smelled like car grease sat at the end of the bar. He would want her if he had the money. When he winked at her, she smiled coyly then looked away, a flirting technique she’d been trained to do. Getting a trick under her belt would pacify Roman and make her life easier.
Closer to the suspended TV sat someone new. He wore a dark leather jacket and cowboy boots. His gray hair, cut in a buzz, was so perfectly flat it could have been a desk. He sipped whiskey from a squat glass.
Roman eyed the bartender who nodded at the new guy, which meant he had money. Roman walked over to him and ordered a glass of tequila. She couldn’t hear their conversation but didn’t need to. A wad of bills appeared; he slid a few down the bar. After Roman pocketed them, he waved her over.
“This is Kitten,” Roman said, his arm resting on her shoulder as though he cared about her. “She’s the date you want. She’s new in town.” New in town was a code he used. New in town meant she was still a teenager, so the buyer paid extra. Roman could have entire conversations that never included the words sex or prostitute, but they all led to taking a buyer. “Better that way,” he once told her. “In case the police try to scam me.”
“You’re mighty beautiful, Miss New-in-Town.” The man brushed a knuckle under her chin.
“Take him to the trailer.” Roman leaned in to add, “And don’t even think about trying anything. You better be back here in a half hour.”
She nodded. She took the buyer’s hand and led him out. She knew the rules. She’d play by them until she had another chance to run.
When they entered the hotbox that had become her residence, the buyer hesitated in the doorway. Some buyers did that—seized by guilt or regret. “Everything okay?” she asked.
He flashed a sad smile. “You don’t have to . . . service me.”
“I’ll give you a good time, I promise.” If she didn’t satisfy him, there’d be hell to pay with Roman.
“I’m sure you would, but that’s not why I’m here.” He moved to the center of the small living room, scanning the walls, the furniture, and the nasty rug.
“What do you mean?”
He picked up an ashtray from the scarred coffee table and examined its contents, mostly joints smoked down to nubs. When he pulled a plastic bag from his pocket and deposited two into it, she asked, “What are you doing?”
“Don’t mind me.” He moved the desk behind Roman’s duct-taped easy chair, and opened every drawer, examining the contents.
“Are you . . . robbing us?”
His laugh was gruff. “No, I’m not robbing you. I’m doing my job.” He fanned through a stack of Roman’s losing lottery tickets as though looking for something, but she had no idea what.
“Roman doesn’t like people to go through his stuff.”
“He won’t know unless you tell him. Are you going to tell him?”
She couldn’t figure this guy out. Why is he here? Should I go get Roman?
“Are you the police?”
“Not important. Look. I can help you if you help me.”
“What kind of help?”
“You ignore me for the next ten minutes. Then we’ll go back, I tell your pimp that you gave me a great time. Win-win.”
It didn’t feel like winning, but as long as he didn’t take anything, and she didn’t have to have him inside her . . .
“Good.” He continued his search, looking under furniture and in kitchen drawers and cabinets. In the bathroom, he clawed through the items under the sink, embarrassing her when he found sanitary products.
The bedrooms took less time, and she stood in the door to her room as he pawed through drawers and searched the closet. He paused to look at the photo of her family. She didn’t like any eyes but hers to see that picture. Buyers never bothered to look.
He returned everything as it was before he’d arrived. He looked at his watch. “Been long enough?”
She nodded.
“Then let’s head back to the cantina. Remember, tell nobody what happened here. That’ll make it easier for me to help you.”
“If you’re the police—can you take me with you?”
His gaze softened. She stared at him, her eyes pleading, but he shook his head. “That’s not an option. But I need you to keep quiet about my visit. Got it?”
She sank in disappointment. He pointed to the door, and she escorted him back to the cantina. Of course, he won’t help me. I can only count on myself.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Watching Clancy waddle up the hall, blowing by medical staff who knew better than to stand in her way, her eyes wild like a woman on a mission, made me want to both laugh and hide. She hadn’t even reached our offices when she waved an arm and said, “She’s looking for you! She’s on her way here!”
I gripped the doorknob. “Not—”
“Oh yeah. She was searching for you in the ED. Said she’d messaged you on your cell.”
She had. I’d ignored them. I dropped my keys trying to unlock the door. As I snatched them up, Clancy hurried into her office and sat, looking busy and unapproachable. What could I do? Hide under the desk? Bolt the door closed and pretend I’d left the building?
“Georgia!” Too late. There stood Tiffany, all eighty-five pounds of her, dressed in a tailored navy suit jacket that accentuated her twenty-inch waist. In her hand was a tablet in a rhinestone-encrusted case. “I need a few minutes.”
“I’m pretty busy—”
“Richard asked me to speak with you.” Tiffany pursed her etched lips, accentuating the Richard. Like he needed accentuating. He was the hospital CEO, and Tiffany was his very dedicated—too dedicated—assistant. And lover, we were pretty sure.
“About?” I leaned against the desk, blocking the chair where she might try to sit.
“First, tell me how you’re doing. I can’t imagine how hard it’s been for you, with Mrs. Ribault’s disappearance and all.”
“I’m peachy. But thanks for asking.”
“We saw David this morning. He looks so devastated. How could he not? It’s just so upsetting. I’ve been so worried that I’ve hardly slept at all. And my appetite’s fled! Richard says I’ve lost some weight. What do you think?” She slipped a pink-nailed finger under the waistband of her skirt, showing off her concave stomach.
“Maybe a little.” I’d never in my life met someone so self-absorbed. Behind her, Clancy opened a Snickers bar, taking a massive bite.
“And you. How are you managing the stress? We don’t want you getting . . . overwhelmed.” She stepped closer, squinting at my face as though she, armed with her bachelor’s degree from an online school, could assess my mental health.
“It’s all fine. I’m managing. Just very busy.”
“That’s good. We don’t want you to get sick over this. I mean, we have excellent mental health resources if you need them. I’m even thinking about talking to a counselor myself.”
“That’s a great idea, Tiffany. Don’t want you losing any more weight!” I forced a smile. Clancy tossed the Snickers wrapper in the trash. I spotted a second candy bar on her desk.
“I’m just saying that we understand about your . . . problems. We want to be supportive. Whatever you need.”
What I needed was for her to get out of my office. She was small enough that I could toss her, but that kind of behavior might get me in trouble. “I’m good.”
“I’m so glad to hear that. Okay. So why I’m here. We can’t afford to keep your Jane Doe. We need you to discharge her.”
I should have known. Without an identity, we had no clue if Jane had health insurance. The hospital hated racking up the cost of free medical care.
Tiffany flipped through a few screens on her iPad and showed me a billing sheet. Therapy sessions, medication costs . . . all spelled out in dollars and cents. Mental health recovery is not cheap. “Dr. Westfall says she’s not a danger to herself or others, so we can let her go.”
“We don’t know that! She’s still psychotic. We don’t know where she lives. If she even has a home.”
Unfazed, Tiffany clicked the billing information. “By tomorrow.”
I looked over at Clancy whose scowl matched exactly how I was feeling. Time for a different strategy. I lowered my head. “This is my fault. I should have tried harder to find out who she is. I’ve been so distracted by Peyton and trying to find her, and worried about Lindsay and David and I just couldn’t—” I got myself worked up. Let a few tears bloom.
“Oh, Georgia.” Tiffany cocked her head at me.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Can’t you tell Richard that I just need a few more days? That if I can’t find out who she is by, I don’t know, Wednesday, that we can discharge her then?”
Tiffany sighed, her scrawny shoulders lifting up and falling. “Well, I don’t—”
“Please, Tiffany. If anyone can convince him, it’s you.” I blinked at her, my lips pulled in tight as though I might start bawling at any second.
“Okay. I’ll talk to him. Maybe we can buy you a few more days.”
“Thank you.” I moved closer. “You’re the best.”
“Let me know if you get anywhere with Ms. Doe.” As Tiffany turned and exited, Clancy approached me.
“And the Oscar goes to . . .” she said.
“Shut up. It worked, didn’t it?”
“Sometimes you scare me.” She tossed me the remaining chocolate bar. “Want me to check on Jane?”
“That would be great.”
“You’re going out to look for Peyton again?”
“I’ve got a few more places I need to check out.”
“Please be careful,” she cautioned.
“Where do you live?” Drew asked.
She shot him some side-eye. He was a stranger. Nice. Cute. “A few blocks away.”
“Smart girl. If your parents don’t give you a phone for protection, at least you know not to give out too much personal information. Not till you trust me.” He winked. “And you will. I am very trustable.”
His swagger endeared her. Brandon’s coach blew a whistle and all the boys clustered around him. Practice was over.
“Your brother plays?” Drew asked.
She nodded. “Not very well, but he’s just six.”
“When does he practice again?”
Kitten felt a bubble of eagerness at the question. It meant he wanted to see her again. “Tuesday at four,” she said.
“I’ll be here, beautiful.”
As he started to climb the stands she yelled out, “Hey! What’s your name?”
“I’m Drew.”
“Drew,” she repeated. He tipped his fingers in a mock salute and scurried off.
“Man of mystery,” she whispered to herself.
Drew came to every Tee-ball practice that month. She asked him if he had a friend or sibling on the team and he answered, “No, I’m here for you.” The third time he came, he handed her a small package with a gold ribbon around it. “Open it,” he said.
Inside was a smartphone, the kind other kids had at school. She marveled at the colorful icons scattered on the screen. She’d never actually held one before.
“For you, beautiful.” Drew took her hand and kissed it so lightly it felt like a butterfly dancing on her knuckles.
“I . . . I can’t accept this.” Tears pricked her eyes as she tried to hand it back. The Garrisons would never pay for a cell plan, and if they did, one of their kids would steal it.
“You can. I’ve bought you three months of service. My cell number is programmed in. You can text or call me any time you want.”
She took a shuddery breath. Nobody had ever given a gift like this. Not her mom. Not her caseworker or any of her foster parents. No one.
Drew reached over and stroked her hair. “Maybe we keep this gift a secret. Don’t tell your foster parents. Don’t tell anyone. Can you keep it hidden?”
She nodded. She was very skilled at squirreling away things. She kept crackers and Oreos in her underwear drawer, in case Brandon got hungry after supper. Her mother’s turquoise earrings, which she’d borrowed the night they were taken away—rested in the toe of a rain boot.
Her phone fit nicely under the mattress when she slept. The rest of the time she’d keep it with her, in the one pocket of her book bag that had a working zipper. Her pack would shimmy during class when texts came in, and she’d imagine the sweet or funny message that arrived at least ten times a day.
She loved every moment she spent with Drew. The gifts kept coming: a sweater, a pink pair of Keds, a romance novel, and even though she’d never read one, and found it too suggestive, she told him she loved it.
Sometimes, when he held her gaze, an intensity pulled at them, like he could pour himself into her through his black irises. She couldn’t breathe. She could not get close enough to him. It was new and exciting and filled every part of her. Drew was hers and hers alone—until he turned her world upside down.
Best not think about that now. The betrayal still cut deep. She grabbed the flowered top and tucked it into her skirt. Outside her bedroom door, she could hear Roman on the phone, speaking in an animated half English, half Spanish voice. “Vete a la chingada,” he shouted.
She wished Dulce was there to translate, though she was pretty sure he was just cussing. Frowning at the mirror, she skimmed a comb through her hair, her scalp still tender from Lito’s kicks. Her hair hung like wet yarn, except for her bangs, which tilted upward in complete defiance of gravity.
Roman’s voice quieted, becoming almost polite. “Yes, sir. But she’s been out of commission for a few days. But we’ll make it up.”
Great! She’d have to work longer hours tonight. Roman was probably talking to Jefe. Just outside the window, her lizard was back. He seemed to be peering in, his pale stomach against the screen. Under his throat, a bright pink ball appeared, then shrunk as he exhaled. She loved the color of it, a Gatorade hue, contrasting against the emerald green of his skin. An anole, she realized, remembering a photo in one of Brandon’s books back when he was in his all-things reptile phase. She touched the mesh where the lizard’s belly rested. “Wish I had something to feed you . . . and me.”
In the living room, Roman continued his conversation. “We could use another girl or two, especially working the streets with Dulce.”
The lizard moved up the screen. A hole gaped open at the top, and she coaxed him to it. She would catch him, bring him into her room and hide him in a shoebox. She’d love to have a pet. Roman and Dulce would never know he was there. “Come closer, little guy,” she whispered. “Just a few more steps.” But he had other plans. He flared his dewlap again, quite the showoff, this one, and moseyed up the screen, soon out of sight.
“I don’t blame you.” This was better.
One prisoner in this room was enough.
She moved to the small dressing table and chose the brown eyeliner, using a heavier hand than normal, a fierce slash to frame each eye. It made her look older, and that felt right. She applied the dark blue shadow in a wide arc under her brow, then dabbed an extra stroke of blush on her cheek. Could she pass for eighteen? Twenty?
“Yes, sir, I will,” Roman said, and she heard him hang up. A second later, he stood in her doorway. Sweat dampened his black hair. His unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, covered with too vivid orange poppies, flapped open around his stomach. He scowled and said, “Not that outfit. The light pink dress. Now hurry.”
She didn’t want to wear the light pink one because it was so short it showed the marks on her thighs. Roman seemed to enjoy the bruises, as if they were something to be proud of.
She closed the door, found the ugly pink dress, and slipped it on. Her ribs stung when she touched them, but not as bad as before. Every day, she got a little better. A little stronger. This was important, because soon she might be ready to escape again.
When Roman pushed his way back into her room, she hurried back to the mirror.
“Take that crap off your eye. You look like a whore.”
“Isn’t that what I am?” Kitten spoke to his reflection in her mirror.
“Watch your mouth.” When he grabbed a tissue, and rubbed it into her face, it felt like sandpaper removing paint. She snatched it from him. She could smell the weed he’d been smoking. As she swiped the makeup from her eyelids, he said, “Better. A pretty little girl. Just what they want.”
“What shoes?” she asked.
“White sneakers. Pink socks. Hurry.”
She did not hurry. Roman moved to the narrow hall, rapping his ring against the jamb like a ticking clock, as she slowly laced up her shoes. So what if he was pissed at her again. He was always pissed at her these days.
“Ready, Princess?”
She followed him out the door, down the steps, and up the dark, dusty road to the cantina. He didn’t hold the door to the bar for her like he used to, but she didn’t mind. This was more honest. Before, he’d fuss over her, walk her to the back table, order a soda for her with an umbrella and straw. It was all show, of course; he wanted the men who came there to see her as something special. Once outside of the cantina, Roman treated her like a stray dog begging for scraps.
She went to her usual table and scanned the crowd. The man with the fat arms and tattoos wasn’t there, but he didn’t usually arrive until late. The short man who smelled like car grease sat at the end of the bar. He would want her if he had the money. When he winked at her, she smiled coyly then looked away, a flirting technique she’d been trained to do. Getting a trick under her belt would pacify Roman and make her life easier.
Closer to the suspended TV sat someone new. He wore a dark leather jacket and cowboy boots. His gray hair, cut in a buzz, was so perfectly flat it could have been a desk. He sipped whiskey from a squat glass.
Roman eyed the bartender who nodded at the new guy, which meant he had money. Roman walked over to him and ordered a glass of tequila. She couldn’t hear their conversation but didn’t need to. A wad of bills appeared; he slid a few down the bar. After Roman pocketed them, he waved her over.
“This is Kitten,” Roman said, his arm resting on her shoulder as though he cared about her. “She’s the date you want. She’s new in town.” New in town was a code he used. New in town meant she was still a teenager, so the buyer paid extra. Roman could have entire conversations that never included the words sex or prostitute, but they all led to taking a buyer. “Better that way,” he once told her. “In case the police try to scam me.”
“You’re mighty beautiful, Miss New-in-Town.” The man brushed a knuckle under her chin.
“Take him to the trailer.” Roman leaned in to add, “And don’t even think about trying anything. You better be back here in a half hour.”
She nodded. She took the buyer’s hand and led him out. She knew the rules. She’d play by them until she had another chance to run.
When they entered the hotbox that had become her residence, the buyer hesitated in the doorway. Some buyers did that—seized by guilt or regret. “Everything okay?” she asked.
He flashed a sad smile. “You don’t have to . . . service me.”
“I’ll give you a good time, I promise.” If she didn’t satisfy him, there’d be hell to pay with Roman.
“I’m sure you would, but that’s not why I’m here.” He moved to the center of the small living room, scanning the walls, the furniture, and the nasty rug.
“What do you mean?”
He picked up an ashtray from the scarred coffee table and examined its contents, mostly joints smoked down to nubs. When he pulled a plastic bag from his pocket and deposited two into it, she asked, “What are you doing?”
“Don’t mind me.” He moved the desk behind Roman’s duct-taped easy chair, and opened every drawer, examining the contents.
“Are you . . . robbing us?”
His laugh was gruff. “No, I’m not robbing you. I’m doing my job.” He fanned through a stack of Roman’s losing lottery tickets as though looking for something, but she had no idea what.
“Roman doesn’t like people to go through his stuff.”
“He won’t know unless you tell him. Are you going to tell him?”
She couldn’t figure this guy out. Why is he here? Should I go get Roman?
“Are you the police?”
“Not important. Look. I can help you if you help me.”
“What kind of help?”
“You ignore me for the next ten minutes. Then we’ll go back, I tell your pimp that you gave me a great time. Win-win.”
It didn’t feel like winning, but as long as he didn’t take anything, and she didn’t have to have him inside her . . .
“Good.” He continued his search, looking under furniture and in kitchen drawers and cabinets. In the bathroom, he clawed through the items under the sink, embarrassing her when he found sanitary products.
The bedrooms took less time, and she stood in the door to her room as he pawed through drawers and searched the closet. He paused to look at the photo of her family. She didn’t like any eyes but hers to see that picture. Buyers never bothered to look.
He returned everything as it was before he’d arrived. He looked at his watch. “Been long enough?”
She nodded.
“Then let’s head back to the cantina. Remember, tell nobody what happened here. That’ll make it easier for me to help you.”
“If you’re the police—can you take me with you?”
His gaze softened. She stared at him, her eyes pleading, but he shook his head. “That’s not an option. But I need you to keep quiet about my visit. Got it?”
She sank in disappointment. He pointed to the door, and she escorted him back to the cantina. Of course, he won’t help me. I can only count on myself.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Watching Clancy waddle up the hall, blowing by medical staff who knew better than to stand in her way, her eyes wild like a woman on a mission, made me want to both laugh and hide. She hadn’t even reached our offices when she waved an arm and said, “She’s looking for you! She’s on her way here!”
I gripped the doorknob. “Not—”
“Oh yeah. She was searching for you in the ED. Said she’d messaged you on your cell.”
She had. I’d ignored them. I dropped my keys trying to unlock the door. As I snatched them up, Clancy hurried into her office and sat, looking busy and unapproachable. What could I do? Hide under the desk? Bolt the door closed and pretend I’d left the building?
“Georgia!” Too late. There stood Tiffany, all eighty-five pounds of her, dressed in a tailored navy suit jacket that accentuated her twenty-inch waist. In her hand was a tablet in a rhinestone-encrusted case. “I need a few minutes.”
“I’m pretty busy—”
“Richard asked me to speak with you.” Tiffany pursed her etched lips, accentuating the Richard. Like he needed accentuating. He was the hospital CEO, and Tiffany was his very dedicated—too dedicated—assistant. And lover, we were pretty sure.
“About?” I leaned against the desk, blocking the chair where she might try to sit.
“First, tell me how you’re doing. I can’t imagine how hard it’s been for you, with Mrs. Ribault’s disappearance and all.”
“I’m peachy. But thanks for asking.”
“We saw David this morning. He looks so devastated. How could he not? It’s just so upsetting. I’ve been so worried that I’ve hardly slept at all. And my appetite’s fled! Richard says I’ve lost some weight. What do you think?” She slipped a pink-nailed finger under the waistband of her skirt, showing off her concave stomach.
“Maybe a little.” I’d never in my life met someone so self-absorbed. Behind her, Clancy opened a Snickers bar, taking a massive bite.
“And you. How are you managing the stress? We don’t want you getting . . . overwhelmed.” She stepped closer, squinting at my face as though she, armed with her bachelor’s degree from an online school, could assess my mental health.
“It’s all fine. I’m managing. Just very busy.”
“That’s good. We don’t want you to get sick over this. I mean, we have excellent mental health resources if you need them. I’m even thinking about talking to a counselor myself.”
“That’s a great idea, Tiffany. Don’t want you losing any more weight!” I forced a smile. Clancy tossed the Snickers wrapper in the trash. I spotted a second candy bar on her desk.
“I’m just saying that we understand about your . . . problems. We want to be supportive. Whatever you need.”
What I needed was for her to get out of my office. She was small enough that I could toss her, but that kind of behavior might get me in trouble. “I’m good.”
“I’m so glad to hear that. Okay. So why I’m here. We can’t afford to keep your Jane Doe. We need you to discharge her.”
I should have known. Without an identity, we had no clue if Jane had health insurance. The hospital hated racking up the cost of free medical care.
Tiffany flipped through a few screens on her iPad and showed me a billing sheet. Therapy sessions, medication costs . . . all spelled out in dollars and cents. Mental health recovery is not cheap. “Dr. Westfall says she’s not a danger to herself or others, so we can let her go.”
“We don’t know that! She’s still psychotic. We don’t know where she lives. If she even has a home.”
Unfazed, Tiffany clicked the billing information. “By tomorrow.”
I looked over at Clancy whose scowl matched exactly how I was feeling. Time for a different strategy. I lowered my head. “This is my fault. I should have tried harder to find out who she is. I’ve been so distracted by Peyton and trying to find her, and worried about Lindsay and David and I just couldn’t—” I got myself worked up. Let a few tears bloom.
“Oh, Georgia.” Tiffany cocked her head at me.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. Can’t you tell Richard that I just need a few more days? That if I can’t find out who she is by, I don’t know, Wednesday, that we can discharge her then?”
Tiffany sighed, her scrawny shoulders lifting up and falling. “Well, I don’t—”
“Please, Tiffany. If anyone can convince him, it’s you.” I blinked at her, my lips pulled in tight as though I might start bawling at any second.
“Okay. I’ll talk to him. Maybe we can buy you a few more days.”
“Thank you.” I moved closer. “You’re the best.”
“Let me know if you get anywhere with Ms. Doe.” As Tiffany turned and exited, Clancy approached me.
“And the Oscar goes to . . .” she said.
“Shut up. It worked, didn’t it?”
“Sometimes you scare me.” She tossed me the remaining chocolate bar. “Want me to check on Jane?”
“That would be great.”
“You’re going out to look for Peyton again?”
“I’ve got a few more places I need to check out.”
“Please be careful,” she cautioned.
