Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

“I’m really sorry this happened,” Shelton said.

This was the person we’d spoken to in the park the day of the murder, not the hard, cold woman who had pulled me over. “I’m so worried.”

“She’s one of our own, so we’re all troubled, but your worry is different. More intense.” Shelton glanced at the array of sofas and chairs that filled the room. “Where’s Ritaestelle?”

“I had to leave her alone. And that’s bothering me, too. What if this person comes after her next?”

“Do you know of some specific reason they might do that?” Shelton had slipped back into cop role.

“Who knows what any of this is about? But she didn’t feel safe at home. That should tell you something.” Again, my anxiety made me sound curt.

Shelton checked her watch. “It’s late. I wouldn’t want to wake her, but I could park outside your house, make sure nothing happens to her. How’s that?”

“You’d do that?” I said.

“She and I are friends, even if I was stupid enough to have been suspicious of her in the last few months.”

I wanted to hug the woman. “Oh my gosh, I’d feel so much better if you’d do that.”

“I’ll leave right now,” she said.

Nancy Shelton, always in her blue suit with its shiny buttons and those comfortable-looking shoes, left. Why couldn’t Lydia take a clue from a professional? The thought of Lydia made me glance around, wondering if she was hanging around, too, but I didn’t see her—and I sure didn’t want to.

I checked the cat-cam feed on my cell phone and saw Ritaestelle sitting on the sofa. I noticed that she’d gotten dressed. Maybe she decided she wouldn’t be sleeping at all tonight, and in her world, I imagined that being awake meant being dressed. She was entertaining Syrah and Merlot with a feather toy while the other cats were batting buttons around.

Though I hated to disturb Ritaestelle, I didn’t want her to freak out if she heard a car outside. I didn’t see the telephone near her when I’d been checking on them, but she answered on the first ring, so she must have put it beside her.

“Jillian? Is that you?” she asked.

“Yes. I wanted—”

“How is Deputy Carson?” she asked. “I have been so concerned.”

“We don’t have any word on her condition yet. I’m calling because Chief Shelton decided to drive over and make sure you’re all right.”

“That is truly unnecessary, Jillian,” Ritaestelle said. “I have been scrutinized so much in the last few months, I must say being here alone feels safe.”

“She might not even come to the door, said she planned on parking outside to watch the house,” I said. “But since I saw you were awake when I peeked in on my cat cam, I wanted you to know she’d be hanging around.”

“That is very kind of you, and I did not mean to sound as if I were complaining,” Ritaestelle said. “You have been generous to a fault. Please call me back when you know anything about Deputy Carson. She is on my mind and in my prayers.”

We said good-bye, and I slipped my phone into my pocket. I still wondered where Kara was. But of course she knew Candace’s mother since Candace’s mom was always dropping by the apartment building. Those two could be together.

I didn’t see any reason why I had to wait here, clueless. No. I had to find them. So I left the waiting room and followed the signs to the ICU. Sure enough, they were sitting in the padded chairs that lined the wall across from the ICU doors. A desk between the doors and the visitors seemed almost like a blockade. A woman wearing scrubs sat at the desk focused on a computer monitor.

This is where I should have come to begin with—but like a good girl, I had to follow directions and go to that other place.

When Candace’s mother saw me, she stood and hurried to embrace me. Soon my shoulder was wet with her tears. “Why did this happen, Jillian? And why did she ever think she could do such a dangerous job?”

I hugged Belinda Carson tightly and said, “Can you imagine her doing anything else?”

Belinda pulled away and dabbed beneath her eyes with a crumpled tissue. “No. You’re right. But if I lose her . . .”

Again I said, “Candace is tough. She’ll come through this just fine. They’ve told you she’ll be all right, haven’t they?” This had to be true. It had to be.

“They haven’t told us anything, Jillian, and I am getting so upset waiting here, and—”

Kara said, “Why don’t you stay off your feet, Belinda? This might be a long night.” She put her hands on Belinda’s upper arms and guided her back to her chair.

A large brown paper sack sat on the floor, and Belinda looked at it. “That’s her uniform. There’s blood on it. Her poor head was bleeding so much.”

I gripped her hand, and Kara put her arm around Belinda’s shoulders. We all sat in a row, silent except for Belinda’s small hiccuping sobs.

Finally she seemed to gather herself. “Candace would be so angry with me for crying like a baby. But she’s not a mother, and—”

“She wouldn’t be angry,” I said. “I’ll bet she’s in there right now telling them they need to make sure you’re all right.”

“I saw her in the emergency room,” Belinda said softly. “She was so still, and her beautiful hair was all matted with blood, and they said they’d have to shave some of it away to stitch up the gash, and—”

“Shh.” I squeezed her cold hand tighter. “Everything will—”

A balding man came out through the ICU doors and said, “Mrs. Carson?”

Belinda stood. “That’s me. How is my girl? Will she be all right?”

The man walked over and introduced himself as Dr. Patrick, a neurologist. He then said, “Your daughter woke up about five minutes ago. She is hungry and thirsty and quite irritable.” He smiled. “Those are all good signs.”

Belinda’s knees buckled, and it was a good thing Kara and I were on either side to catch her or the ICU might have had another patient.

“Can we see her?” Belinda said.

“Sure.” He looked at Kara and then at me. “But are these ladies relatives?”

“As good as family. Why do you ask?”

“I want her visitors limited to family, but if she has these two sisters , well, I see no problem.” Dr. Patrick winked. “Do you mind if we discuss your daughter’s condition with them present?”

“I do not mind in the least. They might have to explain everything to me later, the state I’m in.” Belinda smiled for the first time. Candace’s smile. It tugged at my heart.

Dr. Patrick said, “Before you visit her—and family can come in one at a time on the half hour—we’re going to give Candace a mild sedative. She’s being quite, um . . . animated right now, but since she has a grade-three concussion, she needs rest. Encourage her to stay calm. We’ll be observing her for any signs of bleeding in the brain for the next twenty-four hours. I have to say, you daughter has one hard head. No fractured skull. She does have twenty-three stitches, though.”

“Twenty-three? Oh my word,” Belinda said.

“But you’re saying she’ll be okay? With this grade-three concussion? What does that mean, anyway?” I said.

Dr. Patrick looked at me. “Sorry. We do have to code injuries. Grade three simply means someone has lost consciousness for longer than, say, thirty minutes and thus the concussion is more severe. That doesn’t mean she won’t have a full recovery. But I also expect her to have mild neurological symptoms for the next few weeks. Short-term memory loss, the irritability we’re already seeing, headaches, trouble finding the right word for something. All of these symptoms should clear up with time.”