Lisa Gardner - Live to Tell

Karen glared at her. “Myself, my staff, we are committed to healing children. Not hurting them.”

“People change.”

“No!” Karen blazed. “You don’t get it. This is a pediatric psych ward. We work as tightly together as any trauma team. And we succeed precisely because we know one another that well, we believe in one another that much. I’d trust anyone here to hand me a drink right now and I would down it without hesitation.”

D.D. waited to see if anyone would take Karen up on that offer. No one moved.

“Maybe that just proves you’re the guilty party,” D.D. said.

“I was the first to help him.”

“Maybe because you already knew something bad was going to happen.”

“How dare you! I’m a nurse-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” D.D. interrupted. “So you’ve said. Fact remains, someone drugged Lightfoot’s iced tea, and I’m guessing that someone is standing right here, unless you believe the unit’s negative energy suddenly grew a pair of hands.”

No one said a word, which D.D. took as a sign of agreement. She continued briskly: “Now, seems to me, problems here are growing bigger, not smaller. Meaning, it’s time for my team to take a crack at your team, and meaning no one’s allowed off this floor until personally cleared by a member of my squad. No trips to the cafeteria. No five-minute break to catch a smoke. Are we clear? Let’s get this party started. And candidate number one will be…” D.D. glanced around the common area, spotting her target of choice: “Gym Coach, follow me.”

Greg didn’t look happy. The big guy trailed down the hallway toward the BPD’s makeshift command center, his gaze glued to the carpet, his high-top sneakers dragging. It made D.D. feel warm and fuzzy all over. Always nice to know she wasn’t losing her touch.

Inside the classroom, Alex had set up the pizzas across one table. The scent of melted cheese, fresh-baked dough, and spicy pepperoni made D.D.’s stomach growl. There was probably something ironic about stuffing one’s face right after watching a grown man get poisoned, but D.D. was starving. Alex and several of the other guys had already dug in, munching away. They looked up with interest as D.D. closed the door behind her and Greg then headed straight for the pizza. She found the fully loaded pie and slid two cheesy slices onto a paper plate.

“Want some?” she asked Greg.

He shook his head.

“Soda, water, iced tea?”

He gave her a look. “No. Thank you.”

“I bet the food’s safer in here than out there,” she told him.

“I’m with Karen on this one,” he answered stiffly.

“Loyal to the Corps?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“’Course not. Cops. Hell, what could we possibly know about the importance of teamwork?”

The classroom door opened. Danielle walked in.

“Not your turn, chickadee,” D.D. informed her, through a mouthful of pizza. “Go back and play with your other friends.”

“Can’t,” Danielle said. “I’m on leave, right? Can’t stay out there, so Karen sent me in here.”

“Wanna talk? Fine. Alex will take you next door. Alex.” D.D. gestured to him, just as Danielle said:

“Nope.”

“Yes.”

“Nope.”

D.D. frowned, set down her paper plate, and strode over to Danielle. She stood right in the nurse’s face. Heightwise, D.D. had only an inch on the woman, but she knew how to use it. “This is a private party. Out.”

“No.”

“What the fuck is your problem?”

The nurse shifted edgily. “You. Him.” Danielle jerked her head toward Greg. “The whole fucking unit. You think you need answers? I need them even more. Meaning Greg has got to start talking.”

D.D. snapped around to glare at Greg. “Do you know what she means?”

He shook his head.

“Yes you do,” Danielle said, eyes still on D.D. “I heard you with the boy. You know Evan. From off the unit. How can that be, Greg? How do you know him, and why didn’t you tell us?”

“Danielle-”

“For God’s sake!” Danielle exploded. “Two families are dead, Greg. And Lucy. Plus, now Lightfoot’s hospitalized. How many more, Greg? Something’s terribly wrong. Someone’s hurting our kids. You need to start talking. How do you know Evan?”

D.D. stuck her hands on her hips. “Might as well confess now, buddy boy. Because none of us are letting you out of this room until you do.”

Greg remained standing there, lips thinned, face unreadable. He stared at Danielle. She stared back at him.

“I knew the families,” Greg said abruptly. “All of them. Outside of the unit. I’m the missing link.”

“I started respite work couple of years ago,” Greg was saying five minutes later. He was seated at the table, Danielle next to him, D.D. and Alex across from him. Despite his earlier refusal, he and Danielle were now both armed with cans of soda, which they had opened themselves and tasted carefully.

“At first, I worked for just one family. I’d met them here; their four-year-old daughter suffered from schizophrenia. They were talking about how hard it was to get a break, to have a date night, go for a walk, buy groceries. Neither of their families were equipped to handle Maria, and there was a waiting list for trained help. I felt bad, especially for the mom. You could tell she was losing it. So I offered to watch Maria while the parents had a night out.

“I didn’t accept money.” He said this more to Danielle than to D.D. and Alex. “I did it as a favor. It seemed like the right thing to do.”

Danielle nodded, tensely, her expression still guarded.

“But then they called me up again. They could use more help and they were willing to pay. Thirty bucks an hour. That’s more than I make here.”

“Thirty bucks an hour?” D.D. repeated.

“There’s a shortage of respite workers,” Danielle said, looking at D.D. and not Greg. “Not enough training available, not enough people suited for the work. Given that families with special-needs children can’t exactly hire the teenager down the street, the families end up held hostage. They have the highest burn job on the planet and can never take a day off. Meaning the ones who have means…”

“Pay well,” D.D. filled in.

“Very well,” Greg supplied, a tad self-conscious this time. “And they network with other families with special-needs kids, and once the word gets around…”

“You got a pretty good gig moonlighting as a respite worker.” D.D. frowned at him. “Why the secrecy, though?”

“It’s considered a breach of protocol. Like a conflict of interest. I’m already being paid to help with kids here. To set up a side deal with the parents…”

“Double-dipping?” D.D. asked.

“More like… I think in the past, there were situations where an individual MC might have seemed aggressive about it. Like he or she was preying on overwhelmed parents to get work. That led to some rules.”

“You’re not supposed to work with the families outside of the unit,” D.D. translated.

“Exactly.”

“But you have been. For years.”

Greg flushed, looked down. “I swear, I’ve never solicited the work. They call me, not the other way around. I wouldn’t prey. I wouldn’t do that.”

“So why are you breaking the rules?” D.D. asked. “You claim you’re a good guy, but clearly you’re not coloring within the lines.”

“Money,” he said softly, not looking at Danielle. “I need the money.”

“Need the money? Or want the money?” D.D. pressed.

“Need.”

“Why?”