Tara Quinn - The Good Father

“I wanted you to see this,” Dr. Claire Worthington said as soon as Ella approached the crib where the baby lay completely still. She saw the finger-shaped marks on the little guy’s thighs immediately.

“These look too big to be female,” Ella said. It was the first thought that sprang to mind.

“His grandmother brought him in. Said his mother’s under the weather.”

“His paternal grandmother?” Ella asked, assisting a nurse from the PICU as she taped a newly placed line.

The baby was more than five pounds underweight. “According to his medical records he’s lost four pounds since his check two weeks ago,” Dr. Worthington said. “The grandmother claims that the mother refused to let anyone use his G-tube. He was being bottle and spoon fed through his mouth.” The area around the feeding tube looked as though it hadn’t been touched in a couple days, at least. Which could easily have caused the infection.

“Has social services been called?” If not, they’d be the first call on Ella’s list when the doctor finished giving her orders and the little guy was settled.

“Not yet,” Dr. Worthington said, a grim look on her face. “I’ll be filling out a suspected abuse report and know that you’re the go-to person.”

“You suspect the mother?” But the bruises on the baby’s thigh...

“I think if Mom had done this, she’d be here, claiming that something was physically wrong with him. She’d be defending herself. It doesn’t fit that she’d let Grandma bring him in. Grandma didn’t stay—she just dropped him off and said she had to get back. She appeared nervous. Besides, these bruises, while clearly thumb-shaped, are too big.”

“I’ll give my High Risk Team contacts a call and get someone out to the house ASAP,” Ella said. She should have thought of it first, even before social services. For now, little Henry was in good hands. But his mother...

Filled with adrenaline, Ella forgot all about her break, about her ex-husband, and made her first call as a member of the Santa Raquel High Risk team.

She was needed.

And that was all that mattered.

* * *

BRETT WAS IN a hotel room in Washington late Thursday night, sitting at the desk with his laptop, going through the day’s email, when he saw the notice about Henry Burbank and his mother, Nora. He wasn’t a member of the High Risk team, but due to his relationship with The Lemonade Stand and his seat on the board, he received all emails pertaining to their work.

According to the police report from the day’s home visit, Nora showed no visible signs of bruising. The woman exhibited fear as she refused a physical examination. Her husband stood over her the entire time the officer was there and, though a female officer tried to coax her away, she refused to leave his side. The report stated that there were no signs of affection between the two, and Nora spent most of her time looking at the ground. The grandmother had alarming bruises on an arm that she claimed came from the banister when she started to slip going down the stairs. She also adamantly refused a physical examination.

There’d been one previous call to the police regarding the couple, from a neighbor claiming to have heard a loud male voice and something crashing, but when the officers had gone out, they hadn’t seen anything amiss, and all three adults in the home insisted that everything was fine. They’d all appeared to be in good health.

Mom, Dad and Grandma, all three, gave the exact same story regarding the bruises on baby Henry’s thighs. He’d moved suddenly while being changed, and his father had saved him from a fall off the changing table.

The mom, Nora, was being blamed by Dad and Grandma for the baby’s ill health, with claims that she’d force-fed him through his mouth, but the young mother had told police that she’d only ever used the G-tube to feed her son and had kept it cared for exactly as she’d been taught at the hospital. But when they’d asked how often the mother had fed her baby herself, as opposed to someone else feeding him, she’d clammed up.

Child Protective Services would be investigating further before the baby would be released back to his parents’ care.

They had nothing concrete at the moment to keep Ted Burbank away from his family. Which meant that the possibly abusive man had visitation rights at the hospital with his son, Henry.

Charge nurse Ella Ackerman, the ex–Mrs. Brett Ackerman, was on full alert.

Brett needed a drink.

* * *

ELLA WENT INTO work early Friday morning. She’d had a text from Rhonda, a four-to-twelve charge nurse, telling her that Henry’s mom had just called to say she was on her way in and would like them to hold off doing Henry’s early morning assessment so that she could be present. Rhonda’s text came because of the note Ella had left on Henry’s chart, telling everyone to let her know anytime Mom or Dad were present, or expected to be present.

Because there wasn’t enough evidence, or a family member willing to testify, the police couldn’t do anything for Henry or Nora yet. But Ella could. That was what the High Risk team was all about. Everyone working together to devise individual plans for the safety of high-risk victims, or potential victims. Henry coming to them with a life-threatening infection, signs of poor G-tube care and bruises made the case high risk.

And the team hoped that if Ella could get Nora alone, maybe the mother would speak more openly. At least Ella hoped so. She’d only spoken to one member of the team, an Officer Sanchez, from the Santa Raquel police department. Her first regular monthly High Risk team meeting, where she’d officially be introduced and meet everyone else, wouldn’t be until the following week.

She was being inducted by fire, the middle-aged officer had told her when he’d stopped by her apartment the night before. Thankfully Chloe had been giving Cody a bath, so Ella had had a few minutes to speak privately.

Ella was on the floor with a welcoming smile when Nora Burbank showed up at the exact time Rhonda had said to expect her. The twenty-year-old was in jeans with fancy stitching and jeweled pockets, and a T-shirt, both clean and newer-looking. Her dark, waist-length hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She had rhinestoned flip-flops on her feet. No tattoos. No makeup.

And no visible signs of physical abuse. Just as Juan Sanchez had relayed.

“You’re here alone?” she asked after she introduced herself as Henry’s nurse and walked the woman through the secure door to Pod B. Sanchez had warned her that Nora wasn’t likely to show up alone.

The young woman looked at the floor as she nodded. And otherwise kept her gaze trained in front of them. On the stations they were passing. Not on people. Not on the nurses and orderlies bustling about in the hall, nor on the young patients in cribs and those in need of an Isolette, who were situated in the open unit.

“Ted got called into work. He thinks I’m at home,” Nora said softly, chin almost to her chest. Ella had the impression that the soft tone was more the woman’s usual demeanor than a reaction to the very sick children around them. “His mom’s supposed to be watching me, but I went out the back door when she went to the restroom.”

Watching her?

“You drove yourself here?” They were nearing Henry’s crib.

“I don’t have a car,” Nora said. “I took the bus...” Nora’s words broke off as she caught sight of her son and hurried forward, tears in her eyes and a smile on her lips. The young woman was obviously comfortable around the various tubes connected to her son. And mindful of every single thing that happened over the next two hours. Nora assisted with bathing and changing the baby. She handled his feeding completely on her own. With the ease of a professional.