Claire and Cooper walked up to them. “I’m Claire Kelly and this is my associate, Cooper Lockman.” It had been so long since she used her real name, it felt foreign on her tongue.
Claire identified herself with the private investigator badge that sat next to her primary identification. Her ID was checked quickly and given back.
They scrutinized Cooper’s a little closer. “Bodyguard and private security?” the officer holding Cooper’s identification asked.
“My retired military credentials are on the next page.”
After checking, the police officer gave it back. “Thank you for your service, Mr. Lockman.”
Claire and Cooper followed the officers and entered the elevator.
“Are either of you interviewing the witness?”
“No, ma’am. Detective Phelps is on the floor waiting for your arrival.”
Neil must have known they wouldn’t waste time getting to the hospital.
Cooper kept completely quiet, his body tense, eyes sharp.
The elevator stopped on their floor. Claire heard the click of her shoes as the scents that permeated medical buildings filled her nose. The first section of the floor was bustling with hospital staff, nurses, and doctors. Many stopped to watch them as they passed by. They took the first corner and angled down another long hall before stopping in front of a single door with a phone on the outside.
Along with a few nerves, some of Claire’s spidey sense began to tingle. She wasn’t sure if it was anticipation at what might be the break in the case they needed, or worry that something was going to go wrong.
One of the officers spoke into the phone, and someone buzzed them in.
The door emptied them into an ICU. One of the officers stayed behind, a single chair his only comfort.
The unit was significantly quieter than the one they’d passed through. Less staff and even fewer civilians.
All the rooms were completely visible from the central nurses’ station. The only patient privacy was a curtain that could be pulled around a bed. Very few were pulled. Claire averted her eyes to avoid looking at the other patients in the unit, most of whom were either on a ventilator or hooked up to so many tubes and machines it was hard to tell if they were a man or a woman.
They arrived at Marie’s room, the curtain pulled so they couldn’t immediately see her.
A middle-aged woman in street clothes hovered outside the door. She smiled as they approached.
“Detective Phelps?” Claire asked.
“You must be Miss Kelly.”
The two of them exchanged identification. Cooper showed his and stood back.
Detective Phelps shuffled them a few feet from the open door to Marie’s room. “I’m glad you could come so quickly. She fades as the day goes on.”
“How is she?”
“Good as can be expected, I suppose.”
“We weren’t given a lot of details,” Cooper told her.
A nurse walked into Marie’s room with a bag of IV fluids.
“My commander’s orders were to tell you what I know.”
“Have you identified the other two victims?”
“Not yet.”
“Has she told you who they were?” Cooper asked.
Phelps looked at Cooper. “She hasn’t told us anything. The staff came up with the name Hope. Boyer was a random computer name.”
“Excuse me, Detective?” The nurse that had walked into the room interrupted them.
They all turned.
“We’re going to have to do a dressing change soon. If anyone needs to talk to her, now would be the time.”
“Thanks, Millie.”
One of the housekeepers took that moment to walk past them pushing a cleaning cart out of the ICU.
Claire used the distraction to take a deep breath.
Phelps turned her attention to Cooper. “I guarantee you she won’t talk if you go in there. She doesn’t trust men.”
Claire placed a hand on Cooper’s arm. “I’m okay.” She turned to walk into the room, paused. “What is the extent of her injuries?”
“They didn’t tell you?”
“We have a lot of questions and not a lot of information.”
Phelps looked between them. “After brutal abuse, they tried to burn her alive.”
Claire felt bile rise in the back of her throat. Hearing those details wasn’t something she was looking forward to.
Her expression must have shown her unease, since Cooper placed a hand on her shoulder.
Claire reached in her purse and turned on a recording device before squaring her shoulders and walking into the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The mug shot of Marie Nickerson looked nothing like the teenager who morphed into what looked like a breathing airbed.
Her eyes were closed. Bandages covered her neck and chest, her hair had either been burned or shaved to the scalp. Bruises in all stages of healing were a dark rainbow of colors. What wasn’t bruised was swollen. She lay on the bed like something out of a cartoon meme, of a person in a body cast with all four limbs stretched away from her body. Knees supported by pillows in a slightly bent position, arms extended and elevated. Her hands were both completely bandaged.
And there was something about the scent in the air Claire knew she’d remember for her entire life.
Marie’s eyes fluttered open, a moment of question swam in what looked like a sea of pure despair.
“Hello, Hope.”
The girl closed her eyes.
“My name is Claire.” She moved a little closer. “Do you mind if I sit down?”
She didn’t answer.
Claire pulled a chair closer to the side of the bed that housed fewer medical devices. She sat and secured her purse in the chair beside her.
The sound of the bed humming and the devices on her legs squeezing them filled the silence.
“It looks like they’re taking really good care of you.”
Marie turned her head away, slightly.
Get her talking, Claire’s inner monologue chimed. Anything to start the flow of words. Any words.
“Do you want me to call you Hope? I was told the nurses gave that to you. Everyone seems to care about your recovery.”
Still nothing.
“There’s a lot of protection, too. Everyone’s making sure you’re safe.”
Marie swallowed and looked at Claire without turning her head. “You a cop?” Her voice was tired and hoarse like a ninety-year-old woman who’d smoked all her life.
“No. I’m not a cop.”
“You’re a shrink.” And that didn’t interest her by the way she closed her eyes again as if ending the conversation.
“God no. I’d be a terrible shrink. I’m a private investigator.”
Marie looked now, turned her head. “You don’t look old enough.”
Claire chuckled. “I’m older on the inside.”
Her words brought the first sign of any emotion, and Claire ran with it. “I was forced to do well in school. And not in the typical way most think of.” She sighed. “Do you know why Beethoven was so great at such a young age? His father all but chained him to a piano, and he was forced to do nothing but play from the moment he could sit up and put his fingers on the keys. His first concert performance was when he was like six.” Claire shook her head, spoke slowly. “People get good at things they’re forced to do.”