The click . . . click . . . click . . . of a man in a walker shuffling past the open door of Ms. Eidenschink’s hospital room blended with the beep . . . beep . . . beep of her heart monitor. The man’s open-backed hospital gown gave ample view of his wrinkled ass connected to bony, ashen legs. His body was mere parts, unusable and ready for donation. In this job, I was reminded daily of the fragility of life.
The patients I tended to were like ghosts, just waiting to fade away. Only a year ago Ms. Eidenschink had been living on her own, tending to her cat, Lucy, in a cluttered house fit for Hoarders. One bad fall and a broken hip cursed her to a bedridden life in a hospital room with little more than a television and the occasional visitor. Every once in a while a woman named Ari Wilburn would stop by and dye Ms. Eidenschink’s snow-white hair the inky black that she preferred. It was the little things that meant a big deal to people bound to their hospital beds.
“How are we doing today, Ms. Eidenschink?” I greeted her at the foot of her bed.
She smiled up at me, her full lips painted red, along with one of her teeth. “Doing well, Lane. Doing well. Where have you been? I missed seeing you.”
What she meant was she missed flirting with me. Any cute young stud—their words, not mine—was a welcome treat on this floor. Everyone needed a hot-blooded interest in their life, even if it was the interest of a thirty-something married male nurse.
“I’ve missed you too. You’re looking good today.”
She waved me off. “Nonsense. I look like Frankenstein’s bride.”
With the black hair and red lips, it wasn’t much of a stretch.
“How is the new bride? Marriage is good, yes?” Her accent—possibly Polish, though I wasn’t a language expert—covered her words so thickly I felt sorry for her mouth.
She extended her arm for me to take her blood pressure. Where needles probed her veins, her skin had turned into a stormy black and blue. When I finished taking her vitals, she stood, the chair squealing across the tile. Despite every effort, the inch of makeup couldn’t hide the sallow hue of her face.
“Yes, everything’s good,” I replied after a beat. “Although I’m still having a little trouble with my wife and sister getting along. I’m not sure why they’re at each other’s throats.”
She nodded, as if that was to be expected. “Jealousy does that. I can help. I know much about female relationships.”
“Oh, that’s okay. I’m sure it will work itself out.” The poor woman didn’t need to be burdened by my family drama.
She clicked her tongue at me. “You young people assume we know nothing about life. But you wrong. I know heartbreak, jealousy, revenge. My past not filled with wispy sepia emotions that have been long forgotten. No, quite the opposite. At my age, the past is all I have. I feed off memories. Pass me your troubles. I help.”
“Revenge, you say? What do you know of it?” I asked. She didn’t strike me as the vengeful type.
Beneath penciled-in eyebrows her pupils slipped back and forth, watchful of eavesdropping ears. “Oh, that is story for another time. But I will tell you this: revenge is natural form of survival. Your sister and wife both protective of you. They fight to the death for you. Your job is to figure out way to keep them both thinking they are number one.”
We were interrupted by the squeal of the lunch cart being wheeled in by a food service worker. From the looks of him, he spent most of his time around food. Angling sideways through the door, he wiped the perspiration of a workout from his brow.
“Lunchtime!” he announced in a thunderous baritone.
While he doled out the food tray, the television hanging in the corner of the room flashed the local news. A ribbon of words scrolled across the bottom. Something about Benjamin Paris. Finding the remote on the bed, I turned up the volume.
“Durham police have caught a break in a local murder investigation that had been cold for almost two months,” the news anchor began. “In April, investigators received a call to the home of Benjamin and Harper Paris on Hendricks Way. When emergency workers arrived on the scene, Mr. Paris was pronounced dead from a knife wound to the chest. A murder investigation was then launched but quickly stalled, owing to lack of evidence and suspects.”
“We had a body and the weapon, but no leads.” Detective Levi Meltzer’s mustache wiggled as he spoke to the camera. “Sometimes a witness doesn’t step forward—out of fear, usually—but we’re fortunate when they do.”
The screen flashed back to the news anchor. “Neighbor Michelle Hudson heard the crash of glass the night of the murder.”
The wrinkled face of an old lady filled the television, and in the background I saw Harper’s house, slightly blurred. “I am considered the neighborhood watch because I don’t sleep much. I always keep an eye out on things. That night, when I heard glass breaking across the street, I naturally looked to see what it was. To be honest, it didn’t make sense what I saw, so I never said anything. At my age your brain can play tricks on you, you know? But eventually I figured I’d tell the police what I saw and see if they could make sense of it.”
“The Durham Police Department hasn’t disclosed further details at this time, but they are confident it will help identify the killer and close the case.”
The ongoing repartee between Ms. Eidenschink and the food service worker slid into an absolute, cold silence. My thoughts turned like the gears of a clock, tick tick ticking down to some inevitable tragic conclusion. Outside the window, the clouds joined into an army of raindrops, like a billowing iron curtain. Lightning streaked across the gray.
The neighbor had seen us. Boom.
Another flash.
We’d be charged with insurance fraud. Boom.
And I was pretty sure that tampering with evidence was a jailable offense. I would miss my child’s birth, first breath, first wail. I’d never have the joy of waking to his screams just as I’m falling asleep. Or watching her chest rise and fall while she sleeps, ever nervous that her frail life hung in the balance of each breath. My sister had damned my life along with hers.
I had everything. And soon I’d have nothing.
I pulled my cell phone from my scrubs pocket and slipped into the hallway while dialing. Harper picked up midway through the first ring.
“Did you see the news?” I whispered before she got a full hello out.
“No, why?”
“They interviewed a witness—Michelle Hudson—who saw us that night. What if she identifies us to the police?”
“Michelle?” Harper scoffed. I could almost hear her eyeroll. “I can’t imagine that she would have seen anything but shadowy figures, if that. She’s as blind as a bat and a gossip fiend. I’m sure that’s all this is—a lonely old lady’s way of getting involved and feeling important.”
“How can you be sure she didn’t see us?” I needed more than Harper’s assumption. I needed certainty.
There was always the chance that Ben was in fact murdered, and Michelle Hudson saw the real killer. But I couldn’t hang my life on a chance.
“Do you want me to go ask her?” Harper offered. “I can talk to her, find out what she told the police.”
I considered it for a moment. “Do you think she would actually come out and tell you to your face that she saw you?”
“Like I said, the woman is starved for attention. She would probably serve tea and scones while telling me she thinks I’m a killer. But really, Lane, she may have seen something, but there’s no way she saw us. I’ll talk to her if it will make you feel better.”
Who knew what would happen if Harper confronted Michelle. If the police were watching, it could put Harper back under suspicion. I couldn’t risk it. “No, don’t do anything yet. I’ll take care of it.”
If only I knew how to take care of it.