Marley pressed the phone more closely to her ear and tried to block out the sound of conversation around her. Annoyance crept up the back of her neck as she strained to hear.
“I’m sorry,” Marley said. “It’s a busy office.”
The elementary school principal on the other end of the line, Priya Anand, laughed. “My office is regularly filled with crying four-year-olds, so I have some idea what you’re dealing with.”
Marley had spent the morning tracking down the principal of St. Agatha’s school in Windsor, Ontario. Not an easy feat given it was three hours away and school was out for the summer. But she’d connected through the school district’s main office, faxed the appropriate paperwork to confirm, and was thrilled when the principal called her back within a few hours, rather than the days the mildly grumpy office administrator had warned her about.
“I appreciate you taking the time to connect with me today. I know you’re on your summer vacation.”
“It’s not a problem,” Priya said. “The paperwork said you wanted to talk about a former student, Aimee West?”
“Yes. What can you tell me about her?”
“Not a whole lot, I’m afraid,” Priya said. “She was a student with us from November until mid-April, when her father said he was moving to Hamilton for work.”
“Did you meet Randolph West?”
“Only once, when he came in to register his daughter.”
“And what kind of student was Aimee? I know she had a good connection to Miss K?”
Priya laughed. “Yes, Eva Karagalis. She really took Aimee under her wing, knowing it’s hard to start at a school partway through. Aimee was hesitant when she started with us, very careful, and very quiet. But it didn’t take much effort to see she was a bright star. As Miss K said, once Aimee started talking, you were never going to get the genie back in the bottle. She encouraged it, though. Aimee thrived when her curiosity was fed and she was given an opportunity to use her voice.”
Marley stared at the jot notes she was taking, trying to process what she was hearing. “Aimee talked while she was at St. Agatha’s?”
“Yes,” Priya said, seeming confused. Then she seemed to hesitate. “You sound surprised, Constable Marlowe.”
“Aimee hasn’t spoken since April,” Marley said, trying to keep her intonation professional and factual.
“I see.”
“There was no indication of trauma or illness or mutism when Aimee attended your school?”
“No, nothing like that.”
Marley cleared her throat, needing to shift gears. “Is there anything else you can think of that you might want to tell me about Aimee or her father?”
Priya took a moment with the question. “We have a pretty high-needs population around here, a lot of families dealing with poverty, new Canadians, families in transit. Other than Aimee’s obvious intelligence and love of school, her story didn’t seem that different, I’m afraid.”
“That’s okay, you’ve been very helpful today.”
“Did you want to speak to Miss K? She could tell you more about Aimee’s day-to-day.”
“I have everything I need right now, but if you could send me her contact information and maybe fill her in on why I might be calling, that would also be helpful.”
Marley listened as Priya made herself a note. “Done.”
“Thank you again for your time,” Marley said. “I appreciate all your information and insights.”
“You are most welcome,” Priya said. “Aimee is a wonderful kid. We are glad to have known her and hope very much she is going to be okay.”
“Yes,” Marley said, hearing the professional tone slip a little. “We are hopeful as well.”
Marley signed off and hung up the phone. She stared at her notes, wishing she had a more complete story about Aimee’s recent history but also wishing she didn’t have to uncover any more evidence of Aimee’s hurt.
“Anything useful?”
Marley looked up as Superman made himself at home on the corner of her desk.
“More info about Aimee’s background, but nothing that helps the investigation.”
“Did Simms find anything in Windsor?”
“No idea.” Marley checked her phone for the time. “But there’s an update in ten minutes. You coming?”
Superman stood up. “Nope, I’m out on patrol. In fact, you never saw me.”
“It’s like you don’t even exist,” Marley said, waving a hand in front of his face. He slapped it away, and Marley laughed.
“Don’t get too comfortable over there, Marlowe,” Superman said, wagging a finger in Marley’s face obnoxiously. She grabbed for it, but he moved it out of the way too quickly.
“Whatever,” Marley said, annoyed and laughing.
“All I’m saying is you’re a street cop, one of Hamilton’s best and shiniest community officers.”
Marley knew that wasn’t true. But she didn’t fit on the drug squad, either. “You’re only saying that because I get you free coffee from the place down on Main and Sixth.”
Superman flashed Marley his trademark dimpled smile. “That’s because the owner has a crush on you.”
Marley threw a pen at Superman. He ducked, and it went sailing over his head, landing in the middle of the aisle. An officer walking down the aisle picked it up. It was Simms. He completely ignored Superman and approached Marley, dropping the pen on her desk.
“Question. Did you ever come across the name Mace or a reference to Mace in any of your evidence searches?”
Superman rolled his eyes behind Simms’s shoulder and took off.
“Mace? No, I don’t think I’ve come across that name.”
“Has the kid ever mentioned anything about a Mace?”
Marley swallowed her irritation. “No.”
“It was a long shot, but I thought I’d check.”
“Is this coming out of your visit to Windsor yesterday?” Marley said.
“Got some good information from the precinct down there. Looks like West initially set up shop down there, possibly with this Mace guy, whoever he is. West was picked up for small time possession with intent to sell. He’s actually waiting out a court date in Windsor and isn’t supposed to have left the county. But they’ve got all the same issues we do. Court systems back up, and we don’t have enough parole officers to keep track of everyone.”
“And of course our jurisdictions don’t speak to each other, so he’s got a parole officer in Windsor and one in Hamilton, and neither of them know it.”
Simms pointed a finger at Marley. “Exactly. He’s a dude who knows how to play the system.”
“So where does the Mace guy fit in?”
“I don’t know. The Windsor guys said that name was coming up in another drug case. Someone trying to cut a deal offered to spill on the Windsor drug scene as long as they kept him out of gen pop. This guy said West and Mace were on to something new that was really shifting the underground drug scene, and people were noticing. Then last fall, they both seemed to disappear.”
“And West set up here,” Marley said.
“Right. Lucky us, we got West and the new street drug.”
And Aimee got moved again. To something better? Away from something worse? There was no evidence Aimee was involved in the drug scene in Hamilton. She’d confessed only to her time in Windsor. What had happened to Aimee between the time her mother had died and when Carla showed up to become her legal guardian?
“Marlowe, can you ask her?”
“Who?”
“The kid. Aimee,” Simms said impatiently. “Can you ask her about someone named Mace?”
“Yes, I can,” Marley said, trying to keep the reluctance out of her voice. Aimee was a resilient kid, but Marley didn’t want to keep testing it.
“Good. And you up for field work yet?”
“Depends,” said Marley, shifting in her chair. She was officially off pain meds other than Advil. She wasn’t sleeping well, but she didn’t think that had anything to do with her injury. “What are you thinking?”
“Maybe heading down to knock on some doors, ask some questions.”
“Yeah, Simms. I’m up for that. Let me know.”
Marley’s phone chimed and vibrated on her desk. Marley ignored it for now.
“Could be this afternoon, could be tomorrow. I’ll text you.”
“Sounds good,” Marley said, wanting him to disappear.
When he did, Marley flipped her phone over to check the notification. It was Devon.
Aimee cut her forehead. I think someone needs to look at it.
Marley’s heart sank. Poor kid. She okay?
A little freaked out but okay.
Of course she was. This was Aimee West. Walk-in clinic?
Thinking my ER, Centennial. Wait times probably same but thought she might be happier in a place I know.
Marley considered that. Walk-in clinics were potentially quieter, with no urgent cases, though likely they were the same time sitting and waiting to get seen. But Devon would know the staff at the ER. Maybe even find a quiet corner for Aimee if she was overwhelmed or upset. She was just typing that back when Devon sent another text.
Stupid idea?
Marley deleted her original text and tried again. Not at all. Want me to come?
Why don’t Carla and I start and we’ll see how it goes?
Done. Keep me posted, Dr. Wolfe.
Will do, Constable Marlowe.
Marley put down her phone and stared at her desk. She knew Aimee was fine. She didn’t know what to do with the fact that she would rather be with Devon and Carla and Aimee right now. She’d rather be seeing them through this rough time than sorting through the chain reaction of this drug bust. It was becoming one hazy blur of human sadness.
Marley shifted in her seat, stretching to adjust her belt away from her wound. Devon was more than capable of supporting Carla and Aimee, and she always seemed to know the balance of checking in with Carla without patronizing. And Aimee loved Devon. They were safe and cared for. Marley was here now, this was her job. This was an opportunity to help Carla and Aimee in a way Devon couldn’t. She could help collect the evidence against Randolph West and piece together Aimee’s trauma so maybe, just maybe, some day she could put it to rest.
She pulled out a piece of paper, a useless memo with directions on how to change your voice mail on one side. A little embarrassed, Marley listed questions down the left side. Who, what, when, where, how, why?
She started with who. Randolph West and the three associates arrested with him. She added the name Mace with a question mark. Marley held her pen against Aimee’s name. She could list the relationship between Aimee and her father, between Aimee and his three associates. She tapped the name Mace, then circled it.
Next, what. Drugs. What kind? Marley turned on her computer and accessed the files she was looking for, thankful Simms had opened it up to her. She scrolled down to the still-incomplete report on the drugs. Suspected opioid, a variation of the addictive substance. Marley jotted a few notes about the drugs, then looked at her two filled-in columns. Something wasn’t quite right, something incomplete. She added drug users to the who list. Then added drug distributor beside the name of West’s associates and drug developer with a question mark beside West himself and the still unknown Mace. Marley circled the drug users. She needed to ask Simms if anyone had questioned any of the drug users.
The when, where, and how went pretty quickly, as it was the bulk of the evidence they had: the details of locations and drug paraphernalia, distribution routes, and cash. It was the information that Marley cared about least and Simms cared about most. Possibly why I’m a terrible cop, Marley thought.
Marley shook her head and looked at the last empty column. Why. Why does anyone do what they do? What motivates them to break the law, to harm others, to harm themselves? What stories do they tell themselves so they can give themselves permission to hurt in any given moment? Continuously hurt. And not care.
She wrote down the names from the who column in the why column. West and his associates seemed easy. Why? Money. She hesitated with Aimee’s name, then wrote lack of power, agency, fear. Mace was still a question mark. Drug users? Marley considered what she knew about why people used drugs. Trauma, poverty, lack of power, agency, untreated mental health issues. The similarity to Aimee’s list wasn’t difficult to see, and Marley felt a hard resolve anchor itself in her chest. This wouldn’t be Aimee’s future. It couldn’t be.
“I’ve got an update, Marlowe.”
Marley had been absorbed in her list and hadn’t seen Simms arriving. She’d been blocking out the sound of the office pretty effectively for the last half hour.
“What is it, Simms?”
Simms put a paper on her desk and tapped it with one finger.
“Chemical analysis of West’s drug.”
Marley scanned the page, recognizing the chemical compound jargon but not understanding any of it. She scanned until she saw a summary.
“Chemical compound mimics fentanyl,” Marley read. She looked up at Simms. “But we’re not seeing the overdose numbers like with fentanyl.”
“You got it. Farther down, it explains that. When I talked to the lab guy on the phone, the one who did the final report, he said this was a pretty sophisticated formula and not something he’s seen in a lot of street drugs in Canada.”
“Sophisticated,” Marley said, considering the word.
“He called it ‘elegant and creative’, I believe,” Simms said.
Marley blinked. These words were strange here, jarring even. She glanced at her list. Where did sophisticated, elegant, and creative fit in?
“Whatcha got there?”
Marley hesitated, then showed him her list. “Don’t laugh,” she said. “I was trying to wrap my head around the whole picture.”
Simms scanned the list and grunted, though Marley wasn’t sure how to interpret that. “You can add to the ‘what’ list. We’ve got a better idea what this drug is. We’re calling it opioid Z for now.” He put the paper down but kept looking at it.
Marley hesitated, then leaned forward and pointed at the who. “I’m more curious about who, to be honest with you. I don’t see anyone on this list who has the knowledge for sophisticated chemical compound composition. Let alone elegance and creativity.”
Simms stared at her for a moment, then looked at the list. He tapped it again.
“You’re thinking Mace?” he said.
“I’m thinking we’ve got a big fat question mark around Mace.”
“And I think we should do something about it. Let’s go talk to some people.”
Marley checked her phone. No updates from Devon. They were good, they were fine. This was how Marley could help Aimee.
Marley looked back up at Simms.
“Let’s go.”
* * *
Devon could feel the bones in her hand crunching together as Aimee held her hand tighter and tighter and tighter. Carla was filling out paperwork, a long process since she only had a temporary health card for Aimee and a letter from Family and Children’s Services. Aimee’s birth certificate and health card hadn’t yet shown up in the piles of evidence from Fleming Street. Or maybe it was lost in transition between agencies. Aimee’s whole life seemed currently lost in transition.
The whoosh of the automatic doors made Aimee cringe, and she tucked her bandaged head into Devon’s shoulder.
“That door opens and closes about a thousand times in a day, I bet,” Devon said conversationally. “It allows the medical staff to go back and forth between the waiting area and the treatment rooms without having to touch a door handle.”
Aimee didn’t say anything, but she peeked over Devon’s shoulder at the door before settling again.
Aimee had been spinning on the barstool in the kitchen while Devon and Carla were chatting after breakfast. Her foot had caught as she was climbing down, and she’d fallen into the stool next to it, slicing her head on an exposed wood staple. It wasn’t too deep, but it was deep enough.
“Can I get your finger, honey?” the triage nurse said to Aimee. “I’m going to put this clip on it.”
Aimee looked at the pulse-ox monitor, with its glowing red button. She extended her hand, still leaning into Devon.
“There you go,” the nurse said. She was kind and efficient. “Next up, a thermometer. This one goes in your ear.”
Aimee held still through all the prodding and questions, but Devon could feel her agitation. When they were released from triage and sent back to the waiting area, Devon carried Aimee in her arms. She walked to the main desk and waited, knowing interrupting a nurse was one of the very best ways to get your head bitten off, chewed up, and spat out. Devon was relieved to see Gloria on shift. She was bright and efficient and always made things work.
Gloria shoved a pen into the side pocket of her blue and purple scrubs and turned around, her eyes lighting up when she saw Devon.
“Well, if it isn’t the Zen Tiger.” She glanced at Aimee, who was still hiding her face. “With a babe in arms even.”
“It’s good to see you, Gloria,” Devon said, relieved the sentiment wasn’t forced. “How mad would you be if I waited with this one in the alcove? She’s a little overwhelmed.”
Gloria came around the other side of the desk, pulling on a pair of gloves from a box on the wall. Devon had almost forgotten these fluid movements, the dance and interplay of muscle memory repeating a motion again and again, seeking out answers to the unknown.
“Who do we have here?”
“This is Aimee and her grandmother Carla. Aimee’s got a cut to the head from a fall off a stool in my kitchen.”
“Hey, Aimee. I’m Gloria, I’m a nurse. Sometimes they call me Glorious, but that’s because every now and then I bake cannolis.”
Aimee turned her head just enough to see Gloria.
“Mind if I touch your forehead, honey? Will only take a sec.”
Aimee nodded and sat through another short exam.
“It’s not too bad. You go sit with her in the alcove, and I’ll tell Bryson where to find you when he’s got a minute. Could be a while.”
“Thanks, Gloria,” Devon said.
The nurse squeezed Devon’s bicep. “It’s good to see you. You are missed.”
Then Gloria was gone, swept up in the never-ending movement of the emergency department.
Devon swallowed a lump in her throat and indicated with a quick jerk of her chin to Carla which way they were going. The alcove was an odd space outside the staff room, with two chairs tucked behind the tall wheelie shelves of blankets and sheets. It didn’t diminish the sound of the busy hospital much, but it felt calmer, a respite from the constant energy.
Carla sat in one of the chairs and held her arms up. “Here, let me take her. Your arms must be tired by now.”
Devon leaned down, and Aimee awkwardly clambered from her arms to her grandmother’s. Devon shook out her arms, muscles aching.
“You guys okay here for a bit?” Devon said to Carla. “I’m going to double-check Bryson knows we’re back here.”
“We’re good,” Carla said, rocking Aimee a little in her arms. “Thanks for finding us a quiet spot. I know how busy these places can get.”
“Not a problem. I’d offer to bring you some tea or coffee, but I know how gruesome it is here.”
Carla laughed. “Let’s not risk it,” she said.
Devon walked back through the busy, familiar halls, looking for the doctor. She felt conspicuous now without Aimee in her arms, a tangible, easily explained reason why she was here back in the ER. But it was okay, Devon realized. There was concern in her body, awareness of others, apprehension at having to repeat why she was here and where she had been. But no panic, no overriding sense of wrongness. No voice in her head blaring the siren of you can’t do this.
“Devon! Hey, I was just coming to look for you.”
Doug Bryson hadn’t been a med student for twenty years, but it was hard to tell. His light beard did very little to cover his baby face. Bryson was a good doctor and had been one of Devon’s best allies in the beginning, as she tried to integrate mental health practices into the busy trauma unit.
“Looking good, Bryson. I like the beard.”
Bryson stroked his beard dramatically. “This puppy took me a month. I’m quite proud of it. You’re looking good, kid. You running a lot?”
“Thanks and yeah. Most days, if I can avoid these storms. Hey, thanks for your texts over the last little while. It’s meant a lot.” Devon swallowed, making space for the feeling of vulnerability and gratitude.
Bryson cuffed her on the shoulder. “Team takes care of team. You taught us that.”
Devon hoped that was true.
“I hear you’ve got a kid with you needing some stitches?”
“Aimee and her grandmother are staying with me for a bit and Aimee, she’s eight, took a fall off one of my spinning barstools.”
Bryson nodded. “Give me about fifteen minutes—which means half an hour—and I’ll take a look. Hopefully we can use some epoxy and not make the kid suffer through stitches.”
“You’ve got the best hands on the floor, Bryson. That’s why Gloria put you on the case.”
“Ah, flattery,” Bryson said, grinning. “I do like flattery. Fifteen minutes.”
“Perfect. And just a heads-up that Aimee doesn’t talk. She gestures and writes to communicate.”
“Okay,” Bryson said, looking curious. “We’ll make it work.”
Bryson waved as he walked off and Devon leaned back into the wall, out of the way of the busiest of the traffic flow. She pulled out her phone, responding to a message from her dad. She hesitated before sending a message to Marley, not wanting to interrupt her day. Marley was back to work, focused on uncovering what exactly Randolph West had released onto the street. Devon thought a quick check-in message would be okay, giving an update without requiring a response.
As she was tapping out the message on her phone, a commotion by one of the curtained-off beds caught Devon’s attention. She saw the curtain yanked and heard a voice hiss. She also heard the sound of crying, gulping, and sniffing and the cracking voice of someone trying to hold it together. Another cycle of blame and regret and guilt. Histories played out in the emergency room, relationships cut to their core in these moments of pain and stress.
A moment later, Gloria pushed back the curtain, closing it halfway as she left. Devon recognized the nurse’s professional mask, the armour that front line workers put on every day. When she caught sight of Devon, Gloria let the mask slip, shaking her head a little. Devon thought the annoyance on the nurse’s face looked awfully close to defeat.
“Family drama?” Devon guessed, talking quietly.
“Big time,” Gloria said. “Daughter OD’d and Mom is choosing this moment to announce she’s taking away her four-year-old grandchild.”
Pain on pain, Devon thought. She could see the young woman in the hospital bed. She looked to be in her early twenties, hair in a fallen ponytail over her shoulder, shredding a tissue into small pieces on the sheet over her lap. Devon’s heart ached to see the hopelessness and self-loathing in her expression. Self-hatred was a deep and dark pit. This young woman had a tough climb ahead of her.
“Calling social services for sure,” Gloria said. “Medically she’s fine, though I need the doc to check out that rash.” Gloria sighed. “Patch ’em up, see if we can get her some help, and make space for the next one.”
Devon raised her eyebrow at the nurse. Gloria snorted and rolled her eyes.
“You’re really going to make me reframe? No free passes?”
“You can do it in your head if you like,” Devon said mildly, smiling at Gloria’s resistance to the process they’d practiced as a unit over and over.
Another eye roll as Gloria tapped sharply on the keyboard recessed into the wall. Devon said nothing, just continued looking around the ward, feeling the familiar rhythms and finding a sense of peace.
“Fine,” Gloria said, shoving the keyboard back into the wall. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared Devon down. Devon could see the glint in her eye, though, the acceptance that she needed to shift the negative thoughts. “I was here today to take care of the patient. I provided care. I made things as betterer as I could.” That hint of laughter, a defense mechanism Devon had always encouraged. “I can make up words, right?”
“Totally.”
“I made things betterer as I could. And I’ll do it again because care is what I can give and care is what they need.”
Devon smiled. “Yeah, that’s a good one. Feel any better?”
Gloria shrugged. “Maybe? Proof is if I show up tomorrow.” She winked when Devon laughed. “Catch you later, Tiger.”
Maybe I’m ready to come back, Devon thought after Gloria had left to see another patient. Something to think about, when she wasn’t worrying about Marley and Aimee and Carla.
Devon looked up as a woman in her mid-forties pushed the curtain back all the way. Her hair was puffed around her head in an oddly deliberate cloud. She stormed out of the treatment area and down the hall. Devon glanced at the young woman, who stretched out for the box of tissue, tears streaming down her face. She couldn’t reach it from the bed, tethered by the IV pole. With a glance behind her to see if Gloria was around, Devon crossed the distance to the small treatment area, grabbed the box, and handed it to the young woman.
“Thanks,” the woman mumbled.
“You’re welcome,” Devon said. “Anything else I can get you?”
The young woman looked up, her eyes red and puffy from crying. Devon could see the rash Gloria had mentioned, an angry red that covered one half of her face and neck and disappeared under her T-shirt.
“You work here?” The woman said.
“Sort of. I know where to find the juice stash, anyway.”
“No, thanks,” she said, taking a tissue and dabbing at her eyes. “I just need to see the doctor and get out of here.”
“Okay. I’m Devon, by the way.”
The woman looked up again. “Mikayla,” she said.
“I hope your day gets better, Mikayla.”
Mikayla looked down at her hands and said nothing. Devon stood there a moment longer, noticing the way Mikayla’s one hand twitched spasmodically, like a tremor. It could be the effects of the drug, the overdose, or maybe even the opioid reversal used to bring this young woman back. Either way, she was in a world of hurt.
“Take care of yourself,” Devon said, leaving the young woman to herself.
When she approached the alcove, Bryson was standing at the entrance, talking to Carla.
“Perfect timing,” Bryson said. “I was wondering if Ms. Aimee here would be more comfortable in a treatment room.”
Devon peeked into the alcove. Aimee was standing now and leaning into Carla.
“Might be easier to see your cut,” Devon said. “And have my friend Dr. Bryson treat it so we can get out of here. What do you think?”
Aimee nodded and hid her face. Carla followed Devon and Bryson down the hallway with Aimee glued to her side, her eyes squeezed shut.
“All right,” Dr. Bryson said. “First let’s find out what happened.”
“She likes spinning on the stools at Devon’s place,” Carla said. “Her foot got caught, and she hit her forehead on the stool next to her. Started bleeding pretty good.”
“Did she lose consciousness at all?”
Carla shook her head.
“Complaints of head or neck hurting? Dizziness?”
Carla shook her head for all.
“Okay, I’m going to do some tests with your eyes, and I’d like to check your neck.” He turned around to show Aimee his own neck. “See these bumps? Those are your cervical vertebrae, and I want to check that nothing got jostled when you fell.”
Aimee looked curious at this, and Devon and Carla shared a relieved smile. Devon hung back as Bryson continued his questioning and his examination. Not only did he have great hands, he was amazing with kids. When Devon had asked him one day why he didn’t go into pediatrics, all he said was “the parents”.
Devon’s phone vibrated in her back pocket. A call from Marley. She stepped out of the treatment area and picked up the call.
“Marley, hey. Aimee is seeing a doctor now.”
“Good,” Marley said. “Where are you?”
“At the hospital,” Devon said, confused. She thought it sounded like Marley was walking. “Are you here?”
“Uh…yeah.” Marley sounded sheepish. “Bad idea?”
“Good idea. I’ll come and get you and let you through the doors.”
Devon waved through the window to indicate to Carla she’d be right back. Bryson had the bandage off now and was inspecting the wound. God, she hoped it was something simple. As if anything in Aimee’s life could be simple.
Devon could see Marley through the glass portion of the locked doors. She always looked bigger in uniform, her posture and the protective vest making her look imposing, threatening. Devon knew Marley had fire. And strength. But she’d also seen Marley curled up in her favourite chair with a cup of tea, laughing. There was gentleness in this woman, too.
She pushed open the locked doors. Fire and laughter, strength and gentleness. Devon knew she was drawn to every part of Marley.
“Hey,” Devon said, needing to clear her throat. “How has your day been?”
“Weird,” Marley said. Devon glanced back but Marley was already busy looking around the room.
It was hard to talk, dodging people and equipment. They stepped to the side as an ambulance crew pushed a stretcher down the hall, trundling through like a freighter in a narrow channel.
Devon took the opportunity to really look at Marley. She seemed pale and her posture was tense. One hand gripped her utility belt, and the other was at her side. Devon sensed an aura of readiness about her.
“Come here for a minute,” Devon said, touching the short sleeve of Marley’s uniform.
Devon made sure Marley was following as they ducked down a hallway. She opened the staff room door part way and made sure no one was using it as a place to catch a nap. It was empty, the smell of coffee and someone’s microwaved lunch leftovers filtering through the dim space.
Devon faced Marley, who was looking around the room. “Tell me about your weird day?”
“Yeah, definitely weird.”
Devon waited but Marley still hadn’t focused. Devon took a step closer until she was inside Marley’s personal space.
“Hey, Marley,” Devon said quietly.
Marley’s eyes cleared a little, and she looked at Devon.
“Hey, Devon,” Marley said, just as quietly.
The moment was a hungry one. Starved for words and empty of touch. For now though, this was enough.
“Tell me about your day?” Devon tried again.
“I think I’m in the wrong profession,” Marley said. She didn’t sound upset, more speculative. “We spent the afternoon talking to people with known drug connections. Everyone from a guy who’d spent time in jail for possession and distribution to a teenager just released from rehab to a woman who lives on the street and can tell you the chemical compound of every street drug. Every one.”
Marley lost focus again for a minute, her gaze traveling away from Devon.
“Sounds like you’re carrying stories,” Devon said.
Marley’s focus snapped back to Devon. “Yes,” she said, her voice stronger. “That’s what it feels like. Simms, the drug enforcement team lead who I was working with, is out there sorting through what they’re saying, pulling out the evidence, finding connections and leads. He knows what’s relevant and what’s not. He takes the nuggets of evidence and then…” Marley shook her head, struggling. “Then he walks away from the rest. He can strip people down to their usefulness and it’s…horrifying. And absolutely necessary.”
“What were you thinking about as you were talking to people today?”
“Aimee, mostly. I’m collecting evidence to find out what her living situation has been like the last year. And I keep looking at these people and wondering where was their Carla when they were eight? Who was their Miss K?”
A familiar ache of compassion and connection rose in Devon’s chest, and she ran her hand down Marley’s bare arm, touching the bones of her wrist, then she smoothed her thumb across Marley’s knuckles and entwined their fingers.
“You’re not less of a police officer because you see the people you’re talking to. And you’re not alone in not always knowing how to carry stories.”
Marley looked down at their joined hands. “My supervisor said the same thing recently,” she said. “And I know it’s one of the primary stressors on front-line workers.” She gave Devon a small, crooked grin. “I’ve read the articles.”
Devon laughed. “We’ve probably read the same ones.”
“And you probably wrote a few.”
Devon shook her head, still smiling. “Only one.”
Marley’s smile slipped and she leaned back, loosening her grip. “I shouldn’t put this on you. You’ve told me this is why you’re off work. And all I’ve done is heap burden after burden on you.”
“Stop,” Devon said, the sharp edge to her tone cutting through Marley’s babble. “Enough. I need you to trust that I know what I can handle. I may not have been that great at it the last few years, but I’m working on it, and you believing I can do it is important to me.”
Marley looked stunned and Devon felt the vulnerability of the moment acutely. She also felt hope as Marley squeezed her hand.
“Message received, Dr. Wolfe,” Marley said.
Devon smiled. She squeezed Marley’s hand then eased away. “Let’s go find Aimee.”
When they walked into the treatment area, Aimee had a fresh, bright white bandage on her forehead, and Bryson was instructing her how to use the otoscope to look into Carla’s ear.
“Gross, right?” Bryson said and Aimee nodded and made a face.
“All good in here?” Devon said.
Aimee’s eyes lit up when she saw Marley, and she ran over and tugged until Marley knelt down so Aimee could look in her ear.
“No stitches, and Aimee was a complete champ,” Bryson said. “We’ll grab some instructions about wound care and signs of infection, and you guys are good to go.” Bryson pulled his gloves off and threw them in the garbage. “Another life saved.”
“Thanks, Bryson,” Devon said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You made this way easier.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
Aimee handed back his otoscope reluctantly but waved at Dr. Bryson when he said goodbye.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Marley asked Devon once Bryson had left. Aimee continued to try and see inside her grandmother’s ear. Carla was rolling her eyes but held still.
“Sure.”
Devon followed Marley back into the hall. Marley sighed and rubbed her forehead.
“I need to ask Aimee about a person of interest. Someone she might have come in contact with,” Marley said.
“You need to ask her today?”
“I know,” Marley said, obviously having heard some judgement in Devon’s voice. “Not great timing. Is she up for it?”
Devon felt irritation and protectiveness shift uncomfortably in her chest. Aimee wasn’t her child, wasn’t her patient. She couldn’t be the only one making these assessments and judgment calls. Devon took a breath, feeling the bite of the words as they were about to leave her mouth. She let the breath out slowly and tried again.
“I don’t know,” Devon said. “She’s doing really well, but maybe check with Carla.”
“Okay,” Marley said. She looked contrite. Then curious. “Why do I get the feeling you just stopped yourself from biting my head off?”
Devon let out a short laugh. “Because that’s almost what happened.”
“Impressive level of self-control, Dr. Wolfe.”
Devon caught Marley’s eye then, a mix of warmth, worry, and fatigue.
“You need some sleep,” Devon said without thinking.
“I need to wrap up this case and get Carla and Aimee settled,” Marley said. “That’s what I need.”
“No,” Devon said gently. “That’s what they need. You need some sleep.”
Marley shook her head. “According to my boss, I need to stay out of trouble and help break open the case. Preferably starting with some actual information about what this drug is and why we’re seeing such weird side effects after it’s off the street.”
“Side effects?”
“Tremors, rash, and hallucinations, according to the admittedly little information from Public Health.”
Devon blinked. “I saw someone like that. With those symptoms.”
“Here?”
“Yeah, a young woman. Early twenties, maybe. I was with her earlier.”
“Do you know if anyone has called Public Health? A memo went out to regional hospitals, walk-in clinics, and doctor’s offices a few days ago about calling Public Health immediately for anyone with those symptoms.”
“I know which nurse she was working with.”
“Would you mind introducing me to her? Then I could talk with her without compromising patient privacy.”
“Give me a minute.”
Devon searched the hallways of the ER, eventually finding Gloria chewing on a protein bar while sticking a label on an orange-lidded urine sample bottle. Joys of the emergency room.
“You got a minute, Gloria?”
“For you, peanut? Yes.”
Gloria put the urine sample on a cart and gave Devon her full attention.
“I’ve got someone I’d like you to meet.”
Gloria’s eyes lit up, and Devon considered how it sounded. She blushed. “I don’t mean like that.” Wasn’t it like that? “I mean…”
Gloria laughed. “You never trip over your words, Tiger. So, I think it’s definitely like that.”
Another blush. “Okay, yes. But that’s not why I want you to meet Marley. Constable Marlowe. She’s working on a case that involves Public Health and some odd symptoms from drug use.”
Gloria expression shifted to serious. “Public Health, yes. We had a stand-up staff meeting about it.” Her gaze shifted inward, as if replaying the moment. Then she looked up at Devon. “You’re thinking about the young woman from earlier. Curtain four. With the angry mom.” Gloria’s shoulder slumped. “Shit, I almost missed that.”
“It’s not all on you,” Devon said.
Gloria closed her eyes for the briefest moment before she straightened, grabbed the last bite of protein bar, and shoved it in her mouth before tossing the wrapper and wiping her hands together.
“Let’s meet this Constable Marlowe of yours.”