26

Ten minutes later, Jessica white-knuckled the armrest while Amber swerved around corners and zipped through yellow lights. “If you don’t slow down, Gary and Lolita won’t be the only ones in the hospital.”

“Gary’s in the hospital because he saved all those kids.” Amber slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting a truck. “He’s a hero.”

“What was he doing in West Virginia?” Jessica double-checked her seat belt.

“His brother and some other kids were touring the mine where his dad and grandfather worked.” Amber gunned through the next intersection. “They got trapped by floodwaters. Gary went down to get them out. He’s an expert spelunker and knows those caves inside and out. Good thing, too. The kids were so dehydrated that they wouldn’t have lasted much longer.” She swerved to miss a lady crossing the street.

“Where are you going?” Jessica cranked her head around to see the freeway exit disappearing in the distance. “West Virginia is that way.” She pointed over her shoulder.

“I promised Amira I’d bring her some paints.” Amber yanked on the steering wheel. “It won’t take long. She’s such a troubled soul—I don’t want to break my promise.”

“Amira?” Jessica wondered how Amber could be so upset about Gary one minute and running errands the next. Sometimes her priorities were a little screwy.

“She’s one of my Girls First students. You should come in and meet her. She’s a talented artist.” The tires squealed as Amber turned into a parking lot. “Come on.” She reached around and grabbed a bag from the back seat.

Jessica followed her friend into the plain brick school building. The hallway was decorated with pictures: girls of all colors and shapes wearing saris and bright head scarfs, jeans and hijabs. In the distance, girls’ voices raised in a rousing chorus of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star. Jessica was conscious of her boots clicking on the floor tiles and tried to soften her step.

Amber knocked on the second door on the left and then entered the classroom. Jessica followed. Six little girls sat on a carpet in a circle, and a teenager sat alone in a corner, drawing. All the girls were deep in concentration, coloring letters of the alphabet and animals corresponding to each: A is for Ape, B is for Bear, C is for Cat . . .

A young blonde woman interrupted their work. “Say hello to Miss Bush.” Five of the girls followed orders, greeting Amber in unison. A teenager with long dark braids and severe eyebrows didn’t look up from her art work. The teacher and Amber exchanged a meaningful look.

“Amira, how are you, sweetie?” Amber said as she sat down next to the teen. “Look how pretty you color!” She waved at Jessica. “Come and look at what Amira made.”

Jessica joined Amber and knelt down next to the shy girl. She couldn’t believe the teenager could draw with such precision and passion. “Wow. This is amazing.” Jessica gazed down at the finely detailed bombed-out buildings and the bloodied faces of children. It dawned on her that the girl was drawing from memory, and her heart nearly broke. She plopped onto the floor, sliding her phone from her pocket. “I like art, too.” She scrolled through her photos until she found a picture she’d taken of Nikolai Prisekin’s Hard Times at the Center.

“She doesn’t talk,” Amber whispered into Jessica’s ear. “Ever since she and her mother escaped the war in Syria.”

Jessica showed Amira the Prisekin painting, a horse-drawn wagon being bombed by war planes. Amira gazed down with interest. Jessica then scrolled to Kandinsky’s Cannons.

Amira grabbed Jessica’s phone and held it close to her face, staring at the colorful abstract image—off-kilter buildings floating in a desert of yellow, brown, and blue.

“I study art,” Jessica said. “Why painters paint and what their paintings mean.”

The girl peered up at Jessica with serious brown eyes. “I want to be a painter.”

Amber gasped.

The teacher crossed the room to join them. “What did you say, Amira?”

Amira picked up a blue colored pencil and resumed drawing.

“This is one of my favorites,” Jessica said, pulling up Marianne von Werefkin’s eerie Self-Portrait.

Amira studied the artist’s huge neck, yellow cheeks, and glowing red eyes. “Sahira-ton,” she whispered.

Jessica glanced up at the teacher, who only shrugged.

“Sahira,” repeated a little girl sitting nearby. “It means witch.”

“I brought you some watercolors.” Amber reached into her bag and handed the set to Amira.

Amira smiled and held out another drawing. This one had several teenage girls and some older men on what looked like an airplane. The girls were in different stages of undress.

“What is this?” Jessica asked. She grimaced and glanced over at Amber.

Amber grabbed the picture out of the girl’s hands. “Did some men take you on an airplane?”

Amira lowered her gaze but refused to speak.

“Gary was right!” Amber dropped the sketch pad onto the floor. “We’ve got to tell Detective Cormier. I didn’t believe him. I thought Mr. Schilling was helping—”

“This isn’t what I think it is, is it?” Jessica whispered, caressing the top of Amira’s head. “Can I look at your art, honey?”

Amira handed her the pad. Jessica flipped through scene after scene of bombings and bloody, fragmented people, and young girls with older men. They made her skin crawl. She stopped cold when she got to a picture of a gray-haired man wearing a suit—a knife stabbed through his heart. The girl holding the knife looked a lot like Amira. Holy shit! Jessica glanced over at the girl. Could she have killed Mr. Schilling and the other donors? Her heart sped up at the thought. The poor sweet girl was only a teenager.

“Look at this,” Jessica whispered to Amber.

“I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.” Amber’s lip was trembling. “I made a terrible mistake.”

“One reason bad people get away with things like this is because kids aren’t believed, even by good, well-intentioned people.” Jessica put a hand on her friend’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault,” she said, even though she couldn’t believe her friend had been so gullible. What in the hell did she think the old pervert was doing with teenage girls for God’s sake? It made her stomach sour.

“Let’s go.” Amber grabbed her shopping bag and distributed new Crayolas and chocolate bars to the rest of the girls. She turned to the teacher. “I have to go out of town on a family emergency, but I should be back in time for my class next week.”

After receiving hugs, Amber gathered up her monster purse and headed out of the classroom. “See you next week!”

Jessica was about to take off after her when the teacher touched her arm. “You should consider volunteering. You could teach them art.”

“I’m a philosopher, not an artist.”

“Whatever you are, you’re a natural teacher. You’re the only person who has gotten Amira to speak.”

Jessica smiled. “Maybe I will.” She did love teaching, and teaching refugee girls was far more appealing than teaching sorority girls. She studied Amira’s artwork. The girl holding the knife in the drawing looked a lot like Amira. “Some men are exploiting those girls.”

Amber’s eyes widened. “I’m so stupid—I should have realized what was going on. That’s why some of the girls would disappear for days.” Amber crinkled her nose. “Not some men. Richard Schilling.”

“You think he flew them to New York on his private jet for his rich friends?” Jessica felt sick at the thought.

Amber’s hand trembled as she reached inside her purse. “I don’t know. Right now, we have to make it to West Virginia. At least since Mr. Schilling’s dead, we don’t have to worry about that happening anymore.”

“But what if he was working with others? Maybe he was blackmailing one of them. That would be a motive for murder. I’m going to call Detective Cormier.” Jessica pulled her phone out of her pocket, along with the detective’s card. She tapped in the number, but it went directly to voice mail.

After five hours on Interstate 90, Jessica’s butt was tired. She needed to get out and stretch her legs. She pointed at a sign for Cuyahoga Valley National Park. “Can we stop for a few minutes?”

The only snacks they had were chocolate bars and herbal tinctures from Amber’s ample purse. Jessica craved a nice big stack of banana nut pancakes with whipped cream.

For the last hour, Amber had been encouraging her to ditch her current dissertation and write about art therapy instead.

“I really think you should,” Amber said as she parked the car.

“I don’t know.” Jessica inhaled the scent of trees. “I’d have to start my research all over again. And I barely have two months.” The sound of rushing water drew her toward a trailhead. The smell of cedars cleared her head. She inhaled deeply.

Then a firecracker went off in her brain. “Maybe I could end my dissertation on art therapy!” That’s it! That’s the answer. She’d been having such trouble writing the last chapter. The whole dissertation had seemed pointless, so disconnected from anything real. But if she could connect her discussion of Nietzsche and Russian art to the refugee girls and art therapy . . . Suddenly, she was looking forward to getting back to writing. Maybe Nietzsche was right: Without art, we’d die of life.

“We have another three hours until Morgantown, so we can’t stop for long.” Amber followed close on Jessica’s heels. “On top of everything else, I have a paper due in English lit, and the stupid professor insists on a hard copy. Can you drive the rest of the way while I proofread? I’ll have to mail it from West Virginia.”

“Sure,” Jessica said as she read the trail markers. “There’s a waterfall in less than a quarter of a mile. Let’s go see it. It will only take a few minutes, and I really need a break.”

Stepping over roots and rocks, Jessica wished she’d worn her hiking boots instead of her cowboy boots. “I could write on art therapy.” Saying it out loud gave her another idea. Maybe she could work for the Center, running educational programs especially for refugees. “I wonder if Mr. Schilling’s donation to the Center is valid.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Amber lifted her flowing paisley skirt as she stepped over a fallen branch. “He signed it.”

“And he stipulated that part of it go to refugees, right?” Jessica stopped and turned back to face her friend. “No one knows you put that there . . .”

Amber nodded and popped the end of a snaky lock of hair into her mouth. “I think it depends on whether his heir or heirs go along with the pledge and don’t revoke it. Unless it was in his will.” She bit her lip.

The air was cooler next to the waterfall. Jessica stood in silence, admiring the oxidized rocks and the foamy water rushing over them. She closed her eyes and listened to the power of the water crashing into the pool from twenty feet above. She missed Montana and the mountains . . . and her mom. To pull herself from the brink of melancholy, she willed herself to melt into the moment and become one with the smell of damp rocks and the chorus of forest birds.

She opened her eyes, taking in the vibrant green leaves and grasses and the rust-colored rocks. She would write her dissertation and get her degree if it was the last thing she did. She was determined. When she got back to Chicago, she’d stay up night and day until she finished.

“We’d better get going.” Amber’s voice brought her back from her meditations.

Jessica nodded and took one long last sip of cool, clean air. With renewed confidence and commitment, she strode down the path and back to the car.

By the time they reached Pittsburgh, the flat plains had turned into rolling hills and, thanks to Amber and the refugee girls, Jessica felt alive.

Three hours later, Jessica pulled into the parking garage for Morgantown General Hospital. It was almost midnight, pitch dark, and Amber was doubtful visiting hours were open. The ICU was on the third floor. As they rode the elevator up, Amber tapped on her head. She took slow, deep breaths. In through the nose . . . out through the mouth.

When she’d called for an update two hours ago, she’d been told Gary was barely hanging on, and she was scared. What if he dies? She shivered. After rescuing the last of the boys, Gary had been crushed by a cave-in. He was a hero. She should be proud of him. Instead, she wished he'd never gone in the first place.

As she exited the elevator, Amber dug out her Rescue Remedy and took the maximum dose. The lighting was dim, and the quiet of the hallway was punctuated with beeping sounds coming from the hospital rooms. Just that morning, she’d been in another ICU, visiting Lolita. She prayed to the Goddess that both Lolita and Gary would pull through. Then she and Gary could take a mini-vacation. They could go away for a weekend and get a cabin on Lake Michigan and do nothing but cuddle.

Jessica pointed to a sign for ICU, and they entered a waiting room. A family of five slept in recliners and a couch in one corner of the room. There was an alcove with a mini refrigerator and coffee at one end near an intercom with a big sign that read “Buzz for entry.”

While Jessica rummaged around in a mini fridge, Amber pressed the intercom button and asked if she could visit Gary. The nurse buzzed her in, saying, “No more than ten minutes, and no more than two visitors at one time.”

Each room resembled a circuit board. Wires and cables ran from patient to various machines, registering vital information on computer screens manned by nurses. Closed curtains shielded some rooms from view, while others were exposed. A nurse led Amber to a small glassed-in room with a curtain around the bed.

Gary lay in bed, hooked up to fluid bags hanging like overripe fruit from IV trees on either side. He was wearing an oxygen mask, and his wan skin matched the pale white walls. Amber felt terrible he was all alone. His mother had been there earlier but had to go home to take care of Gary’s little brother, who’d suffered minor injuries in the cave-in.

Amber fought back tears as she approached the side of the bed. When she touched the back of his hand, his eyes flickered open. She smiled, but tears fell onto the bedsheet.

“You came,” he said weakly. The mask muffled his voice.

She nodded. “Of course.”

“I’m sorry.” He dragged his hand up to the mask and moved it to one side.

“It’s not your fault.” She stroked his hair.

Gary tried to lift his head, but it fell back on the pillow. “I have to tell you something. Now. Before…” His voice was hoarse.

“Jessica’s here, too.”

Amber glanced at her friend, who was standing at the back of the small room.

“I did—” Gary said, gasping for breath.

“Shhh . . .” Amber put her fingers to her lips. “You’re tired. Don’t try to talk. You’re going to be fine.” She looked around to see if the nurse was within earshot. I should have come alone. She didn’t know what Gary might confess to, but she didn’t want anyone else to hear. Especially not her sleuthing friend.

“Gary?” Jessica moved closer to the bed. “What did you do?”

He closed his eyes. “I only meant Schilling, not the others . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Nick,” Jessica whispered. Wait. Nick had been killed with digitalis, not frog juice. “Did you kill Nick?”

“No.” Gary’s eyes flashed open. “Not Nick.” His face reddened and his forehead shone with sweat. “Richard Schilling. He deserved to die, the heartless bastard.” Spit formed at the corners of his mouth, like a rabid dog.

“Mr. Schilling?” Jessica paced the length of the room. “But how? In Amber’s tea bags?” If she had put the pieces together correctly, then both batrachotoxin and digitalis had been present in Mr. Schilling’s bloodstream. Nick’s had only digitalis. And Chrissy and the Countess had only batrachotoxin.

Gary struggled for breath.

“Don’t talk,” Amber said, caressing his hand. “You need to rest.” Her eyes were wet with tears.

Jessica stopped pacing and turned back to Gary. “You poisoned him with batrachotoxin from your frogs. But how?”

Gary whispered something, and Amber moved the oxygen mask back over his nose and mouth.

“Who killed Nick?” Jessica moved to the bedside and stared down at the helpless man. “If you didn’t do it . . . ?” There had to be two killers. Gary and someone else, someone who’d used the digitalis. Chrissy Schilling? Sally What’s-Her-Name? Amira?

Gary closed his eyes again.

The nurse appeared at the curtain. “Time to go, ladies.”

“How long has she been there?” Amber whispered as they left the room. “Do you think she heard?”

“I doubt it matters.” By the looks of it, Gary didn’t have long. He’d just confessed to murder, so maybe it was better this way. It didn’t feel better. Even though he was a killer, Jessica felt sorry for him . . . and for poor Amber.

Amber’s eyes sprouted tears. Jessica put an arm around her and led the way back to the waiting room. She deposited Amber in a reclining chair, then went to search for some tissues. There was a box next to the small refrigerator. She opened the fridge, peeked inside, grabbed a couple string cheeses and two bottles of water, and carried the haul back to the recliners. She handed the box of tissues and a water bottle to Amber.

The silence made the waiting room feel like a mausoleum. The air smelled of sour milk. Jessica buttoned her fringe jacket against the air-conditioning and munched on a string cheese. Its chewy, salty, smoothness was comforting. She held out the other cheese to Amber, who shook her head and blew her nose.

Jessica needed to get back in to see Gary before he died. He wouldn’t last long. His lungs had collapsed, and his condition was touch-and-go. How did he administer the frog juice? And why did he kill Chrissy and the Countess? She needed to find out what had happened while she could.

Amber dug in her mammoth purse and pulled out a purple vial. She filled the pipette with brown liquid and dropped it into one bottle, then the other. “This will help,” she sniffled.

Jessica took a sip and closed her eyes. Despite knowing Gary’s time was short, she found herself fighting to stay awake. Exhausted, she fell into a fitful sleep.

Jessica blinked her eyes open. How long was I out? Only half awake, she glanced over to check on Amber. Her friend was gone. Or am I dreaming? She tried to force herself to wake up but couldn’t. Her eyelids weighed a ton. She couldn’t keep them open. Resistance was futile. The purple vial. The brown liquid. She drifted back to sleep.