Only Ever You (35 page)

Sudden singing made Bea jump. For one awful minute, she thought
The Sound of Music
came from the bloodied cavern that had been the other woman’s mouth. Then it stopped and started again and she realized it was a cell phone. She scrambled in the pockets and found it just as it stopped ringing and went to voice mail. A man’s voice, “Hey, Patsy, Mike Reynolds here. I got held up in a meeting, but I can meet you at the property in a half hour if that’s still okay?”

Bea texted a reply, her fingers leaving bloodstains on the keys. “Sorry, must cancel. Emergency. Next week?” She hit send, but it began to ring again almost immediately. “Shut up! Just shut up!” Bea smashed the phone again and again against the floor until it shattered.

In the silence that followed she could hear the sound of her own ragged breathing. Bea’s vision cleared, and she stared down at the blood freckling her hands. She stood up on shaky legs and stripped off all her clothes, but there was still blood on her skin. She staggered to the laundry tub and grabbed the bar of soap, scrubbing at her arms and face, running wet hands through her hair, desperate to get rid of it. Only she couldn’t get rid of the smell. The metallic odor permeated the basement, the smell of raw meat and the slaughterhouse, the smell of death. She tried not to inhale, breathing only through her mouth, but it was no use, the odor filled the air like a mist; it caught in her throat threatening to choke her.

She stumbled upstairs to her bedroom, pulling a suitcase from the closet and throwing clothes blindly into it. They had to leave. Now. Tonight. They would find the old man down the hill first, and then someone would report Patsy Duckworth missing. It was only a matter of time. She thought she heard a noise and ran to the window, terrified that Patsy’s buyer hadn’t gotten her text. There was nothing out there except Patsy’s bright and shiny SUV dusted with snow. What if the guy showed up? She had to dump the car to buy herself some time.

Bea threw on clean clothes and found a red wig in her collection, fixing it quickly over her hair. It wasn’t a match for Patsy’s, but it would do. She hustled back downstairs and into the laundry area, finding the agent’s enormous purse and carrying it out the garage, rummaging for the keys as she walked. Cosmo, perched against the passenger window, barked a greeting, tail wagging. She ran back in the house to get his leash. “I’d forgotten about you,” she said, sliding onto the driver’s seat. She ran a hand over the leather. What a luxury. The only downside was the smoke smell, but some air freshener would fix that. For a moment, as she started the car and before racing down the driveway, Bea contemplated keeping the SUV and ditching the old sedan. Grand theft auto—the surest way to attract police attention. Someone out there might miss Patsy, but the car they’d truly mourn.

Snow was barely sticking to the salted main road, but it was falling steadily enough to cancel the roadwork. No police in sight and she sped away from Fernwood and toward the playing fields surrounding a private school less than a mile away. She’d passed by the property multiple times, attention pulled by girls running across the emerald lawn waving field hockey sticks. There was no one out today, snow like a shroud over the grass. She pulled into a small, deserted parking lot alongside one of the fields and parked the car. Of course Patsy had a box of wet wipes in her glove compartment—appearances mattered. Bea wiped down anything she’d touched on the interior, including Patsy’s purse, and fixed Cosmo’s leash to his collar. She saved one wet wipe for the outside handle and set the doors to lock, leaving Patsy’s purse on the seat and the keys visible in the ignition. If she’d had more time, she could have dumped this car in some urban neighborhood where it would be sure to be spotted by a teen joy rider or stolen for a chop shop, and she could have guaranteed someone else’s DNA as a distraction. Someone would find it here, but that someone would probably be a suburban cop. She just hoped they didn’t immediately make the connection to Fernwood Road.

Cosmo hopped out of the car after her. She had to hold him back as she wiped down the outside handle, but then she let him take the lead, trotting back the way they’d come along the snowy road.

*   *   *

Jill stared at the screen, stunned. Lyn Galpin had been following David. Had it been some sort of insane drag race or had she been chasing after him and he sped ahead to avoid her? He hadn’t caused the crash, her drinking had done that, but he’d certainly helped provoke it. Dear God, there was motivation enough right there to exact some revenge.

But where was the woman now? Jill unplugged David’s iPhone to call the small law firm where Lyn Galpin last worked, but a monotone voice informed her that the number was no longer in service. They’d either changed location or closed shop. She continued doggedly scrolling through all of the links to Lyn Galpin until she found a small
Post-Gazette
article,
DRIVER RESPONSIBLE FOR CHRISTMAS CRASH TRANSFERRED TO LONG TERM CARE
. There was another photo of the parents caught off guard outside a building, but this time they’d turned toward the camera, not away, and she could see their faces clearly. The man was unfamiliar, but the woman—Jill’s pulse jumped as she stared at the woman’s eyes, her drooping right eyelid. Jill had definitely seen her before, but she just couldn’t place
where
she’d seen her. She stared hard at the photo, trying to picture the woman in different settings—the law firm, her studio, Sophia’s preschool. A memory flitted through her mind like a fish swimming too fast to grab. Jill pushed at her forehead with the heel of her hand, groaning in frustration.

The article said that Lyn Galpin had never regained consciousness; she’d been in a coma since the accident. Then Jill noticed the background of the photo. The parents were standing in front of a building with
ANGEL’S WINGS REHABILITATION CENTER
emblazoned on a sign. She pulled up another search window and typed in that name. In less than five seconds an address had popped up. Jill turned back to look at Leo. “Can I borrow your car?”

Forty minutes later, Jill parked Leo’s Chevy Impala in the lot at the Angel’s Wings Rehabilitation Center. Docked would have been a more appropriate word. The car was circa 1975 and a boat. “Be careful with her,” Leo had instructed, parting reluctantly with the keys. “This baby’s a classic.” Yeah, if classic meant gas guzzling, and cracked vinyl seats. The heating was on the fritz; she could see her breath inside the car. At least it had a good turning radius. She struggled to lock up, though she couldn’t imagine anyone bothering to steal it, and ran through the falling snow into the building. The name Angel’s Wings suggested something airy and comforting, but the rehab center was squat, painted cinderblock situated uncomfortably close to an on-ramp to the Pennsylvania Turnpike as well as a strip mall. The quiet inside was surprising, given the location. It felt like the hush of a church or a library, deliberate and somber, Jill’s footsteps deadened by carpet. The lobby had the look of a low-rent hotel trying to masquerade as something fancier, an illusion fostered by the brass chandelier and ambient lighting and the young man in a suit and tie standing at a faux wood reception desk. She slipped off the sheepskin jacket, trying to look less shabby, and realized she was still wearing the lab coat. Might as well use it to her advantage. She pulled it more tightly around her and walked briskly to the counter, adopting the slightly superior mien of a busy medical professional.

“I’m looking for one of your patients, Lyn Galpin.”

“Of course, doctor.” The young man turned to a desktop computer, fingers moving nimbly over the keyboard, squinting at the screen. He had a little gold pin engraved with
BRISK
attached to his lapel. She didn’t know if it was his name or a description. He scanned the screen, hit a few more keys, and made a faint “hmm” sound under his breath.

He looked back up at Jill. “I can’t seem to find her. Can you spell the last name?”

“Yes. G-A-L-P-I-N. Lyn with one N.”

A few more taps, a little more squinting at the screen. Brisk should get his eyes checked. Jill glanced around while she waited, feeling nervous when she spotted the security cameras mounted in strategic corners. What if the police had put out an APB on her and mentioned she could be masquerading as a doctor?

“Aah,” the young man said with satisfaction just as the computer pinged its own triumph. “Here it is. A Lyn Galpin
was
a patient with us, but that was back in the summer.”

“Did she come out of the coma?”

“Not exactly.”

“So she moved to another care facility?”

“You could call it that, I suppose.” He grimaced.

“Do you have the name of that place?”

“The afterlife. Ms. Galpin died in June.”

chapter forty

DAY TWENTY-THREE

Blindsided, Jill said, “She’s dead?”

The man nodded, adopting a mournful look that seemed practiced. “I’m afraid so.”

“What about her parents. I know they visited her here. Do you have their contact information?”

But he was shaking his head before she finished. “No and I really couldn’t give that to you even if I did. That’s not Angel’s Wings’ policy.”

Jill turned away, stymied. Where did she go from there? Then she thought of something. “Is there anyone here who I can talk to about Lyn Galpin and her parents? I mean, anybody who took care of her while she was here?”

“I’m sure there are plenty of people,” Brisk said in a distinctly un-brisk style. “We have a full staff and most of the nurses rotate, but I really can’t—”

“Please, it’s very important.”

He frowned. “Which hospital did you say you work for, doctor?”

“Mercy.” At least that was true of the lab coat. “I’m doing a study of coma patients and really hoped to include Lyn Galpin.”

The young receptionist sighed and turned to the computer again, clicking and moving the mouse for a minute until he found what he was looking for. “Okay, you’re in luck. One of the nurses is here today. Valerie Docimo. If you have a seat, I’ll page her.”

*   *   *

The nurse who came to meet Jill in the lobby was fiftysomething years old and wearing bright pink scrubs emblazoned with smiling cherub faces, a look strangely at odds with the stocky, muscular body crammed into them and the glower on the square, makeup-free face. “Yeah?”

“Did you care for a patient named Lyn Galpin?”

“Yeah. So?” Was it possible to look any more surly and guarded?

“I need to know anything you can tell me about her and her parents.”

“It’s for a study of coma patients,” Brisk helpfully interjected from the front desk.

The nurse glanced at the clock on the wall and put her hands on her hips. “I’m taking my break—you can talk to me while I have my snack.” The snack turned out to be a large sweetened coffee and an enormous cinnamon bun. Jill took a seat across from Valerie Docimo in the cafeteria and waited as patiently as she could for the other woman to slowly chew and swallow a bite of the pastry before she began talking.

“I do my job, but I didn’t like caring for her.”

“Because of the accident?”

The nurse nodded. “Why does a selfish bitch like her deserve medical care? She shouldn’t have been on the road at all, not when she’d had that much to drink.”

“Did you meet her parents?”

“Oh, yeah, they were here every day. Or at least her mother was. Every single day. Made my life a living hell.”

“How so?”

But the nurse had taken another bite of cinnamon bun, chewing with obvious relish. Valerie Docimo might have been a dieter for the number of times she chewed before actually swallowing a bite.

“She didn’t think we did enough to bring her out of the coma. Always demanding we talk to her, stimulate her more. I told her that her daughter was in a persistent vegetative state. She was a nurse, she knew what that meant.”

“Her mother is a nurse?”

“Was. She quit her job to sit by her kid’s bedside twenty-four seven. Stupid if you ask me. Like her daughter would know the difference. Anyway, she gave me grief over not doing more. I told her that even if I had the time to read to her daughter, which I most certainly did not, it would be a total waste of time. Like reading to a stalk of celery. Nothing there, you know?” She tapped the side of her head with a meaty forefinger. She frowned for a moment at the memory, and then her face relaxed as she speared another bite of pastry.

“How did she die?”

Chew, chew, chew—it was like watching a cow grazing. Finally she swallowed. “Doctors pulled the plug.”

“And her mother okayed this?”

Valerie Docimo snorted. “No way. Not at first. But the doctors were pushing to take her off life support and the drunk’s father wanted it. He said it was time for her to be at peace—though I hope she’s rotting in hell for what she did to those people.”

“Do you know where the parents lived?”

“They were from out of town, I know that much. Florida, I think. The father left after a week, but then he’d come back to visit on weekends. The mother stayed here the entire time.” She paused and wiped her mouth on a napkin. “I didn’t like her, but I’ll give the woman credit for that—she really was a devoted mother. She came every day to sit with her daughter. I think she only went home to sleep and shower.”

“Do you know where she was staying?”

Valerie nodded. “Sure. Her daughter’s apartment. Some crappy place near the Allegheny River. I remember because the bills were sent there—you know insurance doesn’t begin to cover everything and the coverage always runs out eventually. She was always bringing the bills in and complaining about the charges. Left her crap all over the room, and I saw those damn envelopes often enough—Riverview Estates, apartment 7B.” She snorted. “Can’t believe I remember crap like that, but I do.”

“Do you remember her name?”

“Yeah. Bea something. Wayne? Walters? No, that’s not it—wait, I’ve got it. Walsh. Bea Walsh.” She actually smiled for a second, transforming her face, but then it settled back down into frown lines. “She had a different last name than her daughter—second marriage, I think. Sad woman. You know, a lot of people blamed the parents for what their daughter did, but I wasn’t one of them. You’re not responsible for your kids’ behavior once they’re grown. They’ll do what they want to do no matter what you say. They’ll break your heart. You got any kids?”