Chapter 9

Denton Memorial Hospital was a large brick building located on the top of one of the city's highest hills. Josie parked in the visitors' lot near the ER trauma bays and snuck inside, flashing her credentials at the security guard as she went. For a Wednesday afternoon, the place was crowded. Nurses strode along the row of curtained-off treatment areas, shouting to one another. A baby wailed from behind one of them. Several machines beeped throughout, indicating changes in vital signs. Josie went weak with relief when she saw Detective Gretchen Palmer standing by the nurses' station, her hand inside a brown bag from their favorite coffee shop, Kommorah's Koffee. On the counter next to her was a carrier with two cups of coffee. She looked up as Josie approached. Smiling, she removed a pecan croissant from the bag.

"Is that a pastry?" Josie said, giving Gretchen a mock-stern look.

Gretchen bit off half of it and chewed. After gulping it down, she said, "You saw nothing."

Josie laughed. Then, feigning seriousness, she said, "It doesn't feel right to keep secrets from Paula."

Gretchen, now in her late forties, had had her twins in her early twenties and then given them up for adoption. At the time, she'd been caught up in a bad situation and felt it was the only way to keep them safe. Years later, both children had come back into her life. Her adult daughter now lived with her and had talked her into following a strict diet and exercise routine. Paula wanted her mother around as long as possible, and Gretchen didn't have the heart to tell her no. Plus, as a detective, her schedule wasn't always conducive to healthy habits. Still, Josie knew Komorrah's pecan croissants were Gretchen's weakness.

In fact, Gretchen stared at the rest of the croissant like it was her lover. "It's bad enough she's still got me jogging every damn day." With one hand she pinched the skin at her waist. There was considerably less now than in all the years Josie had known her. "Look at this. I'm wasting away to nothing. She's slowly cutting back on our sugar intake. Soon I won't even be able to put sugar in my coffee. She's been tracking my A1C like a bookie at the racetrack."

Josie laughed. "I thought grad school was time-consuming."

"Not enough that it keeps her from being my in-house nutritionist." Gretchen popped the rest of the croissant into her mouth, chewing more slowly this time. Her eyes fluttered closed as she savored the pastry.

"You couldn't talk her out of criminology, I guess."

Gretchen opened her eyes, swatted some crumbs from her chest, and grabbed one of the coffee cups, handing it to Josie. "I'm just glad she didn't want to join a police department. I'm not thrilled about criminology, but at least she'll be behind a desk. Better to be an analyst than to be in the field. I never want her to see the things we've seen—not up close."

Josie opened the lid of the paper cup, letting the steam waft up over her face. "Is this a flat white latte?"

Gretchen arched a brow. "I'm insulted you'd even ask. How many years have we been working together?"

"Almost eight." Josie took a long sip, feeling a wave of anticipation as she waited for the caffeine to hit her system. "Don't ever leave me."

Gretchen chuckled. "I promise." She pointed at one of the glass-fronted trauma rooms directly across from the nurses' station. "My shooting victim is in there. He'll be fine. Already got the shooter. It was a neighbor. Dispute over a tree. I wish you had called me as soon as Turner asked you to come in. I could have saved you all this trouble. I know you've got the home study tomorrow."

"I can still make the home study," Josie said.

"Tell me about this one and I'll take it from here."

Josie took another long sip of her latte. "I can take the lead."

"It's not a problem for me," Gretchen said. "Do what you need to do at home."

She thought about what Noah had said about making adjustments in their lives if they were to adopt a child—that couples with full-time jobs raised kids all the time. "Thanks, but I can do it. I can handle this and things at home."

Gretchen narrowed her eyes. "Is this about the woman you think you lost at the retreat last year?"

Josie lowered her voice to a whisper. "I don't think I lost her. I did. If I had chosen differently, she'd still be alive. But it's not that. Not entirely."

For a moment, Gretchen looked like she was going to argue with Josie. Again. But she let it go. "You have a bad feeling about this one."

"I have a bad feeling about all of them."

"You know what I mean."

As they waited for someone on the staff to update them on Mira Summers, Josie filled Gretchen in on the details of the case and finished by showing her the photos she'd taken at the scene. Gretchen did a far better job than Josie had at hiding her emotion when she saw the message asking for help and the condition of the passenger. "Jane Doe should be in the morgue now," said Josie. "But Anya probably won't have the results of the autopsy until tomorrow."

"Where is the child who drew the picture?" Gretchen asked, immediately zeroing in on the most alarming detail, the thing that was currently burning a hole right through the lining of Josie's stomach.

"Exactly," Josie said. "Jane Doe wanted someone to find that drawing. Even with a weapon still inside her body, she held onto that picture."

"In a literal death grip," Gretchen muttered. "What can we tell about this kid from the drawing? Anything? There's a flower. I don't want to stereotype or be sexist but that could be an indicator that we're looking for a little girl."

"It could, but we shouldn't rule anything out. Honestly, the drawing raises more questions than it answers." Josie slugged down the rest of her latte and tossed the empty cup into a trash bin nearby. "I also think, based on Jane Doe's appearance, that she was held somewhere and possibly tortured before being stabbed."

"Well, that's terrifying," Gretchen muttered, sipping her coffee. "But the ‘help' makes a lot more sense in that context."

Josie heard footsteps behind her and turned to see the emergency department's attending physician, Dr. Ahmed Nashat, walking toward them. He smiled. "Detectives, a pleasure, as always, though I do hate meeting under such distressing circumstances."

"You're in a good mood," Gretchen said.

Dr. Nashat's smile loosened. He looked behind them as if he expected to see someone else. "Truth be told, I'm glad to see you two and not your new colleague."

"You're not the only one," Gretchen grumbled. "What's he done now?"

"Let's just say he doesn't have the same finesse with witnesses or the medical staff as the rest of you."

"He doesn't have it with anyone," Josie muttered. "What can you tell us about Mira Summers?"

"When she was brought in, she had regained consciousness. She has a very large bruise on her forehead. She responded appropriately to verbal commands. I noted several signs of a concussion. She was immediately sent for a CT scan of her head. Don't worry, one of your officers already came and took possession of her clothes and boots. One of the residents will get her arms sewn up as soon as possible, but the head injury took precedent. Anyway, Ms. Summers's CT doesn't show any visible injury, but I've diagnosed her with a concussion based on her other symptoms. For now, we will admit her for observation and continue to monitor her symptoms."

"She's awake?" Josie asked. "Lucid?"

Dr. Nashat frowned. "She is awake. She's in a great deal of pain although the medication we've given her will help with that. She appears to have some memory loss."

Gretchen narrowed her eyes. "What kind of memory loss?"

A nurse strode past them, pushing a man in a wheelchair. He held an ice pack against his nose. Dr. Nashat stepped out of the way. Josie and Gretchen followed suit. "She doesn't remember much about the accident or the events leading up to it."

Gretchen said, "Is that normal?"

"What we normally see in patients who have sustained concussions is short-term memory loss such as not remembering people's names or forgetting where they put their keys, that sort of thing. It's usually temporary and will resolve over the course of weeks or months. Miss Summers may very well present with that type of short-term memory loss in the coming weeks. In terms of her not remembering the accident? It can happen but it's not common. There have been cases of patients not having any memory of the event that caused the concussion, so it's not out of the realm of possibility. That said, it is also possible that she'll recover those memories at some point. She doesn't have complete memory loss. She knew she'd been in an accident when I spoke with her. She even knew which road she'd been on."

It was selective, then. Josie looked at Gretchen and then back at Dr. Nashat. "Don't take this the wrong way, but is there any possibility that Mira Summers is…faking it?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Faking her memory loss?"

Gretchen said, "We had a case, several years back, where a woman faked her memory loss. Surely you understand how we'd be concerned about that happening again."

He brought his hands together at his waist. "It's difficult to say. Concussions present differently for every patient. Whether Mira Summers's memory loss surrounding what led to her accident is real or whether she is"—here he used air quotes—"‘faking it,' is not something I am in a position to comment on."

"But she could be faking it," Josie pressed.

Dr. Nashat pursed his lips. They were well out of medical territory now and Josie knew exactly why he didn't want to answer. "Your personal opinion. Between us. Nothing you'll have to testify to in court should the need arise."

"We have experts for that," Gretchen noted.

He rubbed his fingers across his forehead. "There is no measurable test by which we could determine that."

That was a non-answer if Josie ever heard one. She genuinely liked Dr. Nashat, but she knew that was as much as he was willing to say on the matter.

"If you don't mind," he said. "I have patients."

They thanked him for his time. As he walked off, Gretchen drained the rest of her coffee. "What do you want to do?"

Josie caught a flash of blue behind Gretchen. Officer Dougherty strode in their direction. Josie gestured toward him. "Talk to him first."

A notepad appeared in Dougherty's hands as he reached them. He flipped a page. "Quinn," he said. "Brennan told me you'd be here."

"What did you find at Mira Summers's residence?" Josie asked.

Dougherty flipped another page. "She resides in a town house. A rental. One of those developments with dozens of identical town houses. I knocked and rang the bell. No response. One of her neighbors was home. He said she left in her car around eight this morning—by herself. She did not appear to be injured. He said she lives alone. Landlord confirmed. No one else is on the lease."

"No children?" asked Josie.

Dougherty glanced at his notes. "No children on the lease, and the neighbor said he's never seen any children coming or going."

"Any pets?" asked Josie.

He looked up at her, as if surprised at the question. "Neighbor says she's got a cat. You counting cats as roommates now?"

Gretchen raised a brow. "Cats are smarter than most people, Dougherty."

"If you say so," he muttered.

"What kind?" asked Josie.

"Are you serious with this?" he replied.

Josie and Gretchen stared at him intently. He gave a heavy sigh. "I didn't ask." When neither of them responded, he added, "I can try to find out."

"It's fine," Josie said, flashing him a quick grin. "We'll ask Summers."

"She should remember her cat," Gretchen added, drawing a confused look from Dougherty.