Chương 7
HANNAH.
“I tried to give this to the casualty officer,” he said. “They wouldn’t take it because it wasn’t on the property inventory.”
“Where did it come from?”
“Daniel’s vest.”
“Was it sealed when you found it?”
“Yes.”
“Have you opened it?”
“No.”
Claire looked at the worn edges of the envelope. “Why didn’t you mail it?”
“No address.”
“You had her old address.”
“After she blocked the calls, I figured she didn’t want anything from me.”
“It isn’t from you.”
“I know.”
“Then why keep it?”
His eyes moved toward the hospital elevators.
“Because I was a coward.”
Claire did not reassure him.
He handed her the sleeve.
She did not take it.
“I cannot accept personal property for a patient without documenting it.”
“Document it.”
“Hannah may refuse it.”
“Then put it in a safe until she decides.”
Claire looked at the name written in black ink. The handwriting leaned slightly to the right. The last letter ended in a smear.
“Did Daniel write this after the attack?”
“Before.”
“How do you know?”
“He asked me for paper at the staging site. Said he needed to fix something.”
“What?”
“He didn’t say.”
Claire took the sleeve.
Earl stood. His damaged hand brushed the bench, knocking his coat to the floor. He stared at it for a second before bending to pick it up.
“Your badge is still in the conference room,” Claire said.
“Throw it away.”
“I won’t.”
“Then give it to Miriam.”
“I can suspend your placement pending review. I don’t have to terminate it.”
“Hannah does.”
“She controls access to her child. She does not control hospital employment or volunteer policy.”
“I’m not fighting her.”
“You came back.”
“To deliver the letter.”
“You could have mailed it to the hospital.”
“And have it opened by someone who thinks I steal dead men’s tags?”
Claire absorbed the blow.
Earl pulled on his coat. The tremor made the zipper difficult. After two failed attempts, he left it open.
“I deserved that,” she said.
“I didn’t come here to give you what you deserve.”
“What did you come for?”
He looked at the plastic sleeve in her hand.
“To stop carrying what belongs to somebody else.”
Hannah refused the envelope.
Tessa documented the refusal and placed it in the hospital safe.
Baby Girl Reed developed a fever that evening.
Blood cultures were drawn. Antibiotics began. The neonatologist explained to Hannah through a video call that infection was common in extremely premature infants and could become serious quickly. Hannah watched from her cardiac bed, one hand pressed over her mouth.
On the screen, the baby lay beneath the incubator light with her arms bent beside her head. The knitted white cap had been replaced by a smaller one because the first kept slipping over her eyes. Her chest moved rapidly. The oxygen tubing trembled with each breath.
“She looks red,” Hannah said.
“Her skin is very thin at this gestational age,” Claire explained.
“Is she in pain?”
“We manage discomfort carefully. Right now she appears settled.”
“What’s on her foot?”
“A sensor.”
“And that line?”
“Nutrition.”
“What if she pulls it out?”
“We secure it and monitor her.”
Hannah nodded at every answer without looking away from the screen.
After seven minutes, the cardiology nurse said the call needed to end.
“Wait,” Hannah said. “Can she hear me?”
“Possibly,” Claire replied.
Hannah leaned closer to the phone.
“Hi,” she said.
Nothing followed.
Her face tightened with frustration, as though she had failed an examination for which everyone else had received instructions.
“Hi, baby,” she tried again. “It’s me.”
The infant moved one hand.
Hannah laughed, a small startled sound that ended in a cough. The cardiac nurse reached for the phone, but Hannah turned away.
“I don’t know your name yet,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I thought we had more time.”
The baby’s fingers opened and closed.
Claire watched the monitor rather than Hannah’s face.
“I’ll come when they let me,” Hannah said. “Don’t listen to anybody who says I’m not coming.”
After the call ended, Claire remained beside the incubator. She adjusted the corner of the swaddle even though it did not need adjustment.
Talia approached carrying two medication syringes.
“You look like you’re trying to apologize to a blanket,” she said.
Claire stepped aside. “I’m checking positioning.”
“You checked it three times.”
“Then it’s well checked.”
Talia verified the medication label against the wristband. “Miriam called.”
“About Earl?”
“She asked whether I thought he targeted bed seven.”
“And?”
“I said no.”
Claire looked at her.
Talia shrugged. “He asked about the bracelet after he was already assigned. Before that, he spent twenty minutes cleaning a milk warmer because no one told him it was already broken. Not exactly a criminal mastermind.”
“He could have seen the name earlier.”
“He could have. But you’re looking for a version where being suspicious makes you right.”
Claire opened her mouth, then closed it.
Talia connected the syringe to the IV port. “For the record, I was nervous too.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“It wasn’t supposed to.”
The blood cultures grew bacteria within twelve hours.
The neonatologist changed antibiotics and warned Hannah that the next forty-eight hours would matter. The baby’s heart rate fluctuated. Her abdomen became mildly distended. Feedings were stopped.
Hannah’s cardiac recovery stalled because her blood pressure remained unstable. She asked to be transferred to the NICU against medical advice and became furious when the cardiologist refused.
Robert Reed filed a petition in Douglas County seeking temporary guardianship of the infant on the grounds that Hannah was medically incapacitated and had no stable housing.
The hospital’s legal office received notice the same morning.
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“She’s not incapacitated,” Tessa said, standing in Claire’s office with the filing open on her tablet. “She’s ill. There’s a difference.”
Claire skimmed the affidavit. Robert stated that Hannah had been unemployed, living in temporary lodging, and unable to provide a safe home. He described Daniel as unmarried and claimed the paternity assertion had not been verified.
