Page 25 of The Girl from Widow Hills
CHAPTER 8
Saturday, 4 a.m.
IWASN’T ACCUSTOMED TO THEnight shift at the hospital—the flip side to my day. There was extra security; a staff I wasn’t completely familiar with. Nina Rigby led me through the ER entrance, not realizing I was an employee.
I filled out the paperwork with the least amount of information possible. My insurance, my name, my date of birth—the usual. Nothing that required a medical professional to dig any deeper into my personal history: I was always aware of where that could lead. I wasn’t sure how much information was tied to my new name, how much had transferred, how much each system was connected—but the less I provided, the less likely anything would be questioned.
It was a cut on my leg. That’s all. Nothing else was relevant.
Except I knew whatwouldbe available and easily accessed right now, shared on this very system: my recent visit with Dr. Calvin Royce.
Even without the details, the visit itself would imply something.
I hoped no one saw it and mentioned it. Not in front of the police.
The waiting room was full, with some noticeably sick children ahead of me, including one with an audible wheeze who, thankfully, got called back first. But having the police escort must have bumped me up the list. After I’d checked in, Nina Rigby went up to the reception desk, showed her ID, and said something to the woman that I couldn’t understand—but the woman peered up at me for a split second, and we didn’t have to wait long to be called back, vitals taken by a nurse I vaguely recognized. She must’ve filled in for someone on the day shift in the past.
I was glad for the loose pajama pants, and pulled the material up to my thigh, so the wound could be cleaned and assessed.
The nurse spoke with a soothing smile, and I couldn’t tell whether she recognized me, either—or at least recognized my name. Eventually, she left us in the semi-private curtained area, me in the single bed, Nina sitting in the single visitor chair against the wall.
Nina Rigby was practiced in stillness, it seemed, and it was making me anxious, and restless. All I could do was stare at the gap between the curtains, keeping watch for the doctor and trying not to think of the events that had led us here.
The buzz of Nina’s phone made us both jump, and she distracted herself for a while texting someone on the other end. Her face gave away nothing.
“The body was found on Mr. Aimes’s property,” she said. “That’s the primary crime scene, though they may have to expand it once we get a better look in the daylight. Okay if they need to check over the property line, in your yard?”
She was looking at her phone when she said it, and when I didn’t respond at first, her eyes cut sharply to mine.
“Sure,” I said.
She continued typing, then slid the phone into her bag.
“How long have you known Mr. Aimes?” Nina asked. I wasn’t sure if this was related to her phone conversation or just her personal curiosity. But I erred on the side of caution, assuming they had taken Rick’s statement back at his house already. I needed to be careful to match his story.
“I bought the house from him. Over a year ago. He keeps an eye out for me, and I try to do the same. I don’t think he has any family in town.”
“No,” she said, “he doesn’t.”
I looked her over, with her clean pressed slacks, the boots, the windbreaker. I didn’t know her role in this; Rick had introduced her as Nina, and she’d never clarified whether she was an officer, an investigator, a liaison. She didn’t look old enough to be in charge, but she had the air of authority. Such was the benefit of small towns. Same way I had my position in the hospital so young. “You’ve known him a while?”
She crossed one leg over the other before answering. “I grew up here. I knew his son.”
I had opened my mouth to ask another question when the doctor pulled back the curtain in one swift movement. She said hello absently, eyes to Nina, then to my bare leg, then down to the paperwork in front of her. “Good news is this doesn’t seem to be anything but a surface injury. Bad news, cuts like this over a joint still generally require stitches to heal correctly. And, unrelated, I’m a little concerned about your blood pressure.” She stood closer, sliding on a pair of gloves. “Let’s take a look.”
“Dr. Britton?” I asked. Even though of course it was her. Sydney, with her trademark sleek blond hair and sharp cheekbones, now dressed up in a white lab coat, glasses perched on top of her head. Hadn’t it been just yesterday when she’d been checking out of work, tired and in need of sleep, picking up wine and a microwave meal from the G&M? Yet here she was, fresh-eyed and sharp, with no recognition on her face.
She blinked twice, like she was trying to slide me into context. “Liv?”
“You two know each other?” Nina asked, suddenly standing.
“I work here,” I said, and the tiniest of lines formed in Nina’s forehead. “Not as a doctor . . .” I pointed to the ceiling. “Upstairs. Administration.”
Nina looked at me closely, as if she could see the potential for all the other things stored inside that I had not offered up. “Nina Rigby,” she said, directing her words to the doctor. “Detective with the police department.”
Detective.The word chilled. Turned this visit into something else. Was I still being questioned here? Was I a suspect? I was cooperating, and I didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to make the wrong move, drag things out that should remain buried.
“Sydney Britton,” the doctor replied. She was looking carefully between the detective and me. Categorizing everything that was not right—from my dirty feet, slipped into flip-flops, to the worn pajama pants. I felt the night, wild and clinging to me.
