Relocation: Restitution Series: Book One by B.H. Lynn

Author:B.H. Lynn [Lynn, B.H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-03-28T18:30:00+00:00

11

Adam Dawson

“I can’t believe they’re pulling us away from the investigation for this.” The heels of my wingtips clicked off the flooring of Truist Methodist Hospital. With nothing but bare walls and metal venting, each step created an echo. I was dead tired, but I kept going.

It felt like three days instead of three hours since we left Marlene’s house at about four. Kent Fried’s deceptive behavior gave us enough reasonable suspicion to take him in for interrogation. With his lawyer by his side, Fried admitted the story about the argument had been a farce. Stanford had decided he’d step down so they could go public with their relationship. Fried wanted the divorce to be finalized before that, and things got heated. Without probable cause, we had to turn him loose and ordered him not to leave the state.

Thanks to Ms. Cassio, we spent the rest of the time dodging calls from the press. With a supercilious sneer, she blabbed her version of events to every microphone shoved in her face, ran Heather’s name through the mud, and the news crews ate it up. Pleas to find Heather Fried turned to hearsay, and just when the chaos reached a fever pitch, Branson sent us out to interview a hit-and-run victim.

“PRO is handling the media. They’ll get it all retracted.” Caleb scrutinized the hospital directory, then turned right. “And Heather’s disappearance isn’t our case unless missing persons brings her in. There’s not much else we can do today.”

“True,” I replied, “but a hit-and-run interview? Really?”

“Welcome to small-town policing.” He paused at the opening elevator, where a plethora of people in scrubs burst out like it was a clown car. “Must be shift change.” He held the door and waved me in.

I gripped the handrails and rested my head against the cool wall as the elevator groaned up the shaft. Stinging waves of antiseptic, floral perfumes, burnt coffee, and trauma surrounded me in the small, enclosed space. The stench of it never left me; it was woven into the fabric of my memory, where no amount of time or fresh air could erase it.

“Adam?” The overhead light emphasized the lines round Caleb’s mouth and the concern in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I focused on the floor numbers on the display. “I just hate hospitals.”

“Me too.” He said as the doors opened.

We passed the nurses’ station where a doctor was bent over some poor woman’s shoulder and mansplaining something about Xray codes. A blonde woman, no older than twenty-five, was fishing for something in her purse as she walked towards us and gave us a shy smile as she passed.

At Room 418, Caleb knocked softly on the door, announcing our arrival. A woman standing around five-four and a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet, pulled it open. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen, but she forced a smile and ushered us in. She had on a blue sweatshirt with “Mama-bear” on the front, and black pixie cut slacks. Young Brayden Hasse lay in the bed, his left leg raised by pulleys cradled in a splint.

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