As Patrice’s family trudged out of the ER arm in arm, Wade realized little Timmy must have died. He hung his head. Maybe he should’ve tried to scare up something sweet for her to eat, even though she’d said she hadn’t wanted anything. Because the way things looked, no telling how long it might be before—
“Hey, kid.”
Wade got to his feet. “Yeah?”
“Sorry, but we lost Mr. Delaney, ’bout fifteen minutes ago.”
Wade pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.
The nurse he’d spoken to earlier put a hand on Wade’s shoulder. “The cops are on their way now, to tell the family. You might want to get over first chance you get, see if there’s anything you can do for ’em…since you’re a friend of the family and all.”
Friend. Shame burned hot in Wade’s gut. Funny, he thought, that until the nurse said “friend,” he hadn’t understood what the word hypocrite meant.
“How’d you get here?”
“Walked,” he fibbed, knowing if he said “hitch-hiked,” he’d probably be in for a safety sermon. The nurse seemed like a nice enough woman, but Wade was in no mood for a lecture, no matter how well intended.
“So, how you gettin’ home?”
Wade shrugged. “Same way, I guess.”
“I could call you a cab….”
Shaking his head, Wade got to his feet. “Nah. I’ll walk. It’s not far.” You’re gettin’ awful good at fibbin’, he told himself. Better watch it.
Truth was, there were thirty miles between here and his house, but he’d walk every step of it. It’d do him good, having all that time to think.
The nurse frowned. “This isn’t the best neighborhood, so you keep your eyes peeled, y’hear?”
Wade fought the impulse to exhale a sarcastic snicker. Nothing was going to happen to him; bad things only happened to good people.
“Okay, then, if you’re sure….”
He nodded, and the nurse headed back into the ER, leaving Wade alone in the waiting room.
Alone, and feeling more lost than he’d ever felt in his life.
Chapter One
Present day, Halloween Eve
As he stepped off the elevator, Wade glanced at his watch, then ran a hand nervously through his hair. He’d never honed the ability to keep an emotional distance from his patients; especially when the patient was a kid.
Knowing it would be the toughest visit of his rounds, he’d saved this patient for last. Just outside her hospital room, he took a moment to get his head on straight. Then, one hand on the door handle, he froze as a whisper-soft voice from inside the room said, “And may God bless Emily and speed her recovery.”
Wade grimaced. Fat lot of good your prayers are gonna do, he silently scolded this patient’s mother, ’cause if the Big Guy exists, He ain’t listening.
Only yesterday, Wade had spent nearly eleven hours in the OR with little Emily Kirkpatrick. He couldn’t help but wonder what kind of God would stand idly by as a six-year-old endured such intense and constant pain. Now, shaking his head, he forced a bright smile and shoved his way into the child’s room.
“Dr. Cameron,” Emily’s mom said, hands still clasped in prayer, “how good to see you.”
Humbled by the gratitude on the mother’s weary face, Wade felt himself blush. “How goes it, Mrs. Kirkpatrick?” He grabbed Emily’s chart from the plastic slot attached to her door, tucking it under his arm as he met the woman’s eyes. “Get any sleep last night?”
“Oh, I managed to catch a few winks. How about you? You’re the one who spent eleven hours in the operating room.”
Long ago, he’d accepted that now and then, he’d run across someone who seemed to have turned nurturing into an art form. Mrs. Kirkpatrick was one of those people. “Slept like a baby,” he answered.
Laughing, Emily’s mom grabbed her purse. “If you don’t mind, I’ll run down the hall and grab a quick cup of coffee while you’re examining Emily.”
“Take your time,” Wade said, dragging a chair closer to Emily’s bed.
Emily opened sleepy eyes. “Hi, Doc.”
He perched on the edge of the chair. “Hi, yourself, kiddo. How y’doin’?”
Emily managed a wan smile. “Hurts,” she said, pointing to her chest.
“Sorry to hear that, sweetie.” Gently, Wade laid her chart beside her on the mattress. “You’re due for a little medicine soon, so by suppertime, you’ll be feeling much better.”
She gave a weak nod.
“So how’d you sleep?” Gently, he touched a finger to the end of her upturned nose. “Did those busybody nurses keep you awake, taking your temperature and stuff?”
Her smile broadened a bit. “Yeah, but it’s okay. Mommy says they’re just trying to help me get better.”
He took her tiny hand in his. “What’s this?” Wade asked, grinning.
“A ladybug, crawling on a daisy,” she said. “This nice man came in and painted it on me.” Her blue eyes darted around, then settled on something across the room. “Miss Patrice brought him here.”
Wade followed Emily’s gaze to where “Miss Patrice” stood, entertaining Emily’s roommate. If the young woman had seen him enter, she gave no sign of it; her attention was fixed on her one-child audience.
Which was fine by Wade; volunteers had good intentions, what with their puppets and face paints and musical instruments, but in his opinion, their main contribution was to wear out his patients and generally get in the way.
“And if Nurse Joan tells me you don’t eat your supper again tonight,” Miss Patrice made her monkey puppet say, “I’m going to tell my best friend.”
The child snickered. “Yeah?” the girl demanded, grinning. “Who’s your best friend?”
“Why, Santa Claus, of course!” Miss Patrice manipulated the sticks controlling the puppet, making it tousle the child’s hair. Wade would have bet the kid’s peals of laughter could be heard all the way to the bank of elevators down the hall. He couldn’t help but notice that her merriment had crept to Emily’s side of the room, too.
“If Santa finds out you’re not taking proper care of yourself,” said the puppet’s gravelly voice, “there’s gonna be T-R-O-U-B-L-E.” She made the monkey wiggle a hairy finger under the girl’s nose. “And you know what that spells!”
“Trouble!” Emily answered, grinning from ear to ear. For the moment, at least, she appeared to have forgotten her pain.
Patrice whirled around, eyes wide and smiling, and, puppet balanced on her forearm, stepped up to Emily’s bed. “And just who do you think you are, li’l missy, the Spelling Bee Queen?”
“No, silly,” she giggled, “I’m Emily Kirkpatrick.”
“Pleased t’meetcha, Emily Kirkpatrick!” The monkey tickled her chin. “My name is Mortimer Mohammad Mastriani McMonkey.”
“That’s a long name!”
Mort did a little jig on the edge of Emily’s bed, then tapped a paw to his chin. “Yes,