Nightwatch

Rachel blinked at him as if his words weren’t English, as if she didn’t know she’d killed a girl in his E.R. Killed—

“I’m sorry I didn’t get the full report to you, Guy, but the girl had severe preeclampsia. I did everything possible to save her.”

“Everything possible,” he said, not believing that for a minute. “Where the hell was Williams?”

Rachel folded her robe tightly around her and slowly tied the knot in front. “There was only one OB on last night, and she was in the middle of a C-section with complications.”

He knew he was scaring her, that her step backward was a precursor to slamming the door in his face, but there had to be something she’d missed. Something she could have done.

“Guy? What’s going on?”

He focused on her face, realized his vision was blurry with tears. “She’s…she was my stepdaughter.”

Rachel’s eyes closed for a long moment, and when she opened them she touched his arm. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

“Damn it, Rachel, she was always perfectly healthy. There’s no reason this should have happened.”

“She hadn’t seen a doctor in a long time. No prenatal care at all. By the time she came in, her blood pressure was through the roof, the baby was almost dead. Guy, it was too late.”

He swallowed, leaned against the doorframe. Blinked his eyes clear. “I don’t understand any of this. She was supposed to be in Europe with her mother.”

“Why don’t you come in. Sit down.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you did everything. I just—”

“Of course.”

“Go back to sleep. You must be tired.”

“Are you sure you ought to be driving? With all the storm damage—”

“I’m fine. Sorry to have bothered you.” He turned and walked to his car, wishing like hell he could blame her. Blame anyone except himself.

RACHEL WATCHED as Guy got into his Range Rover, worried that he’d do something crazy, get distracted. Just plain run off the road.

Heather Corrigan had been his stepdaughter. She could hardly believe it even now, but why would he lie about something so awful?

Guy pulled out of her driveway too quickly. When he jerked to a stop, she saw him wipe his face with his hand, and when he started up again, he was moving at a much saner pace. Only when he turned the corner, out of her view, did her focus shift to her street. Tousled and windblown for sure, it still had the peaceful mien that had drawn her here in the first place.

There were mostly two-story houses with manicured lawns. Bikes, ten-speed and trainers, leaned against garage doors or lay on the sidewalk, making it difficult for the mailman.

She’d been so drawn here, and yet she’d never felt truly at home. Her night shifts, her single status. She was the odd duck, the silent stranger her neighbors nodded to when they couldn’t avoid her gaze.

Exhaustion washed over her, and she wasn’t quite sure whether it was the night before or the thought of the night ahead that made her so weary. Poor Guy. She’d had no idea. Yeah, she’d heard he’d been married before, but that was about the extent of her knowledge of his personal life.

The man was a hell of an administrator and an even better trauma surgeon. She was lucky to work with him.

But he was also terribly attractive, and not just because of his good looks. He pulled at her in a way that was too scary to examine closely. So she didn’t. She avoided him by working nights most of the time. By never letting down her guard. By being a doctor first, and a woman a distant second.

She closed her door, debating whether to get a glass of orange juice, but her body led her to the bedroom and her Egyptian-cotton sheets. To sleep.

GUY DIDN’T GET BACK to his office and privacy for two hours. The longest two hours he’d ever spent.

It was just that he had to know. For certain. So he’d gone to the morgue. In that cold room, with the sterile sinks and the gleaming drawers, he’d found her. Death had changed her, stiffened her soft features, made her face a mask. But it was Heather. God, what had she done to her hair? It was short, uneven, as if cut by ragged scissors without a mirror.

He stood there for a long time, wishing he could remember some prayers. Finally he spoke, quietly, hoping someone, something, listened.

It was over now, and he knew for sure. After he put all the paperwork on Heather in front of him, he sat down behind his desk, sinking into the fine leather, and closed his eyes. Memories of Heather laughing, braiding her hair, begging him for a Madonna album despite the adult lyrics. He’d only had her for four years. Four years of emergency calls, late-night surgeries, missed school plays, forgotten birthdays. He’d been as lousy a stepparent as he’d been a husband. But he’d loved Heather. More than her mother, at the end, although that was no one’s fault but his own.

He’d never blamed Tammy for leaving him. She had every right, and in fact, she’d probably stayed too long. His damn job. That was what she’d always called it. His damn job. And it had given him the only real satisfaction in his life.

He wasn’t meant to be married, but the lesson had been learned the hard way. With other people’s pain. And now, Heather was gone.

Guy hadn’t known she was pregnant, or even that she’d had a boyfriend, a lover. He’d lost touch, and whose fault was that?

It took him a moment to locate Tammy’s number in his Rolodex. She was living in Bordeaux, France, away with husband number three, studying art and learning to cook. Last time they’d talked, she’d sounded happy.

He got through after dialing all those numbers, and Tammy’s voice sounded as if she were in the next room, not overseas.

“Bonjour.”

“Tammy.”

There was a pause, long and static-free. “Guy.” She always used the French pronunciation. “To what do I owe this honor?”

He swallowed, picked up his pen and squeezed it. “I don’t know how to…Oh hell, Tammy…Heather.”

“What about Heather?”

He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Tammy. She’s dead.”

Nothing. No sound. No sharp cry, no keening wail. Just perfect silence.

“If this is a joke—”

“It’s not. I wish it were.”

Then came the sound of pain, and it was as terrible as anything he’d heard in all the years he’d been telling parents about their children, husbands about their wives…This was his grief, and her grief, and it was too real. It hurt like hot metal in his gut, like a gunshot wound.

“How?” Tammy said, her voice slurred.

“I didn’t even know she was pregnant.”

“What? What are you talking about? Heather’s not pregnant. She’s with her father. With Walter. In Los Angeles.”

“No, she’s not. She’s here, in Courage Bay. I think—” He stopped. Swallowed. “I think she was trying to find me.”

“Wait a minute. This makes no sense. I spoke to her two weeks ago, and she said everything was fine. That she was in L.A., that Walter was at the office, but that she would tell him hello.”