The Good Father
Which meant they were either overly confident or just plain stupid. Didn’t they know that he’d started one of the first—and still one of the most reputable—public-record-finding dot-coms in existence? He was an investigator. A person who could find anything there was to be found.
And so, while the ladies and gentleman that he’d been sitting on a board with for three months were enjoying lunch at a nearby French restaurant, Brett, the sole nonvoting board member, was alone in the executive offices rifling through files. Thank God they were mostly computerized, and he could scan them quickly.
Fortunately he found the information he needed within minutes. Not so fortunate was the fact that his suspicions had just been confirmed.
Before the members of the board would have had time to order their gourmet sandwiches and have them delivered to their table, paid for by nonprofit monies, Brett had reported every one of them to the local police.
* * *
ELLA’S PLANS TO be home early were interrupted by her cell phone ringing just as she was leaving work that afternoon. Lila McDaniels, managing director of The Lemonade Stand, was on the other end.
“I’d like to meet with you,” Lila said after introducing herself. “I’ve just read the email naming you as the most recent addition to Santa Raquel’s Domestic Violence High Risk team. And while those appointments are made by a committee, the idea for this program originated from our facility, and I make it a point to get to know everyone on the team.”
Ella had heard about the team in a recent hospital staff meeting and, thinking the opening was a gift from angels, had applied immediately. She’d heard back within the week that she’d received the appointment. Committee work was a required and ongoing part of most professional hospital positions. At least if one had an eye on career advancement.
Ella’s motive for seeking this particular committee position was much more personal, however. And if securing the position meant taking a detour on the way home, then she’d do so. She’d agreed to a four o’clock meeting in the director’s office. And now, following the instructions Ms. McDaniels had given her, she was looking for the small public parking lot in front of the facility. The question was, did she pretend she’d never heard of The Lemonade Stand before? Or did she tell the woman that she knew the man who’d founded the place?
Had known him intimately?
And had spent years recovering from the pain he’d caused her?
* * *
BRETT WAS BACK in Santa Raquel in time to have an early dinner. He ate his peanut-butter-and-bacon sandwich pacing in front of the sliding glass door that led from his kitchen eating area to the deck and the garden and acre of woods beyond. Still in the navy blue suit he’d worn to attend the morning board meeting, he’d loosened the knot of the red tie a bit. His one concession to relaxation. His wing tips were shined. His watch in place.
Brett’s life was a mission—and all pieces were accounted for.
Except one.
That phone call he’d had that morning.
His ex-wife was in town. She had to be if she was on the High Risk team.
Facts listed themselves off in his mind as he paced and chewed in rhythm. Peanut butter and bacon. One of the few good things in his life that came from having known his father.
The old man would take credit for Brett’s choice of repast. And probably try to draw some major conclusion from the fact that the unhealthy and unrefined meal was still his favorite.
Turning to pace back in the direction he’d come, Brett admonished his father’s memory for being in his head at all. Let alone right now.
Ella was in town. No mystery as to why his father was suddenly coming to mind.
She was in town, and she hadn’t contacted him.
Not that she had any reason to. They had no connection—nothing in their lives that would necessitate them to be in the same area at the same time. He’d made certain of that. Schmuck that he was.
Even his own mother, while she’d agreed to act as his business assistant, wouldn’t be in the same room with him. Or even have a real conversation with him.
She was in his home, in his life, only when he wasn’t there.
But Ella seemed to be with him wherever he went. Try as he might, he couldn’t shake her.
Which made getting rid of her presence in his physical space, his town, anywhere he might run into her, paramount.
* * *
WITH HER PAST and her present, her current career, Ella didn’t get ruffled by much these days. Her dream of sharing a passionate, all-in relationship with another person was packed firmly away with the rest of her childhood memorabilia.
And the second she met Lila McDaniels, she felt a bit like a child again. Believing that everything would be okay. Because of the kind look in Lila’s gaze as she introduced herself?
The unusual reaction was a warning to her. She wasn’t as unaffected by the world around her as she wanted to be. Note taken. To be dealt with as soon as she was alone.
“We can take a tour of the grounds later,” the older woman said, whisking Ella through an entrance that reminded her of the heavy, pass-key-admittance-only door that led into the NICU. “For now I thought we’d have some tea.”
No question about whether or not Ella liked tea. But she did, and tea sounded good. Still in her pale peach scrubs with little bears all over them, and wearing the black rubber-soled shoes that tended to squeak a bit when she walked, Ella followed the older woman through a large, nicely appointed office into a smaller living space furnished with an elegant, claw-footed chintz couch, matching claw-footed side tables and two rose silk wing-back armchairs. The room was delightful. And took her breath away.
“Did you do your own decorating?” she asked, feeling instantly as though she could spend the next ten days in that room, reading books and feeling...safe.
The thought startled her. She didn’t feel unsafe. She’d lived alone for years and was perfectly secure.
“Yes, I did. A little at a time.” Lila’s gray pants and white blouse, her short, mostly gray nondescript hair, looked out of place in the colorful room. “Here at The Lemonade Stand, we believe that the strongest healing comes from within. We encourage our residents to look inside themselves for their inner beauty, their inner strengths. Their inner worth. We also believe that if one is told she’s bad or at fault enough times, or if one is forced to live with violence and ugliness, the beauty within becomes locked away. So we try to surround ourselves and our residents with outer beauty, with elegant and peaceful surroundings, and with kindness, in the hopes that we can help them begin to counteract the violence they’ve been exposed to and begin to access their inner bounty.”
Ella had a feeling she was hearing an oft-given speech. “As soon as I heard that I’d won the committee appointment at the hospital, I read up on all of the other team members,” she said, still standing, facing the older woman. “I’ve got The Lemonade Stand’s pamphlet memorized,” she continued, wanting Lila to make no mistake about her sincerity or value to the team. “I want to be fully prepared and able to help if I find myself with a victim in need.”
Not just for Chloe and Jeff. But for the mothers of any of her babies. Or any of the other children who came into the hospital with “at risk” symptoms.
Lila’s gaze changed. Only for a second. The calm, the kindness, covered the subtle glimpse of whatever had been there, but she was fully focused on Ella as she asked, “Have you ever been a victim?”
“Not in the way you mean.”
Taking her hand, Lila led Ella to one of the two armchairs and took the other, all the while holding Ella’s gaze. “In what way do I mean?” she asked.
“I’ve never been abused.”
“So, in what way have you been a victim?”
Whoa. Ella sat back. Feeling as though she’d been slam-dunked. And as though she wanted to cry on this woman’s shoulder.
“I haven’t been,” she assured Lila McDaniels, racking her brain for a way to explain what she’d meant. “My folks were great parents. I was disciplined by having my reading time taken away. Or by being sent to bed without dessert. They never raised a hand to me. Nor has my father ever been even remotely violent with my mother. They were high school sweethearts and are still happily married.”
“There must have been arguments. No two individuals live in complete harmony forever.”
“Of course they fought! They still do. I’ve certainly heard raised voices. But nothing that ever crossed the line into emotional battery. Or personal attacks, either, that I can think of.”
Lila’s gaze was still intent. “And what about since then?”
“I’m...I’ve never been in an abusive relationship.” Pressure built up beneath Lila’s inquisitive stare—as though the woman was certain, in spite of what Ella was telling her, that Ella was a victim.
Ella’s gaze didn’t waver. Even for a second. She of all people knew that Brett was not an abusive man. Knew, too, that there were other ways to break a heart.
Studying Ella for another few seconds, Lila finally said, “We just need to know, up front, because if you’ve been a victim, your perspective might be different,” she said by way of explanation.
“You’re saying that if I was a victim, I wouldn’t be welcome on the team?”
“Of course not.” Lila’s frown, her quick gasp, caught at Ella, putting her strangely at ease. “Oh, my word, of course not. I just...I like to know. So I can help if need be... I’ll go get that tea.”
Lila was clasping her hands together as she left the room. Ella watched her go, curious about the woman, and wishing that the managing director was a member of the High Risk team so she’d have an opportunity to get to know her better. She wasn’t, though. The Lemonade Stand’s representative was a woman Ella had yet to meet—Sara Havens, a licensed professional clinical counselor.
And in retrospect, Lila’s not being on the team was just as well. At the moment, Ella didn’t have time to make a new friend outside of work. She had her hands full with settling into a new town, a new job, finding a house and putting her family back together.
She just had to make a good enough impression to secure the High Risk team position she’d already landed.
Which was just par for her life—having to fight for what she thought she already had. Like Chloe, fighting to keep them sisters when she’d thought they were family for life. And Brett...no...she’d stop that train of thought right there.
Lila called from the kitchen, asking Ella if she wanted milk in her tea. Ella declined.
She wasn’t going to think about Brett.
Not yet.
Not until she had to.
And only then until she could get what she needed from him.
CHAPTER THREE
BRETT HAD TO be in Chicago for an eleven o’clock meeting Wednesday morning. He’d be spending the few hours he had in his first-class airline seat studying the agenda for Music Muscles, a nonprofit music-therapy organization that was one of his newest clients. One that, so far, gave him no cause for concern. From there he’d head to Detroit, where he was spending the night before an early Thursday-morning meeting, and then it was off to Washington, DC, that afternoon.
Leaving his black BMW in secured parking, he pulled the carry-on out of the trunk, slung his leather garment bag over one shoulder, his matching briefcase satchel over the other and strode straight to the preferred security line in the terminal at LAX.
After he’d checked in, with limited time before they’d be calling him to preboard, Brett reached beneath his suit coat to the holster secured to his leather belt and pulled out his cell phone.
Her number had been on the High Risk team email he’d received the morning before. He’d typed it into contacts only so that her name would come up if she phoned, and he could avoid answering.
He found the name. Hit call. And then waited. Airline staff had opened the Jetway door. He only had a minute or two.
One ring. Two. And then three. He glanced at his watch. It was before seven in the morning. Her shift at the hospital didn’t start until eight, and her apartment was a twenty-minute drive away. He was, after all, the king of online investigating. He’d sold the dot-com. Not his abilities.
He still sat on the board of the company he founded—with his percentage of the take being donated to The Lemonade Stand every month.
On the sixth ring a flight employee announced that it was time for him to board. And he was sent to voice mail.
Brett didn’t leave a message.
* * *
ELLA GOT A new patient on Wednesday. A three-pound, nine-week-old girl who came to them from the Santa Raquel hospital with a peripherally inserted central catheter and a ventilator. The tiny thing was only now at thirty-four weeks gestational age. But if all went well, she’d be running and playing with her siblings soon enough, with no memory of how rough her life had been at the start. She was a lucky one. Her heart was good. Her lungs appeared to be developing normally. And as soon as her organs were mature enough to function on their own, she could hopefully go home.
In the meantime, she’d need a diaper change every three hours, a daily assessment and very careful monitoring.
Ella felt as if she needed monitoring that day, too. She must have checked her voice mail half a dozen times. And looked for text messages twice as often. Maybe she should have picked up Brett’s call. But if she was going to do this, she had to be the one in charge.
But she’d wanted him to leave a message so she’d know how much of a problem he was going to be.
She hadn’t thought for a second that he’d be glad to hear from her—or to know that she’d invaded his home territory. Maybe she’d even taken a tiny bit of pleasure in having done so—in having a legitimate reason to rock his boat.
A reason he wouldn’t be able to refuse.
Because one of the things she was certain of in her life was that she knew Brett Ackerman. He wouldn’t turn his back on a friend in need if he felt he could help. Ever.
And most particularly, he wouldn’t turn his back on Jeff.
Jeff, Ella’s brother, had been Brett’s college roommate. They’d met in their freshman year. Right after Brett’s little sister had died. And his mother had had a breakdown resulting from the loss and from having withstood years of domestic violence at the hands of Brett’s father. She’d lashed out at Brett. And then put herself in self-imposed isolation for having done so. Leaving Brett alone to cope.
Alone except for Jeff. Who’d been a solid rock in Brett’s life, refusing to let him suffer in solitude. Brett had credited Jeff with saving his life.
Now it was time for Brett to save theirs.
* * *
ELLA WAITED ALL DAY Wednesday for him to call back. To leave a message. Clearly he’d heard that she was there. He had her new cell phone number. And Brett was definitely one who faced his battles head-on.
There’d been a time when she’d admired that about him.
She wanted to be the one to initiate their first conversation. But a hint as to his mind-set first would be good. Was he angry? Curious? Was it possible he’d actually missed her?
She would give him until her last break on Thursday before calling him. She didn’t want to speak to him for the first time in four years in front of Chloe. While she knew she was over Brett, she wasn’t positive that there wasn’t any residual pain lurking inside her. Chloe didn’t need more guilt added to her already overflowing plate.
At five minutes after two on Thursday afternoon, just as she was leaving the floor, she got a page. She was needed on Pod B stat. A baby had just been admitted. He was nine months old, had spent the first four months of his life at a NICU in LA, and was being readmitted due to an infection around the area of his G-tube.
“I wanted you to see this,” Dr. Claire Worthington said as soon as Ella approached the crib where the baby lay completely still. She saw the finger-shaped marks on the little guy’s thighs immediately.
“These look too big to be female,” Ella said. It was the first thought that sprang to mind.
“His grandmother brought him in. Said his mother’s under the weather.”
“His paternal grandmother?” Ella asked, assisting a nurse from the PICU as she taped a newly placed line.
The baby was more than five pounds underweight. “According to his medical records he’s lost four pounds since his check two weeks ago,” Dr. Worthington said. “The grandmother claims that the mother refused to let anyone use his G-tube. He was being bottle and spoon fed through his mouth.” The area around the feeding tube looked as though it hadn’t been touched in a couple days, at least. Which could easily have caused the infection.
“Has social services been called?” If not, they’d be the first call on Ella’s list when the doctor finished giving her orders and the little guy was settled.
“Not yet,” Dr. Worthington said, a grim look on her face. “I’ll be filling out a suspected abuse report and know that you’re the go-to person.”
“You suspect the mother?” But the bruises on the baby’s thigh...
“I think if Mom had done this, she’d be here, claiming that something was physically wrong with him. She’d be defending herself. It doesn’t fit that she’d let Grandma bring him in. Grandma didn’t stay—she just dropped him off and said she had to get back. She appeared nervous. Besides, these bruises, while clearly thumb-shaped, are too big.”
“I’ll give my High Risk Team contacts a call and get someone out to the house ASAP,” Ella said. She should have thought of it first, even before social services. For now, little Henry was in good hands. But his mother...
Filled with adrenaline, Ella forgot all about her break, about her ex-husband, and made her first call as a member of the Santa Raquel High Risk team.
She was needed.
And that was all that mattered.
* * *
BRETT WAS IN a hotel room in Washington late Thursday night, sitting at the desk with his laptop, going through the day’s email, when he saw the notice about Henry Burbank and his mother, Nora. He wasn’t a member of the High Risk team, but due to his relationship with The Lemonade Stand and his seat on the board, he received all emails pertaining to their work.
According to the police report from the day’s home visit, Nora showed no visible signs of bruising. The woman exhibited fear as she refused a physical examination. Her husband stood over her the entire time the officer was there and, though a female officer tried to coax her away, she refused to leave his side. The report stated that there were no signs of affection between the two, and Nora spent most of her time looking at the ground. The grandmother had alarming bruises on an arm that she claimed came from the banister when she started to slip going down the stairs. She also adamantly refused a physical examination.
There’d been one previous call to the police regarding the couple, from a neighbor claiming to have heard a loud male voice and something crashing, but when the officers had gone out, they hadn’t seen anything amiss, and all three adults in the home insisted that everything was fine. They’d all appeared to be in good health.
Mom, Dad and Grandma, all three, gave the exact same story regarding the bruises on baby Henry’s thighs. He’d moved suddenly while being changed, and his father had saved him from a fall off the changing table.
The mom, Nora, was being blamed by Dad and Grandma for the baby’s ill health, with claims that she’d force-fed him through his mouth, but the young mother had told police that she’d only ever used the G-tube to feed her son and had kept it cared for exactly as she’d been taught at the hospital. But when they’d asked how often the mother had fed her baby herself, as opposed to someone else feeding him, she’d clammed up.
Child Protective Services would be investigating further before the baby would be released back to his parents’ care.
They had nothing concrete at the moment to keep Ted Burbank away from his family. Which meant that the possibly abusive man had visitation rights at the hospital with his son, Henry.
Charge nurse Ella Ackerman, the ex–Mrs. Brett Ackerman, was on full alert.
Brett needed a drink.
* * *
ELLA WENT INTO work early Friday morning. She’d had a text from Rhonda, a four-to-twelve charge nurse, telling her that Henry’s mom had just called to say she was on her way in and would like them to hold off doing Henry’s early morning assessment so that she could be present. Rhonda’s text came because of the note Ella had left on Henry’s chart, telling everyone to let her know anytime Mom or Dad were present, or expected to be present.
Because there wasn’t enough evidence, or a family member willing to testify, the police couldn’t do anything for Henry or Nora yet. But Ella could. That was what the High Risk team was all about. Everyone working together to devise individual plans for the safety of high-risk victims, or potential victims. Henry coming to them with a life-threatening infection, signs of poor G-tube care and bruises made the case high risk.
And the team hoped that if Ella could get Nora alone, maybe the mother would speak more openly. At least Ella hoped so. She’d only spoken to one member of the team, an Officer Sanchez, from the Santa Raquel police department. Her first regular monthly High Risk team meeting, where she’d officially be introduced and meet everyone else, wouldn’t be until the following week.
She was being inducted by fire, the middle-aged officer had told her when he’d stopped by her apartment the night before. Thankfully Chloe had been giving Cody a bath, so Ella had had a few minutes to speak privately.
Ella was on the floor with a welcoming smile when Nora Burbank showed up at the exact time Rhonda had said to expect her. The twenty-year-old was in jeans with fancy stitching and jeweled pockets, and a T-shirt, both clean and newer-looking. Her dark, waist-length hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She had rhinestoned flip-flops on her feet. No tattoos. No makeup.
And no visible signs of physical abuse. Just as Juan Sanchez had relayed.
“You’re here alone?” she asked after she introduced herself as Henry’s nurse and walked the woman through the secure door to Pod B. Sanchez had warned her that Nora wasn’t likely to show up alone.
The young woman looked at the floor as she nodded. And otherwise kept her gaze trained in front of them. On the stations they were passing. Not on people. Not on the nurses and orderlies bustling about in the hall, nor on the young patients in cribs and those in need of an Isolette, who were situated in the open unit.
“Ted got called into work. He thinks I’m at home,” Nora said softly, chin almost to her chest. Ella had the impression that the soft tone was more the woman’s usual demeanor than a reaction to the very sick children around them. “His mom’s supposed to be watching me, but I went out the back door when she went to the restroom.”
Watching her?
“You drove yourself here?” They were nearing Henry’s crib.
“I don’t have a car,” Nora said. “I took the bus...” Nora’s words broke off as she caught sight of her son and hurried forward, tears in her eyes and a smile on her lips. The young woman was obviously comfortable around the various tubes connected to her son. And mindful of every single thing that happened over the next two hours. Nora assisted with bathing and changing the baby. She handled his feeding completely on her own. With the ease of a professional.
She spoke to him. Sang to him. Distracted him when he got a poke. And played age-appropriate games with him, from peekaboo, to track-the-tiger—having him follow a stuffed animal with his eyes, bringing the toy close enough for him to reach for and eventually letting him grab it.
Ella had no proof that Ted Burbank was anything other than, in her opinion, overly protective and too controlling of his family, but she was certain of two things. First, there was no way Henry’s mother would ever have willingly fed her son by mouth, willingly allowed anyone else to do so, or allowed any improper handling of the G-tube. Nora watched every member of the medical staff with an educated eye.