Twisted (Burbank and Parker 1)

Sloane pressed her lips together, then finished in a less composed tone: “I don’t fall easily. But when it came to Derek, I fell hard. The forever kind of hard. I believed in him, and I trusted him with my heart. He let me down big-time. So that’s why my loving him can never amount to anything. We’re just too different.”

“Or too much alike.”

“In some ways, yes. And neither of us is going to back down. So the affair is spectacular, but anything more is out.”

“If you say so.” Connie sounded decidedly unconvinced.

“I do. And now I’d like to drop the subject.” Sloane extended her hand to Connie, palm up. “We have a hand to fix.”

Connie gripped Sloane’s wrist and examined the palm. “The inflammation is significantly improved and the swelling has gone down. I think we can resume some of our less strenuous exercises. But I’m going to start with some scar massage.” With that, she put lotion on the scar-tissue massage tool and began a light, gentle motion with the roller ball. “Any pain?”

“So far, so good,” Sloane replied, trying not to recoil instinctively or tense up. She hated that she was doing that again. Right after the stabbing, it had been a reflexive action the instant her palm was touched. But over the months she’d worked with Connie, trust had begun to build, until finally the defensive reactions had subsided. Until now. Now she was regressing, and all because she’d been stupid enough to wrestle with a lug-nut wrench and inflame her palm all over again.

“It’s okay,” Connie said, reading Sloane’s expression. “The trust is still there. Self-protection is a natural instinct in situations like this. So relax. We’ll regain the ground we lost.”

The door flew open, and Dr. Houghton barged in, wearing his surgical scrubs, totally oblivious to anything except his own agenda. “I just finished that emergency surgery,” he informed Connie. “It was even more complicated and intricate than I originally anticipated. The damage is extensive. On the plus side, I was able to control the bleeding and save all his fingers. But he has extensive nerve, bone, and tendon damage. That’s what you get when you stick your hand in a running lawn mower. He’s in recovery now. I need to review the preliminary occupational-therapy plan with you. Since you’re working late, now is as good a time as any.”

Connie cleared her throat, and tipped her head in Sloane’s direction.

Dr. Houghton’s brows drew together, then arched in surprise as he got Connie’s message, and became aware that someone else was in the room with them. His probing stare flickered to Sloane. “Oh. I didn’t realize you were here.” His tone was icy. “Speaking of reckless actions, it’s lucky for you that Constance is as skilled as she is. Otherwise, you might be back in surgery yourself.”

Sloane blinked, uncertain what to say.

Connie took care of it for her. “Fortunately, it won’t come to that. Sloane’s been following your instructions to the letter. Her palm is healing nicely. We’ve resumed using the medium-resistance therapy putty. So it’s a moot point.”

“Not if she continues to risk her well-being by doing careless things like trying to change flat tires.” Dr. Houghton approached the table and glared down at Sloane’s palm. He gave a tight nod, clearly pleased with what he saw. “Try to remember you haven’t rejoined the FBI yet. And if you want to heal to the point where that’s possible, you’ll have to use some common sense.” He turned away, fired a look at Connie. “I’ll need a half hour of your time before you leave tonight.”

“Not a problem.” Connie stayed calm and patient. “Sloane and I will be wrapping up by six-thirty. I’ll come directly to your office.”

“If I’m not there, I’ll be in post-op. Page me.”

“I will.”

Without so much as a good-bye, Dr. Houghton left, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Sloane looked at Connie, totally bewildered. “What was that all about? Dr. Houghton isn’t known for his charm, but he’s never blatantly rude either. Is he that furious about my aggravating the injury?”

“It isn’t that.” Connie sighed, resumed her work on Sloane’s hand. “He’s just on overload. He’s a brilliant surgeon, and he won’t do anything half measure. That man he just operated on, by all rights, should have lost at least two of his fingers, that’s how mangled his hand was when he was rushed in. Dr. Houghton spent hours in the operating room, saving those fingers. He’s a one-of-a-kind surgeon. His personality is another story. And he’s particularly on edge these days. He’s really short-staffed, and that’s requiring him to take on more than a surgical role. Recovery-room procedures, IV drips, and the administration of antibiotics are usually handled by the nursing staff. Well, there are very few nurses left that he trusts enough to delegate responsibility to. So he’s feeling—and showing—the stress. As you pointed out, he’s not exactly a people person.”

Sloane digested that. “Is he impossible to work with? Is that why so many nurses have quit?”

“Nope.” Connie shook her head. “His nurses and hand therapists have been with him for years. Like I said, he’s tough, but he’s brilliant. Watching him work is like watching a master sculptor. It’s just been a big relocation year for HSS in general, and our department in particular. In the past six months, Dr. Houghton has lost two of his most experienced nurses. Marsha Brown, who’d been with him for a decade, left this week. Her husband got an amazing promotion in California. So they moved to Palo Alto. Marsha accepted a position at Stanford University Hospital—thanks to a glowing reference from Dr. Houghton. So Marsha’s gone. And you know about Lydia. She left in December. So we’re now down two top-notch nurses.”

“Aren’t they interviewing potential candidates?”

“Yes, but the problem is, any potential candidate has to get Dr. Houghton’s seal of approval. And his standards are beyond high. He still hasn’t been impressed by any of the nurses interviewing for Lydia’s position, and we’ve been interviewing for four months. So I’m not holding my breath that we’ll be seeing a substitute for Marsha anytime soon.”

Sloane considered the situation and nodded. “As a fellow perfectionist, I can understand Dr. Houghton’s frustration. I didn’t know Marsha, but Lydia was the best nurse I ever had. By the way, how is she doing?”

“Not a clue.” Connie’s forehead creased as she did some passive resistance exercises with Sloane’s fingers. “None of us has heard from her. Which is so unlike Lydia. She’s such a warm person, and our department is like a family. Especially Lydia and me. We both worked so closely with Dr. Houghton that our jobs overlapped. So we saw a lot of each other. We might not have socialized outside of work, but I considered her a friend. Marital problems or not, I’m pretty upset that she still hasn’t contacted me, or anyone else, for that matter. I even checked with the hospital administrator. He said Lydia never gave notice or left a forwarding address for her final paycheck. He seemed as surprised by her departure as we were. Her husband must have done quite a number on her to make her take off like that.”

“Even so, that’s a pretty drastic step. Lydia never struck me as being rash. Just the opposite, in fact.” The investigator in Sloane kicked in. “What about her husband? Did any of you talk to him?”

“Michael, one of our male nurses, did, just recently as a matter of fact. Lydia’s husband, Nick, is a very traditional guy. So we figured it would be easier to approach him man-to-man, rather than via what he’d perceive as a nosy broad. It didn’t matter. Michael got nowhere. Nick became very defensive. He insisted that he and Lydia were resolving their marital problems. He claimed that one day she just went to work and never came home. According to him, he was worried, so he drove around the hospital looking for her. He even checked around Rockefeller University, where she liked to watch the East River ferries come in and dock at the Sixty-third Street ferry landing. So he was either lying, or the rumors of spousal abuse that were floating around the hospital were true, and things were bad enough for Lydia to take off without telling Nick she was leaving.?

?

The details of this story were beginning to sound way too familiar, and Sloane’s stomach knotted. She wasn’t going to jump to any hasty conclusions. On the other hand, she wasn’t going to overlook anything either. “Rockefeller University? Lydia liked to hang out there?”