holding up well, he thought. Better than most. Exhaustion would set in soon, though, and her defenses would crumble. As a detective he needed to remain objective, but Luka couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.
His phone pinged with a text. Krichek alerting him to more videos popping up on social media. All accusing Leah Wright of malpractice, racism, even sexual impropriety. Serious charges. Except that the videos Luka clicked through, leaving the audio off so Leah wouldn’t hear, were obviously fakes, edited clips of random people interspersed with text skewing their words, directing their accusations at Leah. He even recognized one shot from a recent police shooting across the country in Oakland. Damn trolls, already mobilized and out in force, feeding off the latest tragedy they could exploit.
He glanced at Leah, who had one palm and her nose pressed against the glass as Dr. Kern began by leading her daughter through her day yesterday. Maybe Harper could act as family liaison—she’d hate the idea, think it was because she was a woman, and it was, but that didn’t change the fact that the family needed watching over and you never knew what they might let slip once they grew comfortable.
He texted Harper, checking again on her progress in tracing their mystery motorcycle. No joy, she sent back.
“Mrs. Wright,” he said in a low tone. With her headphones on, the social worker couldn’t hear him, but standing in the dark like this, at such close quarters, it felt appropriate to whisper. Like hushing your voice in church. “The man in the ER earlier. What can you tell me about him?”
She said nothing, her gaze on her daughter, her entire body now leaning against the glass as if she wanted to claw her way through it.
“Mrs. Wright?” He purposefully avoided her medical title, wanted her to answer as a wife and mother, not with the clinical detachment of a physician. “The man in the ER?”
“What?” She frowned as she finally turned her face to him. “I have no idea. I don’t remember ever seeing him before. Why?”
“His name is Jefferson Cochrane. He seemed rather… volatile. Said you were responsible for his wife’s death.” He let his words linger, waited as she refocused her full attention on the implications.
“I don’t remember him.” The words emerged slow and heavy, as if she didn’t realize she was repeating herself.
“Maybe you never met him in person before? Do you ever make death notifications over the phone? Or to other family members if the husband isn’t available?”
Her frown deepened. “I had a long-distance trucker die in a crash on the interstate. He was from Oklahoma, so I had to call his wife, tell her—after Maggie talked to the local authorities, made sure they sent someone out to be with her. Guess I didn’t even have to really do that, but I wanted to give her the chance to ask any questions. People, they always have questions and you don’t want them to feel like you’re ignoring them. It’s important to give them any answers you can.”
“Do you have any malpractice suits brought against you? Maybe the wife didn’t die right away?”
She shook her head vigorously. “No. Only case I’ve been party to was when I was a resident and it was dismissed. And that patient was a man.”
“Anyone else make complaints against your care here in the ER? Someone who might not take their grievance to a lawyer, might make it personal?”
Her gaze drifted past him to where Emily was talking about the dinner she and her father had cooked. Trees—broccoli, Luka interpreted—mac and cheese and ham. Classic. When he was a kid his mom used to set the broccoli upright in the mac and cheese, create a little forest. He wondered if Ian had done the same. Or maybe Emily was a picky eater, liked all her food separated and not touching. And the way she spoke, her vocabulary and grammar—definitely advanced for a six-year-old.
Not that Luka knew much about kids. They made him nervous. When they finally deemed to glance up from their ubiquitous screens, they peered at him as if he were a specimen of some long extinct species. Give him old folks like Pops to deal with any day.
Luka slid his hand into his pocket where his phone was, half-tempted to text Janine, see if Pops was okay. But the psychiatrist had gotten to the heart of the night, and Emily was describing waking to the sound of shouting and thuds that made