Chapter 4 - The Hospital Waiting Room
The waiting room on the third floor of Mercy General smelled of industrial floor wax and stale vending-machine coffee.
The television mounted in the corner was tuned to a local news station playing silent footage of highway traffic under a gray sky. Camille sat in one of the orange plastic bucket seats, her hands clasped so tightly between her knees that her knuckles looked like polished marble.
Every time the double doors at the end of the hallway swung open, her head jerked up.
"Mrs. Hayes?"
A young resident in a white coat with blue scrubs underneath stepped through the doors, holding a metal clipboard against his chest. His hair was messy, and he looked as though he had been awake for thirty-six hours straight.
Camille was on her feet before her brain could catch up with her legs. "I'm her mother. How is she?"
"Her vitals are stabilizing," the doctor said, offering a small, reassuring smile that didn't quite reach his tired eyes. "The tox screen came back positive for Lorazepam—a fairly standard benzodiazepine, usually prescribed for severe anxiety or insomnia. It looks like it was administered in liquid form, probably mixed into a beverage."
"Is she awake?" Camille’s voice cracked.
"Not fully yet, but she’s breathing on her own without the oxygen mask, and her heart rate and blood pressure have returned to normal ranges," the doctor said. "Children metabolize these things faster than adults once the elimination process starts, but she’s going to be groggy and disoriented for the next twelve to twenty-four hours. We’re keeping her overnight for observation."
Camille closed her eyes and let out a breath she felt she had been holding since she first saw Harper’s knees buckle beside the unicorn cup. "Can I see her?"
"Of course. Room 312, down the hall to the left."
The room was small, lit only by the amber glow of the streetlights outside the window and the steady, rhythmic green line of the heart monitor beside the narrow hospital bed. Harper looked impossibly small beneath the crisp white hospital blanket. Her brown hair was spread out across the pillow like a fan, and her breathing was deep and even, though her face still had that exhausted, washed-out look that broke Camille’s heart.
Camille pulled a vinyl chair up beside the mattress, took Harper’s small, limp hand in both of hers, and pressed her forehead against the back of her daughter's knuckles.
Ten minutes later, the door clicked open.
Nolan walked in. He had changed out of his first-responder uniform into a plain gray hoodie and jeans, but his face looked grim, carved from granite under the harsh overhead light of the hallway.
"She's stable," Camille whispered without looking up.
"I know," Nolan said, walking over to lay a heavy, warm hand on the back of her neck. "I spoke with the detective on duty at the precinct. They picked Sabrina up at her house twenty minutes ago."
Camille raised her head. "Did she confess?"
"She lawyered up immediately," Nolan said, his jaw tightening. "Called our father’s corporate attorney before they even finished reading her rights. But it won't matter. The pantry video has already been uploaded to the precinct’s evidentiary server, the toxicology report from the hospital lab matches the residue found in the unicorn cup, and the pharmacist who filled Sabrina’s prescription for the anxiety medication three days ago has already given a statement to the investigators."
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"She thought she was smarter than everyone else," Camille said, staring down at the silver glitter still flaking off Harper’s knuckles from the party makeup. "She’s spent her whole life believing that if she smiles sweetly enough and speaks in the right tone of voice, people will forgive her for whatever she breaks."
"Not this time," Nolan said quietly. "People don't forgive attempts on a child's life. Not even family."
