Free A.W. Hartoin - Mercy Watts 04 - Drop Dead Red by A.W. Hartoin Page B

she said with a sniff.  
    “Well, you need to work on that.”  
    “How?” Brittany looked at Raymond and Jack who shrugged in unison.
    “I’ll tell you what. If you stay here and deal with the cops and the statement, I’ll help you out.”  
    Brittany threw her arms around my neck, thanking me profusely. Just like that, Brittany the dry-heaver became one of my people.

Chapter Eight

    CLEM MET ME at the door of the PICU, wearing bunny ears and a cotton tail. “Glad you’re here. You’ll have to wait a minute. There are too many visitors right now.”  
    “Who’s here?” I asked.  
    “The Ameches and some little weird guy they brought in with them,” she said.  
    Little weird guy.  
    “Did he have food with him?”  
    “How’d you know?”  
    “Lucky guess.”  
    We walked by the desk and it had Aaron written all over it. There were no less than five large containers of muffins, house-made sausages, pancakes, and mouth-watering hash browns. Three nurses sat behind the desk eating in a stupor I recognized as Kronos induced. Kronos was my investigating partner’s restaurant. It was Star Trek-inspired and weird to the max, but seriously good. No one cooked like Aaron. I carried around the proof in my generous rump.  
    “I’ve died and gone to heaven,” said Kayla. “Hi, Mercy.”  
    I waved and grinned. I knew Kayla from nursing school, back in the days when she was always on a diet. Those days were over.  
    Before we got to the Berry kids’ rooms, Dr. Lydia came out of Payton Stills’ room. “Mercy. That was quick. Joey called your father only about forty minutes ago.”  
    “It sounded important, so here I am,” I said.  
    Dr. Lydia frowned. “I’m not sure if I’d call it an emergency, but the Ameches will be happy to see you.”  
    “Why?” I asked, swallowing hard. The smell of Aaron’s food was making me drool.  
    “You have a way about you.”  
    I frowned.  
    “It’s not the Marilyn thing. It’s you.”  
    That would be nice if I believed it. People had feelings about Marilyn Monroe. If they were good feelings, they felt good about me. It wasn’t the same thing as liking me, not the same thing at all.  
    “So what’s up?” I asked.  
    “The lab results are back. Both Abrielle and Colton were infected with a strain of listeriosis meningitis that was previously unknown before this case,” said Dr. Lydia.  
    “New strains develop,” I said.  
    “Not out of the blue in a completely isolated incident,” said Clem.  
    “You’re suspicious?”  
    “We are,” said Dr. Lydia.  
    “How are the kids?” I asked.  
    “Improving daily. They’re both having migraines. Abrielle can barely function. Clem and I made statements and the cops have cleared Donatella of any involvement.”  
    “That’s excellent news. What’s the problem?” I asked.  
    “How’d they get it?” asked Dr. Lydia.
    I looked down the hall at Abrielle’s door. How indeed?
    “What did the CDC say?”  
    “Not much. It doesn’t look like an outbreak, so I don’t think they’re all that interested. They called it a singular aberration or something like that. They’re going to follow-up, but, let’s face it, between the West Nile virus, all the measles and mumps outbreaks, and Ebola, they have their hands full.”  
    “What do you want me to do? I’m no infectious disease expert,” I said.  
    “You are a nurse and an expert in figuring things out.”  
    Abrielle’s door opened and an older couple came out. They looked to be in their late sixties or early seventies. Like Blankenship’s parents at Hunt they held each other’s hands as they came down the hall and silently passed us.  
    “You can go in now,” said Dr. Lydia.  
    I didn’t want to go in that room, like so many others I would rather have avoided. But Ameche was my people and you take care of your people. I opened the door and walked into the fabulous smell of Bananas Foster.  
    Abrielle lay in