At the sound of the woman’s unsteady voice, a sense of déjà vu washed over Tabitha. Her breath caught, got trapped in her lungs. Unease prickled along her scalp.

And just like that, she was once again the scared little girl she’d been. The one who’d had to be on constant alert for the slightest change in someone’s tone. Who’d taught herself to notice every shift of their expression and the smallest twitch of their hands. Read into every glance. Be wary of every smile.

Terrified of every frown.

The sensation crawling along her skin, making her stomach turn, was nothing new. Nor was the instinct shouting in her head.

Run, run, run, run.

Nothing new, but something that she hadn’t experienced in a long time.

Realizing she was rubbing her fingertip along the scar on her chin, she curled her fingers and dropped her hand before stepping into the room.

“I’m not a nurse, Mrs. Walsh. I’m a social worker with Mount Laurel’s department of social services. Would it be all right if I came in and talked with you?”

“The pain’s bad,” Michelle Walsh said on a groan. “And they won’t give me anything. They think I’m lying, but I’m not.”

“I’ll be sure to let the medical staff know you’re suffering.” Tabitha knew they would never let a patient suffer, but they might be leery of giving her more than what she needed due to Mrs. Walsh’s history of drug addiction.

Mrs. Walsh moaned and turned onto her side, putting her back to Tabitha. “It hurts. It hurts so much.”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Walsh. Our chat won’t take long and when we’re done, maybe you can get some rest.” She took another step into the room. “I’m going to turn the light on, if that’s okay?”

When the other woman didn’t respond, Tabitha flipped on the light. Mrs. Walsh groaned again and curled into herself even more, her frail body shivering under the light blanket.

Walking toward the bed, Tabitha stared at the back of the other woman’s head, another wave of familiarity sweeping through her as she took in her tangled hair, the lank and greasy faded blonde strands streaked with dingy grays.

Forcing her legs to keep moving, she rounded the bed. Mrs. Walsh had her arms covering her head, her forearms painfully thin and mottled with bruises, her short fingernails ragged and torn, a splint on the forefinger of her left hand. “Mrs. Walsh?”

“It hurts real bad,” the woman whispered, her only movement the shivers racking her body. “Real bad.”

“I’m so sorry you’re in pain. As I said, I’ll be sure to let the nurse know you’re suffering.”

“You’ll tell them? You’ll tell them to give me something?”

“I’ll tell them you’re in pain,” Tabitha corrected gently, pulling one of her business cards from the outer pocket of her bag. “But any treatment for that pain is up to the medical staff. Not me.”

They obviously weren’t going to get anywhere today. She’d just let Mrs. Walsh know she was there as her advocate and plan on a better time when they could talk.

“I need something now,” Mrs. Walsh whimpered. “Tell them I need it now. Tell them it hurts real bad.”

Then, she slowly lowered her arms, exposing her face.

And the card in Tabitha’s hand fluttered to the ground.

Chapter 47

Pacing Urban’s small, first floor bathroom, Miles held his phone to his ear while it rang. Tabitha wasn’t picking up. She hadn’t picked up when he’d called her earlier, either.

And she hadn’t returned any of his texts.

He hadn’t seen or heard from her since this morning when he’d gone across the street to her office while O’Neil was processing Walsh. He knew she had a soft spot for the kid, and he’d wanted to fill her in on Walsh’s situation himself.

She was probably with a client, he told himself, ending the call. Or catching up on paperwork. But he hadn’t seen her car in the parking lot when he’d left.

He meant to stop by her office that afternoon after he’d had a few hours sleep, but he’d ended up covering the rest of Coop’s shift when he had to leave early due to a family emergency.

Wherever Tabitha was, whatever reasons she had for not returning his texts or answering his calls, she was safe.