Page 7 of Vanishing Legacy

“Yes, doctor.”

Cash stood at the surgical sink just outside the operating room and began the five-minute-long scrub-in, carefully washing every nook and cranny of his fingers and hands.

Two gunshot wounds in one day. Unbelievable. And this victim only a few years older than Dante. With a GSW to the abdomen, there was no telling what type of trauma he’d be dealing with. Surgery could last thirty minutes or hours. Good thing he hadn’t texted Libby. Penny didn’t do well when plans changed. No sense in upsetting her if he ended up being late.

If he didn’t make dinner, they’d go to Bitty & Beau’s Coffee for a smoothie. Just the two of them. Still getting that daddy-daughter date. Penny loved the cafe, and Cash loved to support the company whose passion was to employ individuals with intellectual and developmental disabilities.

With his sterile hands raised, he hit the door with his back and entered the operating room ready for battle. The scrub nurse had his gown held up. He slipped into it while listening to the stats and vitals of his patient.

“The bullet entered the right lower quadrant of the abdomen. Fractured the pelvic bone. Possible bowel perforation and urogenital injuries,” the ER doc said. “She’s stable, but at her age we were worried about permanent damage to her reproductive system.”

“Of course,” Cash said. Twenty years old? The young woman had her whole life ahead of her. He’d do his best to ensure she had the option to have children in the future.

Cash approached the surgical table and stared down into the face of the patient. His mouth fell open. The room began to spin.

“Dr. Thomas?” He barely registered the voice. “Everything okay?”

He blinked, hoping he was seeing things. But no. It was…it was her.

“This…this patient,” he said. “I think it’s Libby. She’s…she’s my nanny.”

The surgical nurse checked the woman’s wristband. “The patient’s name is Libby Hendrix. Are you saying this girl is your nanny?”

“Yes. And if Libby is here…where’s my daughter?”

TWO

THURSDAY, 3:32 P.M.

Well, she may not be a dive detective anymore, but at least Alana still got wet on the job. Oh, how a steaming shower beckoned. Or a hot bath. Soak some warmth into her chilled skin. She’d have a nice evening with Rocco, then slip into the fluffy pink robe her sister, Christina Parker, had bought her for Christmas, and snuggle up with a book. Maybe even another S. M. Warren novel.

Now that Gould was in police custody, the author would need less security on her book tour. Rose had taken the assignment on contract since it required traveling with Warren for the next few weeks. While Alana was a tad disappointed at missing out on the bonus money, she was looking forward to a low-key spring break with her son.

Alana parked her Jeep in her garage and hopped out, bare feet smacking against the cold concrete floor. She’d long since shed her sopping wet shoes and socks and was seriously kicking herself for not having her go-bag in her vehicle. At least an extra pair of dry socks. A small oversight, but who knew protecting an author would land her in a historical landmark filled with dirty water?

She shook her head. Time to step out of bodyguard mode and into mom mode. She smacked the garage door button with her palm.

“Hey, Rocco, I’m home!”

Her son didn’t need the announcement. The door rattled and rumbled down like a steam locomotive, announcing her arrival to the whole neighborhood. Yet another thing on her ever-expanding to-do list.

“You better have your chores and homework done,” she bellowed through the laundry door.

The moment Alana crossed the threshold, a gentle sigh escaped her lips. Her shoulders sagged, shedding the heavy weight of the day. She paused in the oversized laundry room which served as the mudroom and peeled off her wet jacket. Tossed the sodden socks into the washer and hung her blazer on the drying rack.

“Hey, Rocco?” She headed toward her room in the back of the house. “I’m gonna hop in the shower and?—”

Alana stopped dead in her tracks.

One look at the disaster in the kitchen sent her blood pressure through the roof. The sandwich bread lay open. Crumbs scattered. Lid off the peanut butter jar. Globs of jelly on the counter. At least he’d put the sticky knife on a paper towel.

Rocco’s homework was spread out all over the breakfast table. His jacket and backpack tossed on the floor. Oh, that kid…

A pile of chocolate chip cookies caught her attention, but she didn’t recognize the plate. She plucked one off the plate and took a bite. The rich, buttery flavor flooded her tastebuds.

“Rocco, you better get in here and clean up this mess,” she said around the last bite of cookie. “What were you thinking?” She marched down the hallway, bare feet padding against the cool hardwood floors.

Hands planted firmly on her hips, Alana surveyed her son’s room. The bed looked neat and tidy, but her eagle eyes spotted his pajamas in a pile on the floor instead of in the hamper. Wires, resistors, circuit boards, and bits of colored plastic littered his desk. Parts for the robotics project Rocco was building for his upcoming competition. She was proud of his passion, but she’d remind him to be more organized.

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