Page 3 of The White Picket Fence

Tino sucked in a breath. “She might die?”

Marian’s smile was sad. “We hope not. We’re giving her the best care possible.”

“I know. Okay, then. Time to work.”

“Room one fifteen. She asked us to reduce her pain meds so that she could be sharp for the police artist.”

So she knew he was coming. Or at least thatapolice artist was coming. He hoped she’d be happy to see him. Or that he could at least give her some comfort. “Thanks, Mrs. G.”

Bracing himself, Tino walked to Mrs. Johnson’s room. He paused at the large window to get a read on the situation, which was his custom before interviewing an ICU victim. The rooms were mostly windows so that the nurses could keep eyes on their patients, so his view of Mrs. Johnson was unobstructed.

He sucked in a breath and let it out carefully.Oh, Mrs. Johnson. I’m so sorry.

Sorrow grabbed at his heart as rage bubbled up from his gut. Someone had hurt her. Someone had put their hands on her and broken her body.

She looked awful. Bruised, her eyes swollen. One was nearly swollen shut. One of her arms was in a cast and the raised area of the bedding made him think that one of her legs was in a cast as well.

Someone had broken her bones. Three of her fingers were splinted, her hands wrapped in bandages. As was her head.

Her face was the same color as the pillow she lay against.

But her hair was still the same bright red it had been all those years ago. It was dyed now, white roots peeking out, but it had been her natural color then. The bright red made her paleness even more stark.

Beside her was a woman.

Charlotte.

Charlotte sat in a chair, but her arms were folded on the edge of her aunt’s bed, her cheek resting on one arm. Mrs. Johnson’s free hand was stroking Charlotte’s golden-blond hair.

Charlotte’s hair color hadn’t changed, either.

He couldn’t see her face, but there was a box of tissues next to her elbow. Like she’d been crying.

The older woman’s eyes were closed, and had it not been for the rhythmic stroking of Charlotte’s hair, Tino would have thought she was asleep.

He crept quietly into the room, taking the only other chair and setting it lightly on the other side of the bed, farthest from Charlotte.

“Mrs. Johnson?” he murmured, not wanting to wake Charlotte.

Partly because she seemed exhausted. Partly because he hoped to put off their reunion a little longer.

Until he felt stronger. Because seeing Mrs. Johnson so injured was ripping his heart out.

Slowly Mrs. Johnson turned her head, fixing her open eye on his face. She studied him for a long, long moment—so long that Tino thought that she didn’t recognize him.

“I’m Tino?—”

“Ciccotelli,” she said, her voice hoarse and rasping. “I know who you are.” One side of her mouth lifted before she winced. Her lip had been split open, two stitches visible. “Dammit.”

Startled, Tino chuckled. “I’ve never heard you swear before.”

“Because you couldn’t hear what I was saying in my head when you were in my classroom,” she said tartly. Then she saw the sketchbook in his hand. “You’re the police artist?”

“I am. If that’s okay.”

“Of course it is. I’ve always wondered what happened to you.”

“What did you think had happened?”

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