Page 68 of Shark Cove

“Dad! It’s an emergency—Regina William is having Camille put in the psych ward, and then shipped off to a facility. I need you to drive me to the hospital and get it stopped!”

“What about your mom? She seems in a better position to help with something like that.”

“She’s not answering her phone!”

“Okay. I still have a license to practice law in Hawaii, so perhaps Camille can retain my services as legal counsel.”

“Oh yes, thanks Dad!” Relief surged through Malia. “Though I thought you practiced estate law?”

“I can pinch-hit on any kind of legal problem in an emergency,” he said. “On my way.”

Malia ran upstairs. She dragged a brush through her hair and braided it, pulled on her ‘Camille jeans’ and a dark purple button-down shirt that Gram had given her for Christmas. She threw on a little makeup. She looked almost pretty, and a lot older than sixteen. That might help the adults at the hospital take her more seriously.

Kylie hung in the doorway. “I’m coming with you.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Too bad.”

Both girls were waiting on the front steps of the house when their father drove up in the now familiar red Ford Focus. Malia got in the front as Kylie climbed in back. Malia handed her father a one-dollar bill.

“I’m retaining your legal services on behalf of Camille William.”

Her father’s smile lit up his face; he’d really wanted to help. “I’ll do my best.”

Kylie thrust her tousled head between the seats. “What’s going on?”

“Yes, I could use a recap,” Dad said. “Tell me more about this phone call you got from Camille.”

The remainder of the drive was taken up with Malia’s description, including what Camille knew about the rat poison and other things Regina William might have done.

They parked at the hospital. Dad told Kylie to play on her phone and wait in the lobby as he and Malia went to the information desk and asked about Camille. Fortunately, she hadn’t been moved to the psych ward yet, but on the way up to her room, a white-coated doctor intercepted them in the hall.

“I’m Dr. Gelanno, Camille’s emergency care physician. I was paged by the front desk that you’re providing legal representation to Camille?”

“Yes. She called me for help to prevent a transfer to the psych unit and further transition to a mainland facility.”

“Can we speak privately?” Gelanno glanced pointedly at Malia, who folded her arms and thrust out her chin.

“Malia, why don’t you go see Camille while I talk to the doctor,” Dad asked. “She can do that, right?”

Dr. Gelanno nodded. After a moment spent considering her options, Malia walked toward the room number they’d been given at the information desk.

Camille’s door was shut. Malia knocked and pushed it open.

Her friend was lying in bed, hooked up to an IV. Pale, with purplish circles under her eyes, Camille’s moonbeam-blonde hair was still greasy and lank from captivity, and she looked so skinny that her body hardly lifted the sheet. Worst of all, one of her hands was attached to the rail of the bed with a padded restraint.

“Oh no, Camille!” Malia ran to hug her friend.

“They shot me up with something after I called you.” Camille’s speech was thick. “I can’t think straight, but I feel better.” She giggled helplessly as tears welled in her eyes.

“I brought my dad. He’s representing you as your lawyer, so if anyone asks, say you called him and hired him. I paid him a dollar on your behalf, so it’s official.”

“They’re telling me I have post-traumatic stress disorder, and that’s why I think my mom is behind all this.” Camille’s eyelids fluttered shut as if it were too much effort to keep them open. “Thank you. Peter Clark is my lawyer. Yay. I can go to sleep now.”

Malia held Camille’s hand, sitting close in one of the plastic chairs. Camille’s breathing changed, slowing down to barely discernible—she’d passed out, or was deeply asleep.

The door opened. Two burly orderlies rolled in a gurney.

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