Chapter 5: Page One

The lift in the van was a steel platform that unfolded from the side door.

Conroy rolled onto it and held out his hand.

"It takes two people if you don't want to use the stairs," he said. "Or one, if the person is stubborn. Hold the rail."

I stepped on beside him and took the rail.

The platform jerked as it rose.

I lost my footing and grabbed for the nearest thing, which was his hand.

His fingers closed around mine.

They were warm, and strong, and very sure.

The lift stopped.

Neither of us moved.

"The rail is on your left," Conroy said.

"I know."

"You are holding my right hand."

"I know that too."

I let go.

He turned the chair into the van without a word, but I saw the corner of his mouth.

The inside smelled of leather and coffee.

There was a bench seat along one wall.

The driver in front was a big quiet man in a cap, and he did not turn around.

The door slid shut.

Conroy took a brown folder from a pocket behind his seat and held it out.

It had one page in it.

I read it twice.

It said: Lacey, Amos. Night orderly, St. Brendan's Hospital, six years of service.

It said: Wife, deceased. One child, female, born March 9.

It said: On March 23 of that year, two weeks after the birth, Lacey was struck by a vehicle on River Road at 11 p.m.

He had been walking home from his shift.

The driver did not stop and was never identified.

Lacey's left leg and spine were crushed, and he left the hospital's employment with no settlement.

At the bottom it said: In the two weeks before the collision, Lacey filed a complaint with hospital administration.

Under that: The complaint is missing from the hospital's records.

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