Crimes by Moonlight

The nurse wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Madeeda’s bruised arm. Her movements were gentle but efficient. “Where’d she work? We figured she was with the government.”

My throat went dry. “Why would you think that?”

“Her ICU nurse. She said the people in the waiting room looked like they were gathered for a tax audit. Short hair, sensible shoes, no flowers.”

“No, she was a secretary,” I said. “Somdahl & Associates. No one there wears sensible shoes.” How could you work in a place and not have coworkers come visit? Even in a coma, I’d like to think someone might keep me company. “Can I ask you,” I said, “what will happen when she dies? I mean, will you call people and notify them?”

“People in general? No.” She looked again at the chart, and flipped a page. Her eyebrows lifted, a spark of surprise, quickly masked.

A buzzer sounded, and a disembodied voice asked for a Nurse Shayne to please come to room 12E13w stat. “Excuse me,” she said and left quickly, taking the chart with her.

I had to follow her. Taciturn as she was, I had to make her tell me more, tell me something, anything. I stood shakily, clumsy with the weight of the baby, gave a last look to Madeeda, then left the room.

The nurse was already moving around the corner, out of sight. But there, next to the door, in a tiny alcove, was a cart on wheels. In the cart were binders. Patients’ charts. A dozen or more. Clearly labeled. I grabbed “M. Quadros. 12E21e.”

I read the binder tabs and flipped to “patient information.” I was terrified to be caught by the nurse, and half afraid, too, that Labor & Delivery would have sent out a search party by now. But there it was. Under “notes” was an arrow, pointing to a business card stuck in the tab page’s plastic sleeve.

On the card was a number. Familiar, like something I’d seen in a dream.

Important, like the gestational age of a baby or a dosage of medicine, but more common: a phone number. It belonged to someone named Bruce Schoenbrod, who worked in the office of the United States Attorney.

YOU could argue that telling the truth once you’re pretty sure the jig is up is less virtuous than telling the truth because it’s the right thing to do. I didn’t really care about virtue that day. I just wanted to keep Richard out of federal prison.

I talked to Richard from the phone next to my bed in Labor & Delivery. I gave him the number and told him to call it and tell Bruce Schoenbrod everything. I told him that if he didn’t make the call, I would. There wasn’t any doubt in my mind; Madeeda had already given information to the U.S. Attorney. The U.S. Attorney had listened. Somdahl & Associates was going down, with or without my husband’s statement, but unless he came clean before the feds moved in, he’d go down, too.

I don’t know why I understood these things with such clarity. I don’t know why Richard listened to me. I don’t know why Bruce Schoenbrod had picked the week after to seek indictments, and not the week before.

I don’t know why a woman who’d known me for half an hour chose to save my husband, when six of Richard’s colleagues ended up on trial. Five, after Albert Werner put a bullet through his brain while out on bail. I could only guess.

Somdahl & Associates crashed, along with Clarien, the pharmaceutical company, and two others whose files turned up “irregularities.” A lot of people suffered financial loss, unemployment, near-devastation as a result. Including us. But through all of it I felt lucky. Blessed. And able to sleep nights, sleep deeply, from the moment Richard made that phone call. But only for three weeks.

Madeeda died the day after I saw her in the hospital. Twenty-one days later my daughter was born. We named her Grace.

House of Horrors by S. W. Hubbard

“That’ll be fifty-eight seventy-five with tax,” the greasy guy at the ticket window said. John winced as the clerk drew the credit card out of his reluctant fingers.

“You’re buying a happy family memory,” his wife murmured in his ear.

Happy my ass. Day one of the Harrigan family-togetherness weekend at the Jersey Shore: blistering sunburns for all.

Day two: jellyfish attack.

Day three: riptide warning.

So Miriam declared a boardwalk excursion. No problem. Give the kids fifty bucks and let them have at it. He and Miriam could walk on the beach and watch the pounding surf. But no, this was togetherness weekend. So each person had to choose one activity, and everyone else had to go along cheerfully. John swore if his wife didn’t stop reading these damn parenting advice books he was going to cut up her library card.

Christopher had chosen the bumper cars, Grace the spi

The House of Horrors.

Blood oozed from the house’s masonry. Hideous shrieks blared from its cracked windows. A vulture hovered over the spiked door. Before the clerk brought the credit card slip to be signed, John made one last bid to dodge the cheesy tourist trap. Crouching down so he could look their ski

“Dad!” Gordon protested. “That’s not fair! I did Grace’s lame tea-cups. She has to do this.”

John opened his mouth to scold, then closed it again at Miriam’s warning look. This beach weekend was their first significant outing since they’d gotten Grace. They were supposed to be celebrating the expansion of their family, not squabbling and sulking.

John studied the nine-year-old. There was a transparent quality to her, she was so slight. Could something scary possibly be good for her after all she’d been through? Her pale green-gold eyes stared at him unblinkingly as the wind whipped her fine hair into a staticky halo around her head. She conveyed neither anxiety nor eagerness, just a steady trust in him as a father.

A trust he’d done nothing, as yet, to earn.

Miriam had co

Not that Grace was a difficult child. In fact, she was almost absurdly easy to take care of. She ate what she was served, went to bed without complaint, and did her homework with painstaking attention to detail. John found her compliance u

“She does it because she craves your attention and doesn’t know how to get it,” Miriam explained. Insert knife and twist. He wanted to do right by this little girl, he really did. But he wasn’t sure he’d ever feel for her the visceral bond he felt for his two sons. “Don’t worry,” Miriam had assured him. “You’ll grow to love her. Give it time.”

The clerk slapped down the credit card slip and slid a pen across the ticket counter. John watched as Grace carefully studied each person in her new family. She would see a

Grace turned back to John. “I want to go. If it gets too scary, I’ll grab on to Christopher. He’ll protect me.”

John and Miriam exchanged a smile. Grace had succeeded in bolstering Christopher and appeasing Gordon in one move. She’d learned quite a bit about managing brothers in just three weeks.