Docta C furrowed his eyebrows, then skimmed through my chart. “Mmm, history of preeclampsia?”

  “That’s right,” I replied. “I was on bed rest with my first pregnancy.”

  “Well, we’ll be a little cautious here, then. Let’s get an ultrasound really fast. Renee, would you mind keeping an eye on her vitals for a few minutes?”

  Is something wrong? Think happy thoughts. Don’t transfer anxiety to the twins. So instead of watching Docta C’s face, I tried to watch the babies on the ultrasound monitor. It was turned so that I couldn’t clearly see it, but I caught glimmers of movement on the screen.

  My heart melted. My babies! They were almost here!

  “Breech,” said Docta C, a tight expression on his face.

  He glanced between Jim and me, brusque and businesslike. “Listen, I know you were planning a vaginal delivery, but with one twin breech and your blood pressure going up, we’re going to have to do a C-section.”

  My mom shrieked.

  I bit my lip and shook my head. “Isn’t there any way to avoid that?”

  “We could try,” he said impatiently, “if you want to roll the dice on having a stroke.”

  I locked eyes with Jim. His face had blanched the shade of new-fallen snow. The poor man looked like he might be about to faint.

  Nurse Renee interjected, “What the doctor means to say is that—”

  “The doctor means to say exactly what he said,” grumbled Docta C.

  In a firmer tone, Nurse Renee said, “What the doctor means to say is that the risks of a natural delivery outweigh the benefits at this point. We strongly advise a C-section.” Her face took on a compassionate cast, and her voice got a little husky as she added, “Your babies need you, Kate.”

  I bit down on my lip. “I don’t really have a choice then, do I?” I said softly. I’d do whatever it took to be there for my babies. No matter what. I steeled myself. “Do it.”

  Chapter Eight

  I don’t know what I’d expected the C-section to be like, but I didn’t feel a thing. I didn’t see a thing, either—not with the sheet draped under my chin.

  Jim didn’t see a thing, either.

  Not after he turned from pale to green and pitched over sideways, at least.

  “Jim!” Mom and I screeched in unison when he hit the floor.

  Nurse Renee chuckled. “He’s not the first new dad to pass out like that. Dr. Phillips, do you have everything under control? I’ll go find an orderly to help Mr. Connolly here, if that’s all right.”

  “Go on,” said Docta C in a disinterested tone, as if he hadn’t even bothered to listen to what she had to say.

  Nurse Renee swept out of the room, and Docta C continued with the C-section in wordless concentration.

  Perhaps a minute later, a shattering scream from outside the room cut through the flurry of activity. My eyes popped wide, and Docta C’s head jerked up. He met my gaze, then shrugged and returned to the C-section.

  “That was awfully loud,” he said. “Must be a first-time mom.”

  But my heart was already sinking into my stomach, and my detective mind flared to life. That hadn’t sounded like the scream of a woman in labor.

  It had sounded like a scream of fright—from an older woman.

  My gaze flicked to Mom, clutching my hand, her eyes fixed on me with serene determination. “You’ve got this, baby girl,” she said. “Just a little longer.”

  But she misunderstood my sudden turmoil. I wasn’t distressed about the C-section.

  I was distressed about that scream.

  Had the hospital just lost a woman in childbirth? Had her mother been sitting at her bedside, just as my mother sat at mine?

  Another scream. This time, Mom looked alarmed, too.

  Then, a flurry of commotion sounded from the hall. Yells. Footsteps. I craned my neck, as if that would help me see through the windowless door to the sterile hall beyond.

  “Please hold still,” said Docta C, annoyance in his tone. “I have to be precise with this.”

  A minute later, all thoughts of the commotion outside flew from my mind at the sound of a perfect baby wail.

  Warmth filled my heart. My baby!

  “It’s a boy!” called Docta C jubilantly.

  My mind stuttered, tried to process what he’d just said. “A boy?” I asked, my brows furrowing.

  “That’s right . . .” He glanced toward the door. “Where on earth did Renee go?”

  “To get an orderly,” said Mom, pointing to Jim, who was still laid out on the floor.

  “Ah,” said Docta C. He grabbed for a towel, wrapped the baby in it and handed him off to my mom. “Hold him while I get the other one out.”

  Mom glowed. She gingerly accepted the most precious, tiny, perfect angel from the doctor, and brought him over to me. He was still covered in goo and bellowing fierce wails.

  “He’s perfect!” I exclaimed, tears filling my eyes. I reached out to caress his forehead, everything in me screaming to hold him.

  “Please hold still,” said Docta C.

  I willed myself to be patient and just stared at my new son, at every perfect curve of his face.

  The door opened and closed, and Nurse Renee came in with an orderly and a gurney in tow.

  Together, they heaved Jim up onto the gurney and pushed him against the wall. I glanced up from my beautiful son for just a moment, and my heart plummeted again.

  Something was very, very wrong.

  Nurse Renee looked absolutely shattered.

  “What is it?” I called.

  She shook her head fiercely and forced a smile. “Nothing!” she said in a too-cheery voice. “Everything’s fine!”

  She took her place at Docta C’s side and, moments later, the doctor declared, “Another boy!”

  Jim sat bolt upright in the gurney, rubbing his head. “Another boy?” he asked faintly.

  Nurse Renee rubbed the second baby off with a towel and brought him over to Jim.

  “Meet your son,” she said.

  “My son . . .” Jim murmured, a look of wonder on his face. “I have a son!” He took the towel-wrapped baby and held him close. He met my gaze, his face shining. “We have a son!”

  The door opened again, and Nurse Bindi hurried in. Though her manner was brusque and businesslike, she couldn’t hide the distress on her face.

  Something terrible had happened.

  “Did someone die?” I blurted, remembering that fearful scream, unable to suppress a picture of a woman lying still and pale on a hospital bed, her mother weeping at her side.

  Both nurses jumped, visibly startled.

  “How did you know?” demanded Renee.

  “The scream . . . it sounded like . . .”

  Bindi took the baby from Jim, wrapping him tightly in a swaddle. “Don’t worry, my dear. The police are already on their way, and security is already on site. We’re all perfectly safe. Let’s get these babies to the NICU to get them checked out.”

  I stared at her, my mind circling on her words. The police. Security. We’re all perfectly safe.

  Someone had died. But not in childbirth.

  I gasped as the full meaning hit me. “There was a murder!”

  Chapter Nine

  “A murder?” exclaimed Docta C, standing straight up and whirling toward the nurses. “What the hell?”

  My mom squeezed my hand tightly, and I stared at her and mouthed, “Don’t say a word.”

  Nurse Renee’s jaw tightened, and she nodded back toward me. “Finish sewing her back up,” she said stiffly. “We have a job to do. The patients need us.”

  I watched his profile as he studied her, and his face softened. “It was Samuel, wasn’t it?” he asked softly.

  A shudder ran through her, and she said through gritted teeth, “Do your job.”

  He let out a hiss but quickly recovered himself.

  The emotions ran through me so quickly I couldn’t separate them.

  I have twin sons. They’re going to the NICU to get checked out. I had to have a C-section. Someone was murdered. Samuel—the front desk receptionist. I talked to him just a few hours ago.

  McNearny’s gruff comment at the birthday party flashed through my head. Connolly, with your uncanny sense of timing, there’ll probably be a murder in the hospital while you’re giving birth.

  “But I’m on maternity leave,” I whispered under my breath.

  “What was that?” asked Docta C.

  “Nothing,” I said louder, gritting my teeth.

  I’m literally getting stitched up after a C-section. This is the most “on maternity leave” I can possibly be.

  My mind went to my newborn babies.

  Well, it wasn’t so much that my mind went to them. They were always there, always at the forefront of my thoughts, like a song I couldn’t get out of my head, but more overwhelming, like they were at the center of everything.

  My babies.

  I can’t take a case while they’re in the NICU. I have to be here—I have to stay focused on bonding with them.

  I bit my lip, then continued my line of reasoning. The police managed before I became a private investigator, didn’t they? There’s no reason they need my help on every single case.

  But this case had landed on my doorstep. I’d spoken to the victim shortly before he was killed, along with a number of other people present in the maternity ward. Surely that gave me a leg up.

  I’ll speak to the police when they arrive, at least, and tell them everything I know.

  Which meant I should learn as much as possible before they arrived.

  I wondered if McNearny would head up this homicide investigation, if I’d get a gruff “I told you so” when I gave my statement to the cops. I hoped not. I liked McNearny—we’d developed a grudging respect for each other over the last year—but I felt too tired to put up with his attitude.

  Labor is hard work.

  I glanced up at Nurse Renee. “I’m so sorry about Samuel,” I said, my voice huskier than normal. “He checked us in at the front desk.”

  She looked startled for a moment, then blinked back a sudden well of tears. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

  “Were you close?” I asked, modulating my tone to be approachable, to try to coax her to open up. My mind flitted back to the strange distance I’d sensed between them at check-in.

  Our eyes met, and I could see the war in her mind—the struggle between what was professional and what felt right in the moment.

  Docta C muttered, “He was her ex.”

  I sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh.”

  Was Renee in the room when we heard the screams? Alarm bells rang in my head, and I tried to visualize the moment.

  No, she’d stepped out, because Jim had fainted. She’d gone to find an orderly.

  Which, from my perspective, gave her opportunity. And the fact that her ex had been killed? That gave her a whole range of potential motives.

  We’ll have to see what the security cameras show, I cautioned myself.

  Still, I tensed up a little at the thought that a murderer might have attended the twins’ birth.

  Am I a bad mom? I brought my babies to a crime scene while they were being born!

  I chased the thought away. Don’t be silly. This could have happened to anyone. I had no way to know there would be a murder here. I just . . . happen to be a murder magnet, apparently.

  “That must be so hard,” I said softly, making eye contact with Renee. “How long ago did you break up?”

  Her lip quivered, and the words tumbled out like the breaking of a dam. “Four months ago, after he lost his license.”

  “Lost his license? Was he driving drunk?” I knew the question was insensitive under the circumstances, but I had to press—just in case she’d tell me something she wouldn’t tell the police.

  “His medical license,” said Docta C tersely. “And we’re done! You’re all sewn up.”

  “When can I see my babies?” I blurted.

  Nurse Renee tucked a sweaty strand of hair behind my ear. “We’ll get you into a wheelchair and into the NICU as soon as we can, but we have to keep an eye on you for a little bit first, okay?”

  “Jim!” I exclaimed, searching the room for my husband, suddenly aware he wasn’t with me. “Where did Jim go? And my mom!”

  Nurse Renee said, “They went with Bindi—they’re with the babies in the NICU.”

  That set my mind at ease. At least our little boys—boys!—would have one parent with them in their first few hours of life.

  “Can he hold them in NICU?” I asked plaintively.

  “Yes, of course,” crooned Renee. “That early touch is very important for them. Bindi makes sure that parents get as much touch time with the preemies as possible.”

  The babies will be just fine. Jim and the nurses will take good care of them.

  With that worry assuaged, my mind turned back to the murder.

  Bindi! That argument with Docta C . . . she’d said both he and Samuel would burn in hell and that she was sick of looking at them.

  And Docta C had said Samuel had lost his medical license. So, Samuel used to be a doctor? Or did nurses have medical licenses too? Why was he working as a receptionist?

  Docta C’s pager buzzed, and he jumped to his feet, murmured, “Excuse me,” and strode out of the room.

  “All right, I just need to get your chart updated,” said Renee, clicking into the computer in the corner of the room. As she added the first few notes to my chart, I quickly developed my line of questioning.

  “I hope you don’t mind if I pry a little—why did Samuel lose his medical license?”

  She crossed her arms and stared at me. “You’re asking a lot of questions.”

  “It’s not every day there’s a murder in a hospital.” I held her gaze.

  She relented and went back to adding notes to the chart. “Listen,” she said, “you really shouldn’t worry. You need to just focus on your babies and on healing.”

  “Well, I can’t see my babies right now, and I don’t think meditating on my stitches is going to help them heal.” I shrugged, trying to look nonchalant. “I was really into true crime and detective stories when I was pregnant.”

  It wasn’t technically a lie. I’d lived a lot of true crime and detective stories during the pregnancy. And I didn’t want to tip off Nurse Renee that I was an experienced private investigator—not when she was my prime suspect and I was in such a vulnerable state.

  If she was the murderer, she wouldn’t be threatened by a random mom with a true-crime addiction.

  “So,” I continued, “now there’s a real true-crime story unfolding in front of us. Gives me something to think about, besides the fact that I”—my voice broke—“that I can’t hold my babies yet.”

  I wasn’t acting. Not really. It hurt that my babies were far away, getting poked and prodded and maybe even hooked up to tubes and wires. They should be here, in my arms, in the soft light of a delivery room.

  “Besides!” I said, trying to sound bumbling and enthusiastic but still sympathetic—to get her to want to open up to me, whether she was guilty or not. “What if I think of something the police miss? You never know!”

  Renee tapped a couple more keys, seeming to consider my words. “Well, I suppose it can’t hurt. Samuel had his license to practice suspended three months ago. He used to be a NICU doctor.”

  I gasped. “What happened?”

  “It was a DUI, actually,” she said ruefully. “You were right about that. A DUI on the way home from work, no less.”

  “So, he was drunk while taking care of the NICU babies?” I asked, horrified.

  “Honestly, I should have dumped him months earlier.” She put the computer to sleep and sat in the chair next to my hospital bed. “He cheated on me at least three times, with three different women. But . . . I don’t know. I thought he could change. Guess he won’t change now.”

  I carefully studied her face. She looked resigned, but saddened.

  She continued, “And I guess I had this picture of how my life was going to go. When I started out, I wasn’t passionate being a nurse. I wanted to work for a few years and make decent money, then marry a doctor and be a stay-at-home mom when I started having my own babies. I almost broke up with Samuel the third time he cheated on me, because I’d begun to realize that I didn’t need to marry a doctor—that I was happy in my nursing career. I’ve grown to love it. But I was afraid, I guess. Afraid I’d regret it.”

  I reached out and grabbed her hand. “That sounds so hard.”

  Tears brimmed in her eyes. “It was. When he got his license suspended, that was the last straw. He wasn’t changing. He was still partying—and he’d escalated to drinking at work. He could have killed someone! And maybe he did.”

  That caught my attention. “Maybe he did? What does that mean?”

  Could Samuel have given subpar care to the NICU infants? Would a grieving parent have returned to settle the score? Now that’s a motive.

  She shrugged. “I don’t have any case in particular in mind. But NICU babies . . . it’s not a hundred percent success rate.”

  Alarm flashed through me, and my eyes widened.

  “Oh, no! Your babies will be fine!” she exclaimed. “They’re really in the NICU as a precaution. I’m talking about the micro preemies, and a few of the extremely preterm babies . . . even with our best efforts, we can’t save them all.”

  A haunted look shone in her eyes.

  “So . . .” I said slowly, “you’re saying that some babies died while Samuel was in charge?”

  A tear trailed down her cheek, and she wiped it away with a sniffle. “I don’t think we were losing more babies than normal, but . . . I don’t know.”

  The implication nearly knocked me breathless. I thought of my precious, sweet sons in the NICU. Felt my love and devotion for them with the acutest intensity. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like for one of my little ones to not make it.

  Those poor parents . . .

  The thought sent a tingle down my spine. Definitely a potential motive.

  But that didn’t mean Nurse Renee was in the clear. Police always scrutinized exes closely—and after such a recent breakup, when they still worked together, and she’d been so nearby when he was killed?