Dr. Hesch came in a couple minutes later, with Jayne and one of the staff respiratory therapists. They squeezed between the machines to work on Nana. All I could do was stand by, listen in, and try to keep up.

“She was bolused this morning for MAPs in the forties. I’ve been suctioning blood-tinged sputum since we paged you.”

“Did she get a gas today?”

“No. She’s a hard stick; her last gas was two days ago.”

“Okay, go up to ten and try to get a reading in an hour. Let’s see what dialysis does in the morning. I’ll check her X-ray in the meantime.”

Hesch rushed back out without another word, and Jayne took me by the elbow into the hall.

“She’s having a rough night, Alex, but she’s going to get through this okay.”

I watched Nana through the door, where Zadie and the RT were still working on her. It was such a helpless feeling, not being able to give her what she needed, even something as basic as oxygen. Especially something like that.

“Alex, did you hear me?” Jayne was still talking, I realized. “There won’t be any more to know until tomorrow morning. Someone can call and check in around seven—”

“No,” I said. “I’m going to stay tonight.”

She put a hand on my shoulder. “That’s really not necessary,” she said.

“I understand.”

But it wasn’t about necessary anymore. It was about what I could and couldn’t control here. For the past ten minutes, I hadn’t just been thinking about losing Nana. I’d been wondering, What if I wasn’t here? What if she died and no one was with her when it happened?

I’d never forgive myself, I thought. So if it meant going back onto the night shift for a while, then that’s what I was going to do.

Whatever it took—I was going to be there for Nana.

Chapter 94

SENATOR MARSHALL YARROW was pulling a bag of golf clubs out of the back of his Navigator when he saw me and Sampson coming across the parking lot of the Washington Golf and Country Club. He looked like I’d just ruined his perfectly good Saturday morning. Imagine that. What a damn shame.

“What in hell’s name are you doing here?” he asked as we came up to his vehicle.

“Three appointments, three cancellations,” I told him. “Call me crazy, Senator, but I’d say you’re avoiding me. You were, anyway.”

“And who’s this?” He looked John over—more up than down, given Sampson’s height.

“This is my partner, Detective Sampson. You can just pretend he’s not here. He fits right in, doesn’t he? We both do. Maybe as caddies.”

Yarrow snorted at me and waved to someone waiting under the porte cochere in front of the club. “Mike, I’ll see you inside. Order me an espresso, would you?”

I realized after the fact that the other man had been Michael Hart, a senator from North Carolina, and a Democrat to Yarrow’s Republican.

“Would you rather talk in my car?” I asked him. “Or maybe in yours?”