“You have my word. If things get bad, I’ll reach out to Dr. Atterman,” she said. He was the therapist Becca saw after the “Ambien incident.” She hoped this would allay Nina’s fears. The last thing Becca wanted right now was to rehash the past. She had to keep focused on Ash. Becca sank back onto the gurney. “I just want Ash back, Nina,” Becca said.

“I know. That doesn’t mean you get to break all the rules and put yourself in danger. You need to remember that,” Nina said.

Becca offered a tight smile. “I will. I swear to you. Right now I just want to go home. Can you find the doctor? Make sure I’m cleared for discharge?” Becca said.

Nina eyed Becca warily like a scientist observing a newly discovered life form she didn’t quite trust. Becca met her gaze, steady and unyielding. After a few seconds, Nina relented.

“I’ll track him down. I also promised to call your mom when you were awake,” she said, giving Becca’s hand a final squeeze. “I’ll be back in just a few.”

Becca let out a giant exhale, relieved that Nina was gone. She slowly stood, her legs wobbling slightly as she leaned against the railing of the bed, steadying herself. Becca hated lying to Nina, but she was doing what any mother would do to find her child. Becca dug through her purse and pocketed her LAPD badge. As she stepped into the hall, she saw that Hollywood Presbyterian hospital was practically bursting at the seams. Becca watched as a frantic, bloodstained surgeon wheeled a gunshot victim past her. She dodged several firefighters, heading down a hall where a young mother was shouting in Spanish that her baby was in pain. Becca was often a witness to this kind of suffering, though it never got any easier.

The smell was almost unbearable. No matter how hard the hospital was cleaned and mopped, nothing could erase the scent of death. It clung to the walls and ceilings, invaded every crevice and surface. Non–medical professionals weren’t attuned to the nuances of smell. Becca’s senses, on the other hand, were well honed. She often chalked it up to her earliest experiences, being exposed to death at such a young age.

She made her way down the hallway, going room to room until she spotted Hopper, all alone in a cold, sterile examination cubicle. He lay splayed out on a gurney, his hands cuffed to the bed, his eyes closed. She was about to step inside Hopper’s room when a wide-eyed trainee nurse stopped her. “Excuse me, can I help you?” she asked.

Becca offered her most professional smile, knowing she must look like an absolute disaster, and hoping her confidence would distract from it. “I’m with the Department of Mental Health. I need to speak with the patient for a few minutes.”