As Jasper reached out to adjust the boy’s blanket, Howard flinched.
Without looking down or slowing her pace, she pressed something into my palm. My fingers closed around it instinctively.
I waited until she left, and Jasper was looking at his phone again. I unfolded the yellow Post-it note.
HE’S LYING. CHECK THE CAMERA AT 3 A.M.
My mouth went dry.
I waited a few minutes, making a show of needing to find a vending machine. I stepped into the hallway and looked for the nurse. She was standing by the station, clicking a pen.
She pressed something into my palm.
“What do you mean?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
She didn’t look up from her paperwork. “We have observation cameras in every pediatric room. Both audio and video. Security records everything. If you want the truth, go to the security office at 2:55. Tell them I sent you. Sit down and watch Channel 12 at 3 a.m.”
That was it. She walked away before I could ask another question.
***
Around 2:58 a.m., I knocked on the security office door. A tired-looking guard was sitting behind a bank of monitors.
She didn’t look up from her paperwork.
“The nurse sent me,” I said. “Room 412. Channel 12.”
He didn’t ask questions. He just pulled up the feed. The screen showed Howard sleeping. He looked so vulnerable under that thin hospital blanket.
The chair next to his bed — the one Jasper was supposed to be in — was empty.
The digital clock in the corner of the screen flicked to 3:00 a.m.
The door to the room opened. I expected to see a doctor or another nurse. Instead, Jasper walked in.
