4338.212 · July 31, 2018 AD
Virginia's Voice
Three steps. That's all she manages before the phone vibrates. Virginia's name on the screen means something's wrong—the carer who only calls when it matters, when Jane has fallen or asked for her or something's broken beyond staff capability to fix. Sarah doesn't hesitate. One-eighty turn, boots squeaking on station floor. Karl's somewhere in the building. The case waits. Family doesn't.
Three steps inside the station before her phone rings. Past the memorial wall with its brass plaques commemorating officers lost in the line of duty. Into the familiar corridor that smells of industrial cleaner and burnt coffee. Three steps toward whatever confrontation or debriefing or next crisis awaited, fuelled by Glen's coffee and fragile determination.
Then the vibration against her hip. Virginia's name on the screen.
Virginia Collins—Jane's primary carer at Vaucluse. Competent, professional, warm without being cloying. The kind of person you want looking after elderly relatives because she genuinely cares rather than just completing tasks. In the months since Jane moved into the facility, Virginia has called perhaps three times. Once when Jane fell. Once about medications. Once when Jane specifically asked for her during a particularly bad day.
Virginia doesn't call unless something is actually wrong.
Sarah answers. Listens to careful concern in Virginia's voice explaining Jane is very distressed. Says she'll be there in ten minutes. Executes an abrupt one-eighty without hesitation or negotiation. Storms straight back out the door she just entered.
Family emergency overrides everything. Even when you're already drowning. Even when Karl's somewhere in the building. Even when the case waits.
Vaucluse is in Lindisfarne. Ten minutes if traffic cooperates.
Very distressed. The words echo as she drives.
