11. Sound Effects

11

Sound Effects

Brighton

Wednesday, May 10 th

11:42 p.m.

Self-pity is a shallow state of mind. But facts don't give a fuck about your feelings.

And I'm doing an excellent job of convincing myself this isn't about me. The thought poisons my brain for a moment before I push it aside.

It's impressive, really, that Kline thought he could get away with this. I should pretend I don't care and conserve my energy. Feeling sorry for myself is the last thing I should do, considering what I've found. The deception of it feels like a punch to the solar plexus. And I struggle to catch my breath.

Guilt hits as I scoop up the charts and close my laptop, stuffing everything into my bag. I don't think I can stare at one more chart or try to find more evidence against Kline. It's too late for a run, and the idea of going home to my empty house only slightly outweighs the notion of staying here alone this late.

I make it to the door and scan my office, ensuring everything is in order. My eyes land on the voice recorder. It doesn't seem possible that we only met yesterday. A handful of minutes and a hundred lifetimes ago. What am I going to do about Liam and Dax?

A loud, sharp pop followed by a thud catches me off guard, and I whirl around, glancing into the hallway to confirm I'm still by myself. My heart thuds in my ears, and I try to calm my breathing. Get ahold of yourself, B, damn. Must be the stupid malpractice putting me on edge. With all the construction on the floor below us, I don't know why I think anything of it.

Until the sound comes again.

Icy dread settles into the pit of my stomach. What in the hell was that?

I switch off my light and yank my bag up higher on my shoulder, my ears on high alert. I twist the knob and pull the door closed as quietly as possible, double-checking it's locked before I sneak down the hall and onto the main floor, flicking the switches off as I go.

A single overhead light cascades onto the nurses' station, and I blink to get my eyes to adjust. The night shift nurse is nowhere to be seen. I wonder who it is tonight, maybe Monique or Phillip? It's not normal for the nurse to be gone, is it? No, I'm being paranoid. I bet she's grabbing a drink to go along with the scent of melty goodness wafting from behind the counter. I take a step closer as a mist of swirling heat rises from a slice of pizza.

I rub my fingers into my clammy palms as my mouth goes dry. I don't quite succeed at convincing myself there's a plausible reason the nurse is not where she's supposed to be.

"Calm down." I can't believe I'm talking to myself. I creep around the side of the nurses' station, listening for any sound I can make out above the uproar of the construction. "What is wrong with me?" I wipe my sweaty hands down the side of my scrubs and shake my head, trying not to freak out. An unnerving scraping from near the elevators is my breaking point. What was that? I race to the other side of the counter and duck next to a chair.

The sound of construction stops. Or is the pounding of my racing heart overriding it? Icy energy courses through my veins, lighting my skin on fire in a rush of cold flames. I wrap my hands over my mouth and pinch my eyes closed, gulping breaths to stay quiet.

I have no idea what to do, so I surrender to my instincts, but my mind can't keep up. When I open my eyes, a shock of power pumps through my body, rushing to my fingertips. This is ridiculous. Why am I hiding? I stand on wobbly legs and examine my surroundings at warp speed. Everything is faster, clearer.

The sound of drills and hammers returns. Along with a constant thumping sound from behind me. A sound that is not my heart. A sound I'm petrified to investigate any further. The world slows to the point where I can feel my pulse thrumming through my veins. Everything has culminated to this point. My senses are magnified, sharpened into lethal blades of thought.

My fingers shake.

But not in fear.

I whirl around with a nervous laugh, "Oh," I gasp, a hand on my thundering heart, "I wondered where you . . ."

But no one is there.

The sheer power of my adrenaline concentrates in my bloodstream. My hands are shaking. The icy-hot force I felt has evaporated into dread. I blink over and over, trying to make sense of what I'm hearing but not seeing.

There's the ping of the elevator.

And a scratching that sounds like nails on a chalkboard. Right after a thud.

But it is not coming from the elevator.

The door handle of the stairwell to the left of the elevator jiggles. Stops. I'm seeing things. My eyes bounce from the stairwell door to the elevator, to the hallway behind me, and back again. Where is it coming from? I cover my ears, rocking on my heels while I try to get my brain to focus.

It happens again.

"Hello?"

Please be the nurse. Please be the nurse.

The movement stops.

My heart thuds in my chest as I wait. And wait.

But no one comes.

I take a few hesitant steps toward the stairwell and reach for the handle as it twists and flies open with the weight of a body.

A crumpled, bleeding, gurgling body.

I barely miss the woman as she collapses past my flailing arms and onto the floor, clutching her side as she reaches for me. Blood pools under her as her terrified hazel eyes meet mine. I'm at her side, pulling her closer to me as I slip on the ruby-red liquid.

"Oh, my god. Oh, my god. Can you talk to me? Who did this?" Crimson liquid bubbles from between her lips as she struggles to speak. "What happened? Stay with me."

I can't make sense of what she's trying to say. "What was that? Stairs? Who's on the stairs?"

I cradle her head in my lap, her brown hair splaying across my thighs. I search around in vain for something to press into the wound she's clasping under her left breast. I waste precious seconds doubting myself and my abilities. Blood dribbles from between her fingers as her eyes roll back in her head, and she gasps for air.

"Hey, come on. You got this. Focus on me." Shit. I need my phone. I reach for my bag, but my fingers graze the corner. My foot finds purchase against the wall, and I push the two of us closer. I snag the strap of my bag and start fumbling inside for my phone with one hand. Where the hell is it?

"Hello! Somebody? Anybody!" The elevator chimes, and I stare at it, praying the doors will hurry and open. Something hits my left thigh, and I glance over; the woman's arm has fallen, and there is nothing putting pressure on her wound.

Her fucking gunshot wound.

I close my eyes and hope she's lost consciousness, but when I hold two fingers to the side of her throat, I can't find a pulse. I press my hands against her wound, but the blood stops pumping from between my fingers, and I start chest compressions. I haven't seen this much blood since med school.

"No, no, no. Fuuuck." My words ring in my ears as I lean back, trying to haul myself out from under her weight. I press my fingers to her throat again. Still nothing.

What if the person on the elevator is coming for her, to make sure their job is done? I slip again on the pooling blood, my hands barely catching me before my face is within an inch of the linoleum. I stand slowly. And back away from the body, watching as the doors glide open.

I freeze.

But no one exits.

And I run.

I duck behind the far side of the nurses' station, never taking my eyes off the elevator. The doors remain open for a couple of seconds. And close.

The oncology floor shuts down for the night. But the night nurse? A patient? Anybody?

My chest tightens as if I've been shoved gut-first into a sucker-punch-filled ice bath and I'm drowning. Do I make a move or sink? It's now or never.

I tear my eyes from the doors and stare at the woman. Did she move? Are my eyes playing tricks on me? Oh, fuck.

I hustle to her and drop to my knees, searching for a pulse as I beg her lifeless body to breathe. I start compressions again with the same result.

What if the killer is in the stairwell? Searching for her? I stand and watch the door for any movement before I lunge for my bag and race toward the hallway leading back to my office. I need more help. I swipe my badge, and for once, the goddamn thing works on the first try.

A glance over my shoulder confirms I'm still alone. I yank the door closed behind me, not waiting for it to shut on its own. I race to my office, searching my bag for my keys the entire way. It slides off my arm and falls to the floor when I stop at the door. I kneel and start rifling around, upending the contents. I find my phone, but no keys.

I need to call the police. I need to call security. I struggle to get my face recognition to work and swipe a blood-covered finger across the screen. The lock at the top of the screen jiggles as the number pad appears, waiting for me to enter my passcode.

A scream shatters the air, and I take off at a dead sprint back to the main floor. I shouldn't have left her. I turn the corner and yank open the door, colliding with an immobile body. The momentum causes us both to fly forward, and two sturdy hands catch me.

Where the fuck did Kline come from?

"No. No. No." I plead, arching against his hold.

I can't breathe. My hands shake as I fight to break loose, but I'm wrestled away from the scene. A woman in scrubs is in a ball next to the elevator, rocking back and forth, her mouth rounded open, her eyes glued to the body between us.

"Brighton?" Kline's voice pulls me from the chaos for a second.

I look him in the eyes and cover my ears, willing the screaming to stop.

"Brighton?"

I squeeze my eyes shut and open them. It doesn't.

"Brighton? Hey!"

"I can't." I thrash against him, bellowing at him to let me go. I need to get to her. Let her know it's going to be okay. Get her to stop screaming.

"Look at me." Kline's grip tightens on my upper arms as he shakes me.

I relent against his hold, my body trembling from the adrenaline. My breaths come in heaving gasps. Seconds pass. The screaming stops. But the buzzing in my ears continues.

What are we going to do?

"Fuck." Kline runs a hand down his face, falling back on his haunches once I stop fighting against him. I've never seen him at such a loss for words, as if the axis of the world has shifted.

His eyes drop to his hands before slowly landing on me.

The night shift nurse stands up from beside the elevator and edges as far away from the body as she can. She stops, hovering over us. "We need to call the cops. I found her and tried to save her—I was going to call, but . . ." her words end on broken sobs.

Kline pinches his eyes closed. He crawls toward the body and leans over her, checking for a pulse. Shakes his head.

My eyes travel over her body, the lab coat, the badge around her neck. The blooming red stain across her left side.

She's one of us.