13. Chaos Ensues

13

Chaos Ensues

Brighton

Thursday, May 11 th

6:51 a.m.

I can't concentrate. I thought last night was a shit show, but what the fuck?

Hundreds of questions, six cups of coffee, and one headache later, and I'm suffering at the hands of Luca. Half-zombie. Half-human.

The first hints of sunlight brighten the sky to an orangish hue beyond the window. And I stare out, lost in mental snapshots of what happened last night. The gunshot. Blank eyes. Her mouth moving. Blood. A lot of blood.

Despite my best efforts to focus on what Luca's saying and ignore the commotion outside of this doctors' lounge, the sharp elbow jab to my side is a couple of seconds too late.

"Dr. Fields, do you have any questions?" Luca asks.

A surge of annoyance courses through me. I have a million fucking questions. Like, who in the hell murdered one of our doctors? Are there any suspects? What are they doing to protect the rest of us? And how in the hell is a badge supposed to ensure this doesn't happen to someone else?

Kline snickers beside me.

"No, thank you. All clear." I salute Luca. "Wear the badge. Don't lose the badge. The badge is my number one priority. Got it."

Luca's jaw tenses, and his lips fall into a scowl. "HR is available for photos between noon and four to update badges. If you can't make it between those times, please notify your head of department. Dr. Matthews," he says, pointing to Kline, "will have the new badges to you by the end of the day. Let me know if you have questions. Let's work together to prevent what happened to Dr. Pendegrass from happening to anyone else. Be vigilant. Travel in pairs. And if you see something, say something."

I pull the elastic band from my hair and comb my fingers through the knots. Who would have known we were going to need to be presentable today? And I don't have the strength to think about what happened. Cold, calloused—yes—but it's part of who I am. This is how I deal. Shut it out. Compartmentalize.

Don't think about it. There are plenty of other things that deserve your focus—things you can control. Breathe.

Kline lolls his head toward me and wipes his finger along his lower lashes. "You got something right here."

"It's called sleep deprivation." I fight the urge to roll my eyes as the side of my lip twists in disgust, wiping away what I assume to be dry mascara. Falling asleep on one's desk and only getting a couple of hours of shuteye is never in one's best interest.

The sound of scooting chairs and a couple of yawns fills the air. I hate meetings.

Hate.

Them.

Most of the staff return to their duties. I stall, needing a couple more minutes to wake up. I grab the box of donuts from in front of Kline and pull it toward myself. He catches the lid, stopping it before I can reach for one. "You busy?"

"Right now?" I look at him with irritation. "Like, literally?"

He grabs the glazed chocolate-cake donut I was going for and stuffs it into his mouth, giving me a wicked smile.

The unfrosted cake donut is the only one left in the box worth grabbing, and I do so out of frustration. Kline knows that was my donut. Every time he brings a box, which has become a lot more frequent as of late, he lets me know he grabbed one just for me.

I readjust the stethoscope around my neck and glance at my waistline. I drop the donut back in the box—no point in settling for seconds when boss-man stole the only one worth the calories.

I scoot my chair back and stand, pointing toward the door. "Your office or mine?"

"Yours is closer," he mumbles through a mouthful as he grabs his coffee mug and takes a swig, washing down the donut. "Grab the charts from yesterday. I have a couple of questions about one of the recent cases you—"

"One of my cases?" I interrupt, perturbed that he's sticking his nose where it doesn't belong. Why does he want to be in my office? It's right across the hall from his. It's not like being in mine is any easier unless he wants to be in there for some other reason. "Is something wrong?"

"Not at all. I need some clarification." He pats Luca on the back as he slips past him and out the door. "I'll meet you in there."

Linley Scott, Mr. Hodges, Ms. Phillips, countless others— Liam .

Shit.

He knows.

Not a single other case raises a red flag.

A couple of stragglers watch me as I postpone my meeting with Kline by any means possible. A couple of mugs go into the sink before I drop some loose papers and watch them flutter into the trash. The last couple of staff members pretend not to watch, but I can feel their eyes drilling into my back. I hate how he puts me on the spot in front of my peers, especially the nurses. His deliberate need to make sure I know my place gets under my skin. I try to keep my temper in check and glance at Lauren out of the corner of my eye.

She grabs the box of remaining donuts and slides them across the counter near the sink. "Don't forget you have a patient at eight." She washes and rinses the mugs, setting them on a towel.

My palms are clammy, chest tight. I don't want to go out there, but I don't think I can stall for much longer.

The hallway is full of cops.

Detectives. Badges. Handcuffs. Uniforms.

I bite my lower lip, scolding myself with the last thought. Uniforms are nice, but it's a specific person occupying said uniform that gets under my skin. I shouldn't let that cloud my perspective of them. Not all of them are like him. And it doesn't look like he's here.

My body temperature rises, and I try to fight off memories of the ex. A run-in with that cheating asshole would be the icing on the cake.

"Of all the ways to start the day," I mumble, refusing to glance back over my shoulder. If he is here, which is likely, as long as I don't see him, I can convince myself he doesn't exist.

Everything is okay.

Everything.

Is.

Okay.

I repeat my mantra as I walk across the hall with my head tucked—the last thing I need is to make eye contact, but I suck at being inconspicuous. I walk across the hall, past a group of nurses, and bump into a body. A rock-hard-doesn't-budge body. I pinch my eyes closed, praying it's not the ex.

Two powerful hands grip my arms, keeping me upright. "You okay?"

I pry one eye open, and a swell of relief floods through me. No uniform. I gaze over his pressed khakis and maroon button-up. He cleaned up nicely. My body deceives me as heat flushes to my cheeks because of my two left feet and the need to disappear. "I'm fine, thank you."

"Do you have a minute?" Hudson focuses on my name stitched above the breast pocket of my lab coat. At least I was able to clean up and change. A shiver races through me at the memory of all that blood. Keeping a set of scrubs in my office is something I swore I'd never do, but sadly, it's come in handy more times than I'd like to count.

"I'm sorry?"

He chuckles and takes a step back. His hands find purchase on his gun and cuffs. It doesn't look like he's trying to be intimidating. Seems more like a habit. "Everyone's on edge. Do you have a minute for a couple more questions?"

"Did you find something?" I wrinkle my brow, not sure what he needs, but curious. I give him an annoyed smile and motion toward my office.

"It'll only take a sec."

"I have a meeting." I rub at the headache threatening to turn into a migraine and usher him ahead of me. I lean against the doorway this time, crossing my arms over my chest. "So?"

"Did you see this?" He holds up a gray pin, stopping next to me. It's the caduceus—the symbol for medicine and the practice thereof—a staff with two snakes coiled around it. A pin all of us doctors bear over our names sewn over our breast pocket, attached to our stethoscope, or on our scrubs.

When I go to reach for it, Hudson drops it into his palm and folds his hand into a fist.

I point at mine, realizing now why it drew his attention earlier. "We all have them."

He drops his gaze to the floor, kicking at something imaginary on the linoleum tile. "So, that's a no."

"I'm not following you."

"She had it in her hand."

My hands fly to cover my open mouth without my permission. "Was it hers?"

He shakes his head. "She had hers there too," he says, pointing at mine. "All of you have them?"

"They sell them in the gift shop like candy. But, yes, we all wear them. Even the nurses. I think I have a couple in my desk if you—"

"I'm good, thanks." He holds up a hand, declining my offer. "Is there anyone who doesn't wear one?"

"Not that I can think of, but I pay little attention to that. Sort of becomes something you notice without seeing it, you know what I mean?" I stifle a yawn with the back of my hand, unwilling to follow my thoughts to their logical conclusion. What if Kline's is missing?

The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Thank you for your time. If you think of anything else, please call." He pulls out his wallet and offers me another business card.

I pat my freshly starched, blood-free lab coat pocket where I tucked his previous card. "I'm keeping it close. Just in case."

Hudson smirks. And this time, I definitely see a rosy hue flood his cheeks. "My phone is always on." He retreats down the hallway, turns at the junction, and disappears.

A couple of steps across the hall, I stop in front of Kline's closed door, knowing I should avoid it by all means possible, even though this meeting will happen eventually. I prefer to get it over with on my terms. I don't have the energy for him and his critique of who-knows-what. But I can't get this sinking feeling in my gut to go away. I need to see if he has his pin, but even if he does, that doesn't mean he didn't replace it.

This meeting has to be about Liam, but I hold out hope that I'm not busted. I lift my hand to knock on his door when someone clears their throat behind me.

"Sorry." Kline smiles. "I had to go over a couple of things."

My eyes instantly land on the pin above his pocket. Berating thoughts fill my mind. I need to stop pinning him as the bad guy. I have no proof. Nothing to put him at the scene of the crime except my suspicion.

I nod across the hall, yank my office door open, and hurry inside. I expect him to follow, but I sit behind my desk, situate a couple of folders, cross my legs, and boot up my computer. I glance at my watch, noting I have a little less than thirty minutes before my first patient.

Kline clears his throat.

"Hey."

He stands with his back to me, his focus on the hallway, with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his scrubs.

"Do you have surgery today?"

"At eight." He signals toward the open door.

"You're not needed in preop?"

"Did you see Carrie last night?" He changes the subject.

I shoot him with a death glare. He can't be serious.

"I mean . . . before. Did you see her?"

I press my lips into a thin line. "Yeah. Why?"

"And?"

"And what? We rode to the garage together last night. So what? I grabbed a couple of things from my truck, and her truck was still here when I came back upstairs." I leave out that she never went to her truck but headed to the opposite side of the parking garage.

A couple of awkward seconds pass. I huff out my annoyance, trying to get him to get on with it, but he's oblivious. This can't be why he wanted to see me. He mentioned my files. A part of me wishes he'd get on with it, but I don't want to shine a light on my predicament and get in trouble.

"Did she say what she was doing last night?" he asks, still not making eye contact.

I shake my head. "No, why?"

"Hmmm." He pulls out a chair and drops into it, running a hand over his scruff.

There's a certain amount of Kline I will put up with, but he's getting on my nerves. I go to speak when he pushes out from the desk to stand.

"Are you sure?"

"She mentioned a run at the park. That's it." Realization hits me like a freight train. I cover my mouth with my hands. "You two were supposed to meet."

He swallows and runs a hand over his hair, closing his eyes. It's all the confirmation I need.

"She didn't say anything else?" His bruised ego shines through his eyes. I should have known what he was hinting at. He's been dating a lot since his separation from Margo, but I hadn't put two-and-two together.

"You had plans?"

He averts his gaze as he stands from his chair and stops in the doorway. "No." He shakes his head. "Not to meet."

"For what?"

His head drops, and he kicks at something on the linoleum. "We Facetime." He glances up at me.

"You what?" I can only imagine the expression he sees on my face.

"Facetime, you know—" He holds up his phone and turns it in my direction.

I hold up a hand in disgust. "You don't need to mansplain for me. I know what Facetiming is." Goosebumps spread over my arms. Gross. "Did you tell the detectives?"

He shakes his head.

"Why the hell not?" My shock has me glued in place. I try to fight it, but my mouth falls open of its own accord. "Didn't you get worried when she didn't show up for your Facetime?" I use air quotes around the last word.

"It's not relevant," he says with a sigh.

"How do you figure?" I fight to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. "She is dead, Kline. Dead. You don't think they'd want to know she was supposed to Facetime you and never showed?" How could he rationalize keeping vital information from the detectives?

"You're right. They need to know. Maybe it'll help with the timing of what happened." He hangs his head and stares into the hallway.

After careful consideration, I attempt to cover the notepad I scribbled on before I fell asleep last night without getting noticed and grab some files to cover it. My illegible scrawl fills an entire page. Nelson and stairs. Over and over. Along with question marks and thoughts. Most of it doesn't make sense, but I don't want Kline to see it.

He glances up, looking at the folders I have held in midair. "We don't usually keep those."

"The files?" The freaking cabinet squeak had to give me away. But I'm thankful for the change of topic.

"Those kinds of cases."

"The kind where we help people survive cancer?" I try to keep the condescension out of my voice, but I have too much going on to care.

Kline returns to the chair in front of my desk and shuffles through the files in my inbox. He grabs one and holds it in front of my face, but I can't see the name on the chart. "He's nineteen." The file drops on my desk with a slapping noise, and I flinch. His jaw ticks.

It took him long enough to figure out I'm keeping Liam's case—which is one hundred percent against protocol—because I have to. Twenty-four hours might be a record.

"That's a referral."

And I don't care. I'm hyper-fixated on everything that has to do with this case and the rabbit hole it's opened. "But—" I go to speak, and he lifts a hand.

"No buts. Refer him."

"I can't."

He closes his eyes and lets out a steady breath. "It's not a request."

"He just turned nineteen," I lie, trying to plead my case. "I can handle this."

"That's what you said before."

I hate how he references Collins' case. He knows damn well I was going through a lot more than dealing with a patient with a case like Grady's. But he won't let it slide.

"I was dating that asshole," I say, pointing toward the hall, hoping he knows I mean the ex.

Kline doesn't skip a beat. "He's not an excuse. I don't think you can handle it."

I throw my hands in the air. "You won't give me a chance."

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and gazes at the ceiling. "Why him?"

"He needs me."

"No— why him ?"

I'm not sure what he means, and I can tell he's about to make me feel more incompetent than he already has, but I try for the best form of a lie I can muster. "Because I need you to give me a second chance."

His ego is his weakness, and I play to the idea that this is all in his hands. Despite my anger, I stay focused, keep my calm, and cross my fingers.

He doesn't change his tight posture, and I can sense how close I am to losing the chance to help them, but I don't push my luck. He leans forward, a little too close for comfort, and taps the chart he flung on the desk. "Don't make me regret this."

I can't fucking believe it!

I keep my excitement at bay. I don't need him to know how much relief those simple words have given me. He doesn't allow me to reply before he's at the door and out of sight. I follow him and peek into the hall, glad to have that over with.

Now, I need to figure out where that pin came from. I stuff my charts under my arm and head to the main floor through a few remaining detectives and find relief when there are no remnants of the incident from last night. It looks as if nothing took place. I walk to the spot and stop, surveying every inch for signs of anything. It's as if it never happened. I peek at the elevators, over to the stairwell, and back to the nurses' station.

Hushed whispers fill the air. I find Lauren huddled in a group of fellow nurses with her arms full of charts. Something about how they stop talking when they see me watching them piques my curiosity.

But it's just my luck because nurses are gossips, and I need information.