30. What Are the Chances?

30

What Are the Chances?

Brighton

Friday, June 2 nd

11:23 p.m.

Why do I agree?

I'm not thinking straight. But it's too late.

We shake on it. Hudson goes over the details. I pretend to be listening, but my mind is stuck on the part where I decided to be a snitch.

"I'll be in touch." He gives me a satisfied smile.

"No contact at work."

"Got it."

"Kline can't find out."

"We'll keep you safe." He places a hand over his heart.

"He . . . I . . . What if?"

Hudson tilts his head to one side, noting my reluctance. "We won't let anything happen. You'll be under our protection."

"How?"

"We'll plant someone undercover."

They can just do that? Seems a little over the top, but he doesn't seem like the type of guy to say something and not mean it. I have no idea what he thinks I'm going to uncover since my search for more on the malpractice, which should be obvious and easy to find, has left me empty-handed.

Maybe I can record our interactions. Or search his office. I can check with Phillip to see when he met with Carrie or Jessie. Perhaps Margo would be willing to help.

"I don't want my ex involved," I reiterate, the mere thought of Margo causing thoughts of the douchebag to resurface.

"I can't promise that."

"Then no deal." I explicitly agreed under the condition that my ex wouldn't know I was involved.

"He's working the case and—"

"You'll figure it out," I say, walking away.

"I'll see what I can do." He grabs my arm, pulling me to a stop.

"And I'll talk to Kline." I stare at his hand as he slowly removes it. I can't believe I agreed to this. I may have just sealed my fate and the end of my career as I know it.

This whole situation is damaged beyond repair.

What have I done?

"Take notes." He claps me on the shoulder, optimism filling his eyes before he strolls out of my office and down the hall. I watch until I can no longer see him and slump against the doorframe.

I want answers. I had no idea I'd be going about it like this. And now I'm stuck.

I have a list of to-dos from Hudson:

Find out details about Kline's whereabouts.

Find out about his history with the victims.

Find out if he has a motive.

And get more info on the malpractice—the probable reason behind his murderous crime spree—to see if it goes beyond oversight and insurance fraud.

I shiver at the idea.

Maybe this isn't as bad as it seems. I have more tools at my disposal now. And more information at my fingertips. If I can't get anything from Phillip, I can ask the other nurses. Tara is Kline's type, and he seems to like her. Maybe she'll give me something to go off of. I'll ask her as a last resort.

I turn, stumbling over the remaining mess of books and files, almost falling as they slip and slide under my weight. I catch myself against the wall and glare at them.

All my thoughts return to one thing.

The missed call.

My eyes land on my desk. I hoist myself up, steadying my feet on the linoleum.

Why would someone call this late? And what's with the unknown numbers?

I race across the office and yank open the drawer, pulling out my phone. The screen shows the waiting voicemail, and I tap on the icon, watching as the message plays, a buzz of silence before the person hangs up.

I hit redial before I think better of it.

It rings once.

"Please tell me you backed up the information from the files you found."

"Luca?"

"Just say yes."

"Yes. Of course I did."

He blows out an audible puff of air. "Thank god. The charts are gone. I searched through all my things. They're gone."

"You didn't have your secretary put them somewhere? Or give them to Robert?"

"No. They were here, and now they're not. Can you bring me a copy?"

"Of course."

"You're a lifesaver."

I race to my desk and yank open the drawer where I stuff the USB when I'm not carrying it on me. I pull out the small box of paper clips and dump them on the desktop.

But it's not here.

I swear I put it here before I left earlier. I cradle the phone between my ear and shoulder as I turn to the filing cabinet and pull open the third drawer before shifting the files forward. I look at the back right corner, where I keep a container of file folder tabs. The contents spill across my desk, but there's still no USB.

"Um, hold on a second." My thoughts have been all over the place lately, but there's only one other place to look. I clear the distance to the door and double-check the hallway before locking it. I squat behind the door to where the doorstop pokes out of the wall beside a vent. I pull at the top of the frame and yank until it comes free, the screws dropping a loose, chalky material as I pull it from the wall.

It's here.

My heart resumes its normal rhythm.

I need to keep better track of which hiding place I put it in at the end of each day.

I clutch it against my chest and stand, racing back to the desk before I plop into the seat and fire up my laptop.

"Are you downstairs?"

"Yes."

What's with the blocked number?

"You're here late."

"I'm going over my statement for the deposition."

"Can I meet you in your office?"

"I'm not in HR." That explains it.

My thoughts run wild as the screens change before my login prompt appears. Why is Luca prepping for the deposition? And what's he doing looking for the files? Why is there a sudden need to ensure I have copies? What if Luca is doing all of this and setting up Kline because he's making the hospital look bad?

I pinch my eyes closed and try to keep my thoughts from running rampant. This is absurd. Luca has nothing to do with it.

But that's what I thought about Kline.

Shit.

There's no way. Luca would never jeopardize the hospital.

Or me.

I brace the phone again as I type in my password and stick the USB in the port on the side. "Do you need me to bring it now?"

There's a long pause of hesitation before Luca clears his throat. "I can come up."

"Is there something specific you're looking for? I can print it out." Once I get the files open, I'm going to make a second set on another USB. I initially emailed them to myself, but the idea of letting this USB out of my sight puts me on edge.

"All of it. I need to confirm what I found with my notes. Have you found anything else?"

The bookshelf behind the desk has two boxes of my supply stash. I roll to it and grab a blank drive, not wanting to let go of the original.

"No, I haven't. I have the USB here on my desk."

"I'll be up in five." He hangs up without waiting for a response. His urgency has me concerned that the detectives might have talked to him too. They could have more than one of us trying to figure out what's going on.

I double-click on the USB icon, and a gray box pops up on the screen with an exclamation inside a yellow triangle.

USB device not recognized.

I eject it, blow into the end, and try again.

The same notification pops onto the screen.

Why didn't I make sure the files were on it? Why haven't I checked it before now?

I click my email and go to the one I sent myself of the files. My search of Cases 1-4 brings up nothing. I swear that's what I named it. I wanted it to seem harmless. And that's about as matter-of-fact as it comes. I type in Cases . I type in 1 . And type in 4 .

A white screen pops up every time with the words: No Results Found

I go to the sent folder.

It's empty.

That can't be right. I haven't deleted anything since I started my residency at this hospital years ago. I don't delete my files, just in case.

I drop my head into my hands and pinch my eyes closed. This can't be happening. I scour my memories of times when I saw Kline in or around my office. I've been extra cautious about locking my door and never leaving anything out.

Does he have a key? A way to get into my office? Maybe a janitor? There's no way this could have happened unless it was intentional.

Kline is desperate. And people in his situation will stop at nothing. I can picture him scouring my folders, filing cabinet, and desk. Why would he find it, delete it, and return it? Why not just take it? Why would he go through that much trouble to cover his tracks and shift the focus? I do one last search of the date this all started happening: May Ninth.

There is nothing.

Nothing sent to me. Nothing saved.

Nothing.

No, no, no, no!

It's gone!

There has to be a paper trail of some kind. But I don't know how to find it. Maybe the IT guy?

I log in to the hospital database and do a file search for Banks. She pops up. I send up a silent thank you and open her file. I hover the mouse over the arrow at the bottom right of the screen and flip through her chart. The original page with the changes is the third from the last.

I stop. Read it. Re-read it. See the information. Note there have been recent changes. Again. Nausea makes my skin sweat as my body heats and I heave, vomit rising through my esophagus and dribbling from my mouth into my cupped hands.

I choke back tears as a fist connects with my door. "Brighton?"

Luca's voice is both a soothing comfort and a panic-inducing trigger. What am I going to say? What am I going to do?

I swallow my mouthful and wipe my hands and lips before tossing the tissue into the trash.

"Coming." I gather the files from my desk and shove them into the bottom drawer on my right before making a clean stack of books on the corner. Finding more errant charts is now the only way to ensure Kline's caught. I have Grady's file, but is it enough?

I run a hand down the front of my scrubs and readjust the stethoscope and lanyard around my neck. One final breath to act put together, and I paste on a fake smile before swinging the door open. "Luca."

His eyes are sunken and bloodshot, his shirt untucked, and tie loosened.

"Is everything okay?"

"I think I'm losing my mind." He yawns into a fisted hand as He lets himself in, shuffling past me and into the seat Hudson occupied earlier.

"I'm sorry to make you come all the way up here for nothing." I try to think on my feet and hate to lie, but I don't have any other options. "The USB is safe at my house. I can bring it to you first thing on Monday."

He tilts his head toward my voice, but he doesn't turn to look at me. "That works. I want you to know you're doing the right thing."

"I don't know what you mean." I take a minute to gather my bearings, make my way behind my desk, and take my time sitting. The remnants of vomit coat my teeth, and I grab my cup of water and take a swig.

"This," Luca tilts his chin toward the books on my desk. I should have known he'd recognize them for what they are. "Is above and beyond what I could have asked of you."

A dose of relief courses through me. If he knew I agreed to help Hudson, he'd mention it, right? Someone has to find something to put a stop to this. He lost my loyalty the second he included me.

"I'm proud of you for standing up for what's right. Bring it by on Monday. You should go home." He pushes the seat back and stands.

He makes it to the door and waves, pulling it behind him. That's not the type of pep talk I would expect from Luca, but it's the pep talk I need. The sound of his calm eases my fear.

I chew on my thumbnail— stupid habit— to occupy my hands; I pull open my top drawer and grab the bottle of Advil. There's a headache building at the base of my skull I need to get in front of.

I have an idea.

But it could take all weekend.