Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

F riday morning Taylor sat cross-legged on the hospital bed, fully dressed in her street clothes as her hands rested lightly in her lap. Dr. Merrow settled into the chair beside her. The psychologist had a calm, steady presence, her voice measured and gentle as she spoke.

"Dr. Kellner asked that I stop by and do an evaluation, Taylor. I’ve heard that you've had a rough couple of days," Dr. Merrow began, her pen poised over a notepad. "How are you feeling now?"

"Better," Taylor replied, her voice soft. It wasn’t a lie, exactly, but it wasn’t the full truth either. Her body felt steadier, her mind a little clearer, but the swirling emotions were still there, just beneath the surface. Worry. So much worry about everyone.

Especially Lennon. She had to get back to her baby. Sam had offered to bring her to visit, but Taylor hadn’t wanted to expose her to any hospital germs or illnesses floating around. Her breasts throbbed, needing to connect with her child. To nurture and protect her.

Dr. Merrow nodded, studying her carefully. "You’ve been in crisis mode for a long time, haven’t you? Even before your recent illness."

Taylor hesitated, the words striking uncomfortably close to home. "I guess you could say that. I mean, it comes and goes but for, sure, getting so sick put a damper on the last few months."

"I think we both know it’s more than that," the psychologist said. "Sam filled me in a bit about your background, and what I want you to understand is that when someone is constantly in the role of caregiver, they can lose sight of their own needs. They become so focused on fixing others that they forget how to take care of themselves. Does that resonate with you?"

Taylor shrugged, averting her gaze. "Maybe."

Dr. Merrow leaned forward slightly, her expression kind but firm. "Taylor, I’m not here to judge you, but I need to understand whether you’re ready to go home. Whether you’re in a place where you can actually take care of yourself. Where you can set boundaries that you need to set."

Taylor swallowed hard, her throat tightening. She was leaving the hospital with or without her doctor’s approval. Two days was enough, and she didn’t care what they said. Sam was already on his way, too. "I can handle it. I always do."

"But that’s part of the problem," Dr. Merrow said. "You’re handling things, but at what cost? Burnout, resentment, denying your own needs—those are all signs of someone who’s stretched too thin. It’s okay to admit that you need help. That doesn’t make you weak; it makes you human."

The words hit like a hammer, cracking open a part of her she’d tried to keep sealed. But before she could respond, a knock at the door interrupted them.

Dr. Merrow glanced at Taylor, then stood to open the door. Shane stood there, holding a bouquet of flowers wrapped in cheap plastic from the hospital gift shop.

He looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“Hi. I—I’m Detective Weaver, a colleague of Taylor’s.” He looked around Merrow and waved at Taylor.

"Detective Weaver," Dr. Merrow said, a note of surprise in her voice. "We’re in the middle of a session. Can you come back later?"

"Sorry," Shane said, though he didn’t look it. "I just wanted to check on her. I’ll wait outside."

Taylor sighed, already feeling the tension creeping back into her chest. She needed to get rid of him before Sam showed up to take her home. "It’s fine. You can come in."

Dr. Merrow hesitated, then nodded. "Alright, but we’re going to finish this conversation before your discharge." She turned to Shane. "Please be mindful of her recovery. She’s been through a lot."

"I understand," Shane said, stepping into the room as the psychologist left. He set the flowers on the bedside table and sat in the chair Dr. Merrow had vacated.

Taylor glanced at the flowers, then back at him. "You didn’t have to do that."

"I wanted to," he said simply. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I need to go home," she said with a small smile. "But they’re making me jump through hoops to earn my walking papers. What’s going on with the case? Any big leads?”

He shook his head, his expression serious. "Nothing major but we’re making progress. Got the warrant for Timmons’ DNA, and we have a few more people to interview. It’s not much, but it’s something."

"That’s good," she said, though her voice lacked enthusiasm. She thought of Sam and hesitated, then added, "Shane, I need to step back from this. I know I wasn’t doing much, but I can’t … I can’t keep adding to my plate right now. "

Shane’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. "Don’t forget, you asked me to let you help. But it’s not the job that’s wearing you down, Taylor. It’s everything else. Your family … they’re draining you."

Her stomach twisted, and she shifted uncomfortably. "Shane?—"

"No, hear me out," he interrupted. "Lucy and Anna—they use you. They take and take, and they don’t give anything back. And Sam—" He stopped himself, his frustration evident. "Since you married him, you’ve been different. Like you’re trying to be someone you’re not. He forgets that you were already something special before he came along. You’re damn good at your job, and you have a bright future in?—"

Taylor held her hand up to stop him. Her irritation flared, and she sat up straighter. "Don’t talk about my husband like that. Sam is the only thing that keeps me grounded. You don’t know what you’re talking about."

Shane’s face darkened, a flash of something unreadable in his eyes. "I just think you deserve better," he muttered.

Before she could respond, a movement in the doorway caught her eye. She looked up to see Sam standing there, his face a mask of fury. She sensed an impending disaster in three, two, one …

He strode into the room, his gaze locked on Shane. "Get out," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

"Sam, wait—" she started, but it was too late. She leaped from the bed, trying to head off what was coming. She didn’t get into the middle fast enough before Sam grabbed Shane by the arm and yanked him out of the chair. Shane shoved him back, his expression hardening. "You want to do this here, Sam?" he said, his voice like ice.

"Maybe I do," Sam shot back, his voice rising. "Why the hell are you here? Bringing flowers like you’re some kind of savior? Taylor is my wife. My responsibility."

"You don’t own her," Shane snapped, shoving Sam back. "And you sure as hell don’t understand her."

The tension exploded as Sam swung, his fist connecting with Shane’s jaw. Shane staggered but recovered quickly, throwing a punch of his own. Taylor screamed for them to stop, but they were already in the hallway, grappling like two bulls locked in a fight.

"Enough!" she shouted, her voice hoarse with anger.

Nurses screamed and a pair of doctors rushed in, pulling the two men apart. One of them glared at both of them. "If you don’t leave right now, I’m calling the police."

"I am the police," Shane snapped, wiping blood from his lip.

"Then act like it," the doctor shot back.

Sam glared at Shane, his chest heaving. "You’re a damn joke," he spat. "Stay away from my wife."

"Both of you, out," Taylor said, her voice cold and furious. She pointed to the door. "Sam, I’ll meet you in the car. Now."

Sam hesitated, his face still red with anger, but eventually he turned and stormed out. Shane lingered for a moment, his gaze meeting Taylor’s, something unspoken passing between them. Then he, too, walked away.

As the door clicked shut, Taylor sank back onto the bed, her head pounding.

What just happened?

Her hands trembled as she reached for the flowers, then shoved them off the table. They landed on the floor with a muted thud, petals scattering across the tiles.

She closed her eyes, her breath shaky. "What the hell is wrong with everyone?" she muttered to herself. But deep down, she knew the answer wasn’t as simple as blaming them. Something had to change—starting with her.