Chapter 26 Emma
"Emma?" Jessica's voice through my office phone had that particular edge that meant trouble. "I have a lawyer on the line. Says he has a client who needs an emergency exam for a restraining order hearing tomorrow morning. I told him we're closing soon, but he's—"
"It's fine. Put him through."
I was already pulling up the scheduling system, scanning for any possible gaps. My last patient had left twenty minutes ago. I'd been using the quiet to catch up on charts, looking forward to going home, taking a long bath, maybe ordering Thai food and pretending the past two weeks hadn't happened.
Two weeks since the coffee shop. Two weeks since I'd told David I didn't know what we were. Two weeks of trying very hard not to think about him and failing spectacularly every single time.
The line clicked.
"Ms. Peterson…? Emma. This is David Harrison."
My hand froze on the mouse.
Of course it was.
"I apologize for the short notice," he continued, professional and clipped.
"But I have a client, Angela Torres, who needs medical documentation for a hearing at nine AM tomorrow.
Her husband assaulted her last night. She reported it, but she needs a medical exam to support the restraining order petition. "
I took a breath. Forced my voice steady. "What happened?"
"He shoved her down the stairs. She has visible bruising on her arms and back, possible fractured ribs. She went to the ER last night, but they only did basic treatment and X-rays. I need someone who can document everything properly, write the kind of report a judge will take seriously."
"And she can't come in tomorrow morning?"
"The hearing is at nine. We'd need the exam done tonight so I can include the documentation in the motion I'm filing first thing.
" A pause. "I know it's late. I know you're probably about to leave.
But Emma—" He caught himself. "Ms. Torres.
She's terrified. Her husband is a cop. If this restraining order doesn't go through, she's not safe. "
Her husband is a cop.
That explained why she needed everything perfect, every detail documented, every procedure followed exactly. Cops knew how to work the system. Knew how to make victims look unreliable. This woman needed ammunition.
I looked at the clock. 4:49 PM.
I thought about my bath. My Thai food. My plan to spend the evening watching mindless TV and absolutely not thinking about my ex-husband.
"Bring her in," I said. "I'll stay."
"Thank you." The relief in his voice was audible. "We'll be there in thirty minutes."
"Mr. Harrison." I stopped him before he could hang up. "You're staying for the exam? Or just dropping her off?"
Silence for a beat.
"I'll stay," he said. "She's—she doesn't have anyone else. I told her I'd be here the whole time."
Of course he did.
"Fine. Thirty minutes."
I hung up and sat back in my chair, staring at my computer screen without seeing it.
Two weeks. I'd made it two weeks without seeing him, without having to be in the same room, without having to feel whatever it was I'd been trying very hard not to feel.
And now I had thirty minutes to prepare myself.
I stood up and went to tell Jessica we'd need the building to stay open late.
Twenty minutes later, I was in exam room three, laying out supplies with unnecessary precision. Sterile gloves. Documentation forms. Camera for photographing injuries. Consent paperwork.
My hands were steady. They were always steady during patient care. It was one of the things I was good at: compartmentalizing, staying focused, keeping the personal separate from the professional.
Except tonight, the personal was walking through my door in approximately ten minutes.
I caught my reflection in the small mirror above the sink. Hair still in its professional ponytail. Minimal makeup that had survived the day. Navy scrubs that were wrinkled from twelve hours of wear but still presentable.
I looked exactly like I always did.
So why was I checking?
I turned away from the mirror, annoyed with myself.
There was a knock on the exam room door and Jessica stuck her head in.
"They're here. Should I bring them back?"
My stomach flipped. "Give me one minute. Then yes."
She nodded and disappeared.
I took a breath. Let it out slowly. Rolled my shoulders back.
This was just another case. Another patient who needed help. The fact that the lawyer was my ex-husband was irrelevant. I'd worked with him on cases before professionally, distantly, and without issue.
Except we hadn't seen each other since the coffee shop. Since I'd admitted I didn't hate him anymore. Since I'd looked across that table and seen something in his eyes that had terrified me enough to send me on a seven-mile run.
The knock came again. Softer this time.
"Ms. Peterson? It's David. We're ready when you are."
I opened the door.
David stood in the hallway with a woman in her early thirties.
She was small, maybe five-two, with dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.
Her right eye was swollen, bruising already dark purple and spreading down her cheek.
She held her left arm carefully against her ribs, the kind of protective posture that screamed pain with every breath.
But it was David I saw first.
Two weeks shouldn't have made a difference. He looked the same—tired, rumpled suit, hair that needed a cut. But something in his face when he saw me made my breath catch. Relief, maybe. Or something else I couldn't name.
"Emma." He caught himself. "Ms. Peterson. This is Angela Torres."
I shifted my focus to the woman, to where it should have been all along.
"Angela. I'm Emma Peterson, the nurse practitioner who'll be doing your exam tonight." I kept my voice gentle, professional. "Come on in. Let's get you taken care of."
She nodded, wincing at the movement.
David moved to follow her into the room, and I put a hand up.
"Mr. Harrison. You'll need to wait in the hall during the exam. I'll call you when we're finished."
"I told her I'd stay—"
"And I'm telling you that you can't." My voice was firm but not unkind. "Medical privacy. No one else in the room during the examination unless the patient specifically requests it."
I looked at Angela. "Would you like him to stay?"
She glanced at David, then back at me. Shook her head slightly. "No. It's okay. I'll be okay."
"I'll be right outside," David said to her. Then, to me, quieter: "If you need anything—"
"I know where to find you."
Our eyes met for just a second. Something passed between us—acknowledgment, maybe, of the strangeness of this situation. Of standing in this hallway, professional and distant, when two weeks ago we'd sat in a coffee shop and I'd told him I didn't know what we were anymore.
I still didn't know.
But I knew I had a patient who needed me more than I needed to figure out whatever this was.
I stepped back and let Angela into the exam room, closing the door firmly behind us.
The exam took forty minutes.
I documented everything: the swelling around her eye, the bruising on her arms in the distinctive pattern of finger marks, the deep purple spreading across her ribs where she'd hit the stairs.
Three cracked ribs, likely. Definitely soft tissue damage.
Every injury photographed, measured, recorded with clinical precision.
Angela was quiet through most of it, answering my questions in a voice that kept threatening to break but never quite did. Yes, he'd pushed her. No, this wasn't the first time. Yes, she'd tried to leave before. No, she didn't have anywhere safe to go.
The same story I'd heard dozens of times. It never got easier.
"You're very thorough," Angela said as I helped her back into her shirt. She moved carefully, every breath shallow to avoid aggravating her ribs.
"I want to make sure the judge has everything they need to keep you safe."
"Mr. Harrison said you were the best." She paused, then added quietly, "He talked about you. The cases you've worked together. He says you save lives."
My hands stilled on the paperwork. "He said that?"
"He respects you a lot. I can tell." Angela managed a small, pained smile. "The way he looks when he mentions your name. Like you're someone important."
I didn't know what to do with that information, so I just nodded and finished my notes.
"Okay," I said, setting down my pen. "I'm going to go type up the official report. It'll take me about an hour. You can rest here if you'd like, or Mr. Harrison can sit with you in the waiting room."
"Can he come in now?"
"Of course."
I opened the door. David was exactly where I'd left him, leaning against the wall across from the exam room, still in his rumpled suit, phone in his hand but clearly not looking at it.
He straightened immediately when he saw me.
"How is she?"
"Three cracked ribs, extensive bruising, soft tissue damage consistent with her account." I kept my voice low, professional. "I'll have the full report ready in an hour or so. The documentation should be more than sufficient for the hearing."
Relief washed over his face. "Thank you."
"She's asking for you. You can sit with her while I finish the paperwork." I moved to step past him in the narrow hallway.
"Emma." He said it quietly, and I stopped. "I know this is… I know it's not ideal. Working together tonight. But thank you for staying. For helping her."
I looked up at him. We were too close in this hallway, close enough that I could see the exhaustion in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders.
Close enough that I caught the faint scent of his cologne…
the same one he'd worn three years ago, and somehow that small familiar detail made my chest tight.
"It's my job," I said.
"I know. But still." He held my gaze. "Thank you."
I nodded once and walked past him toward my office, very aware of the inches between us as I moved, very aware that I'd felt something when he said my name.
Not Ms. Peterson, no… Emma.
I was halfway through typing the report when David appeared in my doorway.
"How long until it's ready?"
I glanced at the screen. "Thirty minutes, give or take.”
He nodded, thinking. "Angela needs to get some things from her house before I drop her off at the hotel. Clothes, documents, her daughter's stuffed animal. Her husband's on shift until midnight, and now's the safest time. Can I take her and come back for the report?"
"Of course. I'll text you when it's done."
"Thank you." He started to turn, then paused. "You'll be okay here alone?"
"I work late all the time." I kept my eyes on my screen. "Go. She needs you more than I do."
A beat of silence. Then: "I'll be back in thirty."
I heard his footsteps retreat down the hall, heard him talking quietly to Angela, heard the front door open and close.
Then silence.
I sat back in my chair and let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
He talks about you sometimes. Like you're someone important.
I shook my head and turned back to the computer.
Focus. Angela needed this report. The hearing was tomorrow. Everything else could wait.
I typed methodically, translating my exam notes into the formal language judges expected.
Documented every injury in clinical detail.
Included measurements, photographs, my professional assessment of the timeline and mechanism of injury.
Everything needed to prove that Angela Torres had been assaulted and was at risk of further harm.
Twenty minutes later, I hit print and watched the pages emerge from the printer. Ten pages. Thorough. Damning. Exactly what David needed.
My phone was on the desk next to me. I picked it up, pulled up his contact.
Then hesitated.
The report's ready.
Too formal?
Done. Come whenever.
Too casual?
I settled on:
Report finished. No rush.
Sent it before I could overthink further.
Three dots appeared immediately. Then:
On my way. 10 minutes.
I stared at those words longer than I should have.
Ten minutes.
Just enough time to overthink everything and not nearly enough time to prepare myself for being alone with him in an empty building.
I stood up, grabbed the report, walked to the break room for no reason except that sitting still felt impossible. Made coffee I didn't want. Checked my reflection in the window and got annoyed at myself for checking again.
My phone buzzed.
Here.
I took a breath and walked toward the front entrance.