Chapter 18
FREE ME
LONDON
“Penicillin,” I say into the phone as I glance up from Grayson’s medical chart. “Can you explain how Sullivan was administered medication his file clearly states he’s allergic to?”
The corrections officer responsible for Grayson’s meals at the courthouse holding facility sighs audibly into the receiver.
I’ve posed this same question to every officer who’s had contact with Grayson over the past forty-eight hours.
I’m no detective, and officially, I’m no longer his psychologist, but I need to know how this happened.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the officer finally replies. “I can’t help you.”
Frustrated, I press my lips together. Of course, no one will cop to trying to harm Grayson. He was supposed to be under heavy supervision specifically for this reason.
“I understand,” I say. “But I expect a call from your supervisor soon.”
I end the call and start down the hallway to return the medical chart, and Detective Foster is there to head me off.
“You’re not supposed to be here. Ah, I’ll take that.” He confiscates the chart.
“I was just leaving,” I tell him as I turn, but the stocky detective steps into my path once again.
“Why are you here, Dr. Noble?”
I cross my arms. “One of my patients was just admitted to the hospital, detective. I’m here doing exactly what you are, trying to figure out how this happened, but more importantly, I’m evaluating how this has affected my patient.”
He nods, eyes narrowing slightly. “You know, the visitor log at the jail only shows one name—yours.”
“Careful, detective. Insinuating a respectable doctor poisoned her own patient is grounds for serious repercussions.”
“I’m not insinuating anything,” he says with a humorless chuckle. “I’m very bluntly asking you if you gave Sullivan penicillin to delay his transfer.”
“Unbelievable,” I mutter under my breath. “Detective Foster, it’s infuriating that I not only have to do the doctors’ job in this incompetent hospital, but yours as well. Do you realize how many people want Grayson dead? Family of the victims, police officials, like yourself—”
“He was already being sentenced to death,” he interrupts.
“He hadn’t been sentenced yesterday, when the trial appeared to be going more in his favor.” I arch an eyebrow.
He huffs a breath. “Don’t head back to Maine just yet, doctor. I may have more questions for you.”
I throw my hands up. “Fine. Now, can I please see my patient?”
“Absolutely not. Sullivan is under strict guard. Officials and medical personnel only.”
He escorts me back to the waiting room, and I reclaim the chair I’ve occupied for the past eight hours. An ache presses behind my eyes, and I close them briefly to ease the strain.
It took too long to transfer Grayson by ambulance. The hospital is only five miles from the courthouse, which shouldn’t have taken more than fifteen minutes to get him into care. Those extra minutes cost Grayson his consciousness.
A mocking voice whispers from a dark corner of my mind: This is what you wanted.
I did—I wanted Grayson’s death. I wanted the threat he posed eliminated. My self-perseverance is stronger than my feelings for him.
I blink against the dryness of my eyes. Even if I tired, I couldn’t will a tear forth.
Most psychologists are able to diagnose and treat their patients because they genuinely care. They possess a well of empathy to draw from, enabling them to give of themselves and help those the world would otherwise reject.
I can’t relate
I don’t empathize with my patients; I commiserate with them.
Grayson and I share an intense connection—one forged by something dark and twisted, and yet…I’m different from him. I’m stronger, better. I deserve to survive, to be the one to move forward, to continue to help others. For that to happen, he has to fail.
So yes, I wanted his death—but not like this. I wanted the system to kill him. I wanted justification, a clear conscience, and I hate this hollow pang in the center of my chest and I want it to stop.
“Dr. Noble.”
My eyes snap open to see the ER doctor standing before me. “Yes?”
“Can I have a moment to speak with you?” he asks kindly.
I reach over and grab my handbag. “Of course, Dr. Roseland.”
Grayson’s medical file still hasn’t been transferred. Had the staff wasted valuable time running unnecessary tests, I doubt Grayson would be alive. I had to throw my professional weight around to make sure Dr. Roseland knew what to test for immediately.
He leads me toward the emergency wing where Grayson is being monitored. “Don’t worry. I’ve gotten you clearance.” He glances my way. “A doctor should be able to see her patient.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that,” I tell him.
“He’s awake,” the doctor says. “I’m sure once I clear him for questioning, you won’t get another opportunity to speak with him privately. He’s been asking for you since he woke up.”
My brow furrows. “Dr. Roseland, you’re taking a risk by allowing me access. While I appreciate it, I don’t think Detective Foster will.”
He waves a hand dismissively. “Foster is a hot-head. Let me worry about him.”
I offer him a small smile. Sounds like the ER doctor has regular dealings with the detective. “Well, again, thank you. Grayson is a…unique patient.”
He nods thoughtfully. “I noticed. His brain scans were impressive. It’s unfortunate someone with his potential resorted to… Well, it’s just unfortunate.”
I lower my head as we pass the two officers guarding the front of the hallway. “Do we know how he received the antibiotic?” I ask.
As we reach the room door, Dr. Roseland pauses and turns toward me, his expression serious. “He administered the drug to himself.”
My heart slams against my chest, rib cage caving beneath the crushing pressure. I force myself to inhale an antiseptic-laced breath just as the door swings open.
An officer stands guard outside the room, another inside stationed near Grayson. His ankles are shackled to the gurney, his left wrist cuffed to the bedrail. He’s still dressed in his suit, less his jacket and shoes, tubes taped to his left forearm.
And he’s awake, watching me through unfocused eyes as I enter.
“How medicated is he?” I ask Dr. Roseland.
The doctor hovers in the doorway. “Heavily,” he says. “A few minutes more, and Mr. Sullivan may not have made it. The EMT noted you administered CPR until they arrived.” He gives me a tight smile. “He has you to thank for his life.”
My eyes close briefly, the hollow pang burrowing deeper.
“I’ll give you a moment,” the doctor says, closing the door as he leaves.
I step forward, and the officer extends his hand. “Stay five feet away from him at all times.”
I set my bag on a chair, giving myself something to do other than look into the eyes of the man I betrayed.
“Thank you for saving my life, doc.” Grayson’s voice is rough, his accent thicker with the sedative.
I inhale a fortifying breath before I face him. “Did you attempt to take your own life, Grayson?”
“Did it hurt you?”
“What?”
“Did saving my life hurt you?” He strains to jut his chin toward me. “You’re back, I mean. You’re limping.”
I didn’t even realize I’ve been coddling the pain. “No,” I answer, shifting my stance. “I’m not hurt. Now tell me the truth. Did you—?”
“I didn’t try to take my own life,” he says evenly, conviction clear in those pale blues.
I swallow. “Your chart stated you dosed yourself with over a thousand milligrams of penicillin. Somebody might consider that a suicide attempt, especially when you’re aware half that dosage is enough to kill you.”
He blinks drowsily and shrugs against the prop of pillows. “Maybe I just wanted one last chance to see you.”
My pulse flutters in my veins. “Cut the shit, Grayson. You wanted to be the one to end your life.” I cross my arms. “Honestly, I can understand that reasoning. If you were going to die, it was going to be on your own terms.”
“And not yours,” he says, sending me conspiratorial wink. “You took that promise to take it to the grave deathly serious.”
My stomach bottoms out, freefall. “Grayson. Not here.”
A sly smirk pulls at his mouth. “Whatever you say, doc.”
It happens fast then.
As I take another step forward, the guard reaches out to halt me. Grayson’s free hand grabs hold of the guard’s wrist and drags him over the gurney. Grayson nails the guard in the back of the head with his elbow. A gun appears in the commotion.
Grayson has the muzzle pressed against the officer’s temple. “Uncuff me,” he commands, but it’s not directed at the guard—he’s looking at me.
“No,” I say, my voice shaky with adrenaline.
His gaze hardens. “In five seconds, I’m going to pull this trigger. Do you want yet another life on your conscience, London?”
I lick my lips, stalling.
Grayson has never killed a person, not directly. That I know of. My instincts scream that he won’t do it now, that it contradicts his compulsions, his twisted principles. But then, he’s never been in a position like this before.
I’ve taken his life—and now he wants mine.
I have to choose to save the innocent life.
I unclip the keys from the officer’s belt and begin unshackling Grayson’s ankles from the gurney. “Let him go,” I demand.
“My wrist.” He yanks against the cuff with emphasis, and my gaze catches on his forearm, where he already removed the IV. He’s not drugged.
Grayson waits until I’ve freed his wrist before he stands, carefully maneuvering the guard with him.
The man slings threats, trying to alert the officer outside the room, and Grayson strikes him over the back of his head.
Yet the cop doesn’t go down with the first blow, or the second, and I have to look away as Grayson beats him until he finally drops to the floor.
“God, you’re an animal,” I say.
A devastating smile stretches across his lips. “You had the first part right.”
The door of the ER room swings opens.
I’m spun around and pulled hard against Grayson’s chest. The press of the steel muzzle beneath my chin makes me shiver. The weapon forces my head high, and I do my best not to let fear register on my face.
“Drop the weapon—” the officer blocking the doorway shouts.
Grayson digs the barrel harder, holding me tight against him.
“You probably have more to lose than me. Don’t be a hero for minimum wage, officer.
I will kill this woman, then I will fire off shots until the clip is empty, taking out as many people as I can before I go down.
” The cop holds his aim on Grayson. “Now, shut the door and lower your gun.”
After a tense beat, seconds stretching, the officer closes the room door. He keeps his weapon trained on Grayson for another few seconds before he discards it to the floor.
“Slide it over,” Grayson orders.
The cop does so reluctantly. “Backup will be here shortly,” he says, trying to reassure me.
Grayson nudges my back. “Strip the cop’s shoes,” he says.
I bite my lip as I kneel beside the unconscious officer and pull off his shoes. My gaze slides over the gun on the floor, but Grayson reaches it first and quickly confiscates it. He secures the officer to the bedrail with the handcuffs, then delivers a blow to his head with the weapon.
I curse, knowing that it’s now—right now. I have to escape. He’s completely unhinged.
I grunt as I stand, tweaking a nerve in my back. “Grayson, if you kill me, you’ll never get your revenge. You won’t get your rocks off destroying a dead person.”
He closes his hand around the nape of my neck and hauls me close enough his words brush across my lips. “Fuck, I wish you would’ve talked this dirty during our sessions.”
Anger floods my veins with a rush of adrenaline. I drive my knee toward his groin, but he’s ready, blocking me easily. He groans and fists his hand in my hair. Spotting a syringe on the tray, I lunge for it, ignoring the burn as I tear free from his grip.
I clutch the syringe with a shaky hand, the needle aimed at his neck. “I will shred your jugular before you squeeze that trigger, I swear to god.”
He watches me intently, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip to suppress a smile.
“And I know just how good you are at that, baby,” he says.
“I’m looking forward to play time later, but right now—” his hand covers mine, forcing my arm back until I drop the syringe with a faint cry “—I just want you to relax.”
I drop heavy breaths between us. “Do it fast.”
“Goddamn, if you insist.” He grips my jaw, firmly guiding me back until I hit the wall. My pulse flares, a roar filling my ears as his eyes darken. Then his mouth captures mine, the kiss hard and punishing, stealing what’s left of my breath before he pulls away. A wicked gleam lights his blue gaze.
“What the hell?” I demand, covering my puffy lips.
Grayson sheds his dress shirt, leaving his white undershirt beneath, and quickly threads the officer’s belt around his waist.
I start to inch toward the door, and his gaze snags me. I stop.
“You think I want to kill you because you betrayed me in court,” he says, snatching the officer’s radio and clipping it to his belt.
“But that’s just your guilt. You’ve trained yourself to feel it, to blend.
” He spits the word with disgust. “Let it go. It gets in your way. I would’ve done the same to you. ”
He grabs my handbag and digs out my phone, popping the SIM card out and snapping it in half before tossing both to the floor. Then he drapes my bag over my shoulder.
“Do you need your glasses to see?”
I squint. “I have an astigmatism. So…yes and no.”
He removes my glasses carefully and slips them into my bag. He then turns me around, pressing my back against his chest, his forearm banding my waist. The cold barrel of the gun touches my head.
“Christ, Grayson, what the hell do you want from me?”
He pushes his mouth close to my ear. “Be a good little hostage and open the door.”
Through the rush of adrenaline, it suddenly clicks together, the last piece of the puzzle snaps into place. And I realize, with a sickening dread, I’m the last piece—what he needed to secure his freedom.
“You used me,” I accuse, hurt evident in my voice.
“To be fair, we used each other.” He nuzzles my hair, inhaling deeply before he orders, “Now, open the fucking door, London.”
With trembling fingers, I open the door.