Chapter 35
thirty-five
Nessa
With a groan, I turn, overtaken by the urge to stretch. But I’m met with resistance, like I’m trapped beneath a weighted blanket. I try again, this time with more force.
“Ugh,” a deep, groggy voice says. “What the, ow.”
“You’re still here?” My voice is hoarse, a mix of surprise and annoyance.
He brushes the hair away from my face and kisses my mouth softly. “As long as you want me here, I’ll stay.”
My heart stutters. Shit. He’s too heart-eyed; I can’t handle this right now. I groan again, trying to stretch, and nearly throw myself off the mattress.
He keeps me from tumbling, and once I find my bearings, I scramble to my feet and pull on a robe.
I dig through my bag and find that my work phone is dead. Cursing myself for being so irresponsible, I plug it in on the nightstand. The instant it comes back to life, it lights up with one notification after another.
With shaking hands, I unlock the screen and scroll through the call notifications and texts. When I get to the voicemail transcripts, my heart plummets. Shit!
“It’s work. I have to run.” I dart to the closet and frantically search for hospital-appropriate attire.
With a quick sniff test, I determine a body shower is called for, so I jog down the hall, clothing clasped to my chest. As I approach the bathroom, Delia steps out into the hall, and we almost collide.
“Something happened to a patient last night,” I say. “I’m in a rush. Mateo is in my room. We can discuss it later. I’ve got to go.”
My heart races, causing blood to whoosh in my ears. I look at Delia, but my eyes lose focus, and the room fills with black specs floating. My mind races with all the possibilities.
The little voice that has been relentlessly poking me gets louder.
This is what happens when you stop paying attention.
Did not want to think about how Caleb makes you feel, as if you don’t know that pushing feelings away just causes them to pop up somewhere else.
You tried to copy Mateo’s carefree ways, but you ignored the differences between you.
It takes victims seven tries, on average, to leave their abusive partner for good. All the while, the partner continues to escalate in their attempts at control. I knew this was going on.
Finally, the devil’s advocate—truly the angel on my shoulder—shows up. We made a safety plan. I was one person in a series she was set to call. She should have been fine getting out of there.
My mind races with all the possibilities. I was too panicked to read through all the information on my phone before springing into action.
Delia, thank god, reads the room and pulls me into a tight hug.
“It’s going to be okay,” she says. “I’ll make coffee and leave your travel mug and water on the counter, go get ready. If the patient is already at the emergency room, they are safe and they have someone on call to help,” she says and rubs soothing circles on my back.
Tears threaten, but I swallow them back. “I am the one who knows the case history, though.”
“And you will be there faster if you focus. Get in the shower and head out. I got the coffee; you get yourself together.”
“And Mateo?” I squeak and slap a hand over my face.
“Tell him to grab his pants and be out by noon when I leave for work,” she says with a shrug.
“Okay,” I exhale. “Okay, I got this. Thank you.”
I speed through my morning routine and pull on a simple pair of black trousers and a camel sweater. Shoes on, I grab my bag, coffee, and water, then dart out the door.
As I hit the open highway, my frustration with Mateo grates on my nerves. I keep replaying the events, searching for a different perspective. None comes.
Mateo lay in bed, watching me spinning out, half asleep and wearing a dumb relaxed smile. He didn’t pick up on the shift in the energy or any of the many ways I put it out there.
This shouldn’t have happened.
I have only let my phone die when I’ve been with you.
I knew she wanted to go this weekend.
The angel on my shoulder shows back up and asks how often has this client claimed it was the weekend she’d leave? It didn’t happen then, you couldn’t have known.
The pesky devil says, but you should have. You would have if you paid better attention.
Pressing the foot pedal to accelerate gives a satisfying rev to the engine, and I watch the digital speedometer tick up from forty-five to ninety-eight almost instantly. Trees and grass along the sides of the interstate blur.
“Fuck,” I scream, I clench my fists and bang the steering wheel. I am so angry I am seeing red. Oh fuck. No, literally, I’m seeing red.
The red and blue lights of a police cruiser flash behind me, and a siren wails.
“Fuck,” I silently scream as I slow. Once I’ve come to a stop on the shoulder, I dig into the glove box for my registration and my hospital ID, hoping that I don’t get one of those assholes who doesn’t consider my work essential and will dick around.
Please, I beg the universe, please let this be a decent person.
“Do you know how fast you were driving this morning, little miss? Where is the fire?” He asks, his face fixed in a smarmy smile.
Dammit. This is going to be awful.
“Good, morning officer. I prefer Doctor over little miss.” I hand over the stack of items with my hospital badge on top.
He snorts, but I hold my poker face while thinking fuck this, you’re an asshole.
“Oh, is there an emergency that required you to drive like a surgeon headed to rescue the president?” He scoffs. “Sit tight, Doctor Ray-bin. It’ll be a moment while I check on this.”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
As I wait for Officer Douchebag to return my documents, my phone rings. I silence it from the touchscreen.
Not today, Satan.
It rings again. Then again. Voicemails and text messages are rolling in one after another.
The officer returns holding my documents and a summons when my phone rings again. I touch the screen to silence it, and he places a hand on his service weapon.
Are you fucking serious, dude?
“Hands on the wheel, now,” he barks out.
I move my hands back as requested and don’t move while he peers into my vehicle, neck craning, then looks down at my ID again.
“New York plates, New Jersey resident, speeding in Pennsylvania, huh? In a vehicle this nice? This is the final roll-out of the Audi TT with all the bells and whistles. It isn’t registered to you. It’s made out to—holy shit. That real estate guy?”
Swallowing thickly, I nod. “Yes, he’s my…” I trail off unsure what we are to each other right now. He’s my friend’s brother? My boyfriend? My ex-boyfriend? Can we be exes if we were never actually a thing?
I’m taking too long to answer, and the officer arches both brows. As if on cue, my phone rings again, and Satan’s name flashes on the display. I lift my hand to silence it, breaking the final straw.
“All right, I’m going to need you to step out of the vehicle, now, miss.” The last word is said with a sneer.
After a field sobriety test, a thorough search of the car, and a ride to the station in the back of Officer Douchebag’s vehicle, I’m officially miserable.
This small town in Pennsylvania makes Peacock Springs look like a major city.
The dark wood police precinct has faded yellow letters painted into grooves spelling out the town name.
There is one cell holding a man sleeping off a bender along the sole bench, so Officer Douche Canoe let me sit in the visitors chair with my left wrist handcuffed to the plastic armrest.
I made my one call to my lawyer father and waited.
Finally, Aba arrives. Mateo waltzes in beside him, chatting like old friends.
I give a tiny smile and wave with the hand that is not attached to the chair as they approach. Aba steps in close and speaks Hebrew to make sure our conversation is private.
“You didn’t say anything to them without me, correct?” His question is firm. This is my attorney, not my father.
I shake my head, sighing.
“You make any smart-ass comments?” he asks with narrowed eyes.
Another head shake, my gaze on my shoes.
Switching to English so Mateo understands, I say, “I just asked to be called Doctor instead of little miss.”
Our eyes connect briefly, only for me to look away quickly. All of the rage I felt earlier is mixed with sadness.
I hear Mateo’s loafers click against the tile floor, and a fluorescent light flickers and buzzes nearby. Placing a hand on my shoulder, my dad tries to reassure me.
“Mateo will clear up the matter with the car. That should be enough, but I’m here if not.”
I raise my eyes, pressure from unshed tears building, and nod.
I’m so lucky to have this man as my father.
His footprints leave an impossible space to fill, and despite thinking that Mateo was able to come close, he was just a distraction.
He led me astray, and when my focus dropped from the people I care for, we all suffered.
Trying to break the tension, Aba asks, “Is your client okay?”
“I don’t know,” I say as a sob breaks. An ache ripples across my shoulders and down the center of my chest, causing my shoulders to slump and my arms to fall.
“I had only gotten through the first voicemail when Satan started to call. I used to block his number, so he got a new one. After so many times I gave up. He won’t go away. Then, when the officer brought me in, he confiscated my phone.” The tears stream down my face hot and fast now.
My dad strokes a hand down my back and kisses the top of my head. I want to hug him, but I’m immobilized by emotion—and this stupid handcuff.
“Oh, sweetie. I am sure the doctors on call can use your notes to help until we get this cleared up,” he murmurs.
That only causes the tears to come faster.
“My notes are vague, and I use codes to protect the client because of the abuse involved. I can’t risk the abuser getting access to them, because.
Because—” I stammer and stop there. If I don’t, I’ll break confidentiality by blurting out “because the abuser is a hospital board member with major connections who could easily pull strings and manipulate the situation.” And not only would that put my patient’s life at risk, but also my job.
Officer Douchebag, whose nametag I can now see says Officer Doughterberg—close enough—approaches Mateo.
Mateo’s dimple and grin are on full display, but I’m in no mood to be swayed by his pretty-boy antics right now. He’s a big part of the reason I am in this mess in the first place. I let him distract me and took my eye off the ball.
“Doctor R, I apologize for the confusion this morning. I’ve spoken to Mr. Santos-Manolo, and he’ll be retrieving the vehicle from the impound lot after it’s been processed.
We appreciate the generous donation to the precinct, and I’ll have Linda in finance get you those tax forms today. However, Miss?—”
Mateo clears his throat.
The officer side-eyes him and straightens. “Excuse me, Doctor. You should consider taking your boyfriend up on the suggestion to put both your names on the car’s title to protect you moving forward. It’ll take a bit to process your possessions out, so just hang tight.”
At this, my father rises to his full five feet, eleven inches. He may not be overly tall, but he’s broad-shouldered and intimidating, nonetheless. He extends a hand to the officer.
“Hello, I didn’t get to introduce myself.
I’m Attorney Gabriel Rabin, her counsel and her father.
” He eyes me, then turns back, giving that statement a moment to sink in.
“Given my daughter isn’t being charged with any crimes, I’m not sure why her items are being processed at all.
Seems like it’s a pretty quiet morning, and given this misunderstanding has delayed her from handling a safety emergency for her client, it would be prudent of you to expedite her release. You have no reason to hold her.”
The men engage in a staring contest, my gaze ping-ponging between the pair and Mateo.
“I just need my phone,” I say quietly. And my wrist .
“I’m happy to sit and wait if I can have my work phone. I need to check in with the team in the ER and my client.”
“Surely we can make that happen. Right, Officer?” Mateo breaks into his signature wide smile.
“We’ll see what we can do.” Officer Douchebag narrows his eyes, though they quickly drift lower, appraising my figure.
Gross. Today sucks, and it’s not even ten.