Chapter 19
Cormac
Day three.
Day three of pretending I’m not a fraud in front of seventy future doctors.
The lecture hall hums with idle chatter as students file in. To them, I’m just a new professor with weird tattoos creeping up my neck.
I clear my throat into the mic. “Phones away. Eyes up. We’re diving right into the real teeth of this class today. Opioid pharmacodynamics.”
A few eager heads snap up, followed by some groans. Amid the rustling of papers and tapping on keyboards, I focus my gaze on the girl in the third row.
Scarlett Ford.
Christ, not a girl. Woman. And not just a woman. A student. Off. Limits.
Tell my dick that because he’s already loving how she twisted up her hair today, exposing the long line of her neck. My lips traced that column. My teeth sank into that young, soft flesh.
My fingers curl around the edge of the lectern, nails biting into the wood.
I’m in the middle of explaining adrenal crisis management when there’s a sharp knock at the side door where I enter from.
I react, and the class goes quiet, but the hair on the back of my neck stands up. I don’t have a chance to get within five feet to answer the door before a man in a navy windbreaker that says FBI steps inside. He’s followed by a woman in a similar jacket that says DEA.
My whole life passes before my eyes as I immediately think I’m being arrested for murder, or that the Cosa Nostra in Las Vegas talked the new DA into reinstating my charges.
Charges that were dismissed when my Harvard lawyer brother Eoghan offered to help the old DA, his wife’s brother, take down the Borgias.
“Professor O’Rourke,” the FBI agent says. “May we borrow your class for a few minutes?”
My stomach knots, but I keep my face neutral. “Of course.”
I step aside, leaning against the desk like I have nothing in the world to hide.
“Thanks for your time.” He clears his throat.” There’s an ongoing investigation we’ve been authorized to brief the medical community on. Many of you are doing rotations in hospitals and clinics where this may become relevant.”
I feel Scarlett’s attention sharpen. From the corner of my eye, I see her sit up straighter.
The woman agent steps forward and opens a small evidence case.
Foam-lined. Clinical. I already know what’s inside before she lifts it: a syringe.
My glass syringe. Or the type I’m using.
All of mine are accounted for. But they’re rare, and a good forensics accountant can figure out who’s selling them.
And who’s buying them. Me.
My jaw locks for half a second, but I force it to relax.
“This is identical to what the ME thinks is being used for the Hot-Shot Homicides,” she says, holding the hypodermic needle up between gloved fingers. “The killer uses a very specific barrel. Reinforced glass to prevent contamination during transport.”
Scarlett’s gaze flicks to me for some reason. I stare off into space, ignoring her.
Easy. Breathe. Stay still.
The male agent continues, “We’re asking medical professors and students to be vigilant. The victims never live long enough to seek any kind of medical attention. It’s usually straight to the morgue. But there’s often a struggle. The killer might end up in your care with bruises and scratches.”
“And a vague story of how they got there,” the DEA agent adds.
Scarlett tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. That tiny line appears between her brows. It’s her thinking crease, and I’m already addicted to seeing it. I watch for it to know she’s paying attention to me. Or whatever the fuck I’m saying.
Now, she’s studying the syringe, though she has no reason to. There’s no possible way she’d make a connection to me.
“Do you have photos of the suspect?” a student wisely asks.
I think of the drone footage Trace had, and I brace for impact.
“No,” the woman answers. “Our working profile suggests a male suspect. He’s smart and avoids cameras.”
Thankfully, I have a guardian angel named Shane Quinlan who wipes them clean of my sins.
I keep my pulse steady as I’ve trained it to. But inside, I feel the quiet slide of inevitability.
That one day I’ll get caught. Now I know they’re circling closer. More of a reason to wind this down. Tell Harrow to figure out another way to get his justice or find some other ex-junkie with an axe to grind.
I can’t let my second chance collapse. I need to be there for my son.
“Professor?” the male agent prods me from my thoughts.
I blink. “Yes?”
“Anything you’d like to add?”
I smile, tight and polite with that academic curl on my lips. “Only that my students can always come to me with any concerns if they’re unsure or shy about calling the FBI.”
I scoff an inward laugh at the brilliance of that suggestion. Something I could shut down at the source.
Scarlett glances my way again, this time with concern in her eyes. Not suspicion. But I can’t allow any attention from her to soak into my bones. I’ll like it too much, and that’s dangerous.
When the agents shake my hand and finally step out, the tension in the room slowly evaporates. I push off the desk and return to the lectern.
“All right,” I say evenly, like my world didn’t just tilt. “Where were we?”
Scarlett’s eyes stay on me for a heartbeat longer with a flicker of something unsettled. I sense she’s thinking hard about how I acted around the agents.
I have to snap out of what just happened. “Let’s recap Vestri’s controversial paper on propofol,” I continue, voice steady even as my nerves rattle.
Back on track, the class settles down and begins taking notes again, when suddenly a siren blasts through the lecture hall. An ambulance siren. In the class?
Everyone jumps, and the roar cuts through me like a bone saw. Glancing at Scarlett, I see her eyes go wide. It’s coming from her phone. The entire class gawks at her as she fumbles, slapping the screen. Her cheeks flush as I see her mouthing tiny, mumbled curses under her breath.
My chest reacts before my brain does. “Turn off your phone,” I instruct, voice sharper than intended.
“Sorry, Dr. O’Rourke.” She nods, shrinking into her seat. “I thought it was off.”
“Right.” I drag the momentum back. “As I was saying—”
PING.
PING.
PING.
Text alerts. One after another, like bullets from a semi-automatic.
Her hand is shaking now, fingers gripped around the phone she didn’t turn off.
Something primal coils in my gut. “Ford,” I warn from the podium. “I said off.”
The room goes still at my sharp barking, a man I haven’t shown these kids yet.
“I know.” Scarlett’s voice cracks, raw enough to triple the chills in my neck. “But—”
Another PING and another.
She slams her fist so hard on the bench desk that everyone in her row jumps.
I should order her out of the classroom and move on. Keep the lesson flowing. Maintain dominance and professionalism, and all the bullshit roles I’m supposed to play. But I’m dumbstruck, staring at this woman while she melts down from something going on in her phone.
There’s fear in her eyes. The kind of fear I’ve seen… Fuck. I’ve seen that look on Ana when I was being a dick.
Some guy is harassing my little Ford. But who? Her ex? The one who hit her?
I know the type. I used to be the type. Not the hitting type. Never. But the asshole type. And I paid a huge price to force that demon out of my soul.
With the room quiet and her phone finally silenced, she rests her head on her hands. Fuck, I want to go to her and find out what the hell that was? What or who can make her fall apart like that?
I use the remainder of the class time to take questions because I’m too fucking distracted to finish the lesson and might say something stupid or wrong. Vienna, the woman who eye-fucks me every class—as if that’s going to make me do something stupid—stands up.
She asks me a dumb, sexually loaded question. She sits back down quickly after a curt answer rips off my tongue. My eyes keep swinging back to Scarlett as she slowly puts herself back together.
“To conclude…” I say, ending the lecture on autopilot.
One half of my mind recites receptor sites, half-lives, overdose protocols. The other half tracks every twitch of Scarlett’s trembling fingers.
She types something into her laptop. Not notes. Not the way her hands move. It’s an email. She’s responding. Trying to keep someone calm.
When the lesson finally crawls to an end, I bark out a homework assignment like my body is moving without me. “Read chapters three through five over the weekend. Quiz Monday.”
A sea of high-end lumbar chairs pushes back at ragged intervals, their wheels wrapped in steel.
Scarlett quietly packs her bag, shoulders tight, gaze locked on the door like she’s got something terrible to face.
Look at me, I think. Just once.
But she doesn’t. And it pisses me off more than it should.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and annoyed by the interruption, I curse as I yank it out.
Harrow: Got a case for you to look at.
Translation: Kill another dealer.
I put the phone away without responding. Caging the monster in my chest, I take one step toward Scarlett. Only a blonde student blocks me with an eager smile.
“Professor O’Rourke, I had a question about—”
“Not now.” It comes out like a growl. “Make an appointment.”
Her smile collapses, and I don’t regret it because all I care about is Scarlett.
But my little Ford slips out the door, and all I can do is watch her go. I have to know who got her all frazzled. Whoever text torpedoed her in the middle of the day knows she had a class.
It was on purpose. Someone is trying to mindfuck her. And that makes me furious.
I feel the familiar leash of an addiction spiral tightening.