6. Casey
6
Casey
I sighed, staring out the window at the clinic’s empty parking lot. I really thought he would show up today. This was the second appointment Peter had missed. And it wasn’t like he called to cancel either. Nope, a straight no-show, as if he couldn’t even be bothered to take two seconds out of his wallowing to call.
I’d called him after the first one and left a message with his new appointment date, and even though he hadn’t called back, I’d held the slot for him just in case. I always let the first one slide. There were a lot of reasons why someone might miss an appointment. Maybe he just forgot, that was the most likely. Or maybe he was stuck in traffic and his cell phone died, or… Or maybe he was in the hospital again, with an infection, and was too sick to call.
But then I thought of that look in his eyes, of the closed-off alpha who was hurting inside—and not just physically. Depression toyed with us all at some point in our lives, but Peter had the look of a man who was fully in its thrall. So, of course, even as I tried to be annoyed that a patient had skipped an appointment without calling— again —the little voice in my head whispered of all the worst-case scenarios. Worry had my guts tied into intricate knots, halfway to being an afghan.
It reminded me of my mom after her car accident. Angry, depressed, so close to giving up. It had been terrifying to watch her sink further into a pit of absolute despair, without even a glimmer of hope. Recovery for her hadn’t had the same possibilities. I’d felt so helpless, just as I did now, though back then, I’d only been a child, and now, I had the ability to do something about it.
But the thing was, my mom had always had me to take care of. It gave her a purpose, a reason to keep going. But what did Peter have? Was he so depressed that he might’ve done something to harm himself? Someone would’ve told me if he was dead… right?
My heart skipped a beat in my chest, my breath hitching at the thought of Peter dead. I was so close to giving him a chance at a new life, at getting a chance to prove that things would get better, only to have that stolen from me?
As my throat tightened, my feet carried me down the clinic hall toward the office. I found Cliff hunched over his keyboard, trying to work the month’s schedule, his face tight, and I tried to look casual as I sat at my desk across from him. I pulled out Peter’s file and dialed his phone number from the clinic phone.
My blood was rushing in my ears, my heart in my throat, as I listened to the ringing on the other end of the line. If he answered now, I would likely tear into him, but that was the hoped-for outcome. Instead, the ringing clicked over to voicemail, but instead of giving me the option to leave a message, the recorded voice told me his inbox was full.
“Shit,” I snapped, slamming the receiver down.
Cliff’s eyebrows hiked up his forehead. “Problem?”
Rubbing at my eyes, I took a long, slow breath. “Peter Brown’s a no-show.”
“Again?” He didn’t sound mad either, and creases formed at the corners of his eyes which I recognized as his own form of concern.
I tapped my fingers on my desktop for a second then pushed back from my desk. “I’m gonna take off early since he was my last appointment.”
“Sure, of course,” Cliff said, nodding. He didn’t ask if I was going to stop by Peter’s house to check on him because he knew me too well. He also didn’t bother telling me to be careful because it was a given.
I quickly got Peter’s address, as well as his emergency contact info, from his file before grabbing my bag and heading for my car, struggling to keep my pace casual. This was absolutely crossing a line. If I was so worried, I could just as easily call the police and request a wellness check. Or just call his emergency contact and ask them if they’d heard from him. But I would be the first to admit that I had some unresolved issues myself. I had a bit of a hero complex, I supposed. I wanted to believe that everyone could be saved, and just maybe, I might have the right words to help him find his way out of the darkness.
Following the GPS directions, I pulled into the driveway of a modest brick-face bungalow, a temporary ramp built over half the stairs. The last of the snow had long melted now, and the lawn was a gnarled mess of dead grass and last year’s fallen leaves, the hopeful new green sprigs doing their best to push through. I watched the house for a moment, expecting the twitch of a curtain perhaps, but there was no sign of life. The windows were dark, mail spilling from the overfilled mailbox.
Oh gods, I was going to barf.
Adrenaline raced through my veins, making my movements clumsy as I fumbled to get out of the car. My legs were jelly as I stepped up onto the porch and raised a hand to knock on the door. I listened for any sound from within—footsteps, a voice, anything . I would gladly take him yelling for me to fuck off at this point. “Peter? It’s me, Casey,” I called loudly as I knocked again, before leaning on the doorbell. The chime echoed through the house in a haunting melody.
No answer.
With a quivering hand, I fished my cell from my pocket and called Peter’s emergency contact, Amy. “Hello, this is Agent Abadi,” a woman said, her voice melodic, and I remembered the beautiful woman with the dark hair and even darker eyes.
“Hi, I’m really sorry to bother you. This is Casey Winslow, Peter’s physical therapist. We met at the hospital? I’m really sorry to bother you, but I was just wondering if you could give me an update on Peter.”
“What? Hasn’t he been coming to see you?” she asked, her voice taking on a harder edge. After I explained about the missed appointments and that I was outside his house, she very curtly said, “I’ll be right there,” and hung up.
The SUV she pulled up in was very clearly government-issued, all black with dark-tinted windows, and when she hopped out, she was dressed in a crisp gray suit. She pulled off her sunglasses and tossed them back into the vehicle behind her. Small or not, the woman was intimidating. I could see what Peter saw in her. If I were straight, I could easily imagine dating someone like her.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt you at work,” I muttered awkwardly, finding it difficult to look her in the eye. “I just assumed you could tell me if he was okay.”
Amy shook her head sharply as she joined me on the porch. “I haven’t seen him since I first dropped him off from the hospital. I got called away on assignment, but he promised he’d call if he needed anything.” She pulled out her keys and flipped through them, looking for the right one. “Shit, I knew something like this would happen. He’s too damn stubborn for his own good. Typical alpha. Would it kill him to ask for a little help?”
I frowned, trying to put her words into perspective. “But don’t you live here?”
She offered me a confused expression. “No, why would I live with him?”
“Well, isn’t he your partner?” I asked, hating how it came out like an accusation.
She laughed harshly. “Yeah, as agents. We’re not life partners. Did you think we were a couple?” Her crooked smile showed her wry amusement.
“Oh, um… I guess. I didn’t ask. I figured it wasn’t my business.” My cheeks heated with embarrassment, but I quickly reminded myself that it didn’t matter if they were a couple or not. It didn’t make Peter any more available. I made a point of repeating my mantra as she fit her key in the lock. Don’t get attached. He’ll get better, and then he’ll leave just like all the rest. It’s a part of recovery, the way it’s supposed to be.
Amy got the door unlocked, and I braced myself for the worst, but there was no awful stench of decay when she cracked the door open, only stale body odor. “Peter?” she called into the shadowy interior of the house. She slipped inside, leaving me standing on the porch. I wasn’t sure what to do. Should I wait here?
I finally scooped the contents of the mailbox into my arms and stepped inside, setting it all on the table in the entryway, and closed the door behind me, listening as Amy went searching for Peter.
Maybe he wasn’t even here. Maybe he went shopping or… on vacation or something. The house certainly had that abandoned feel to it. It was obvious Peter lived alone—if this could be called living at all.
I heard her gasp, and I was already in motion before I could think twice. The adrenaline roared back to life in my veins, and I shot down the hall, following her voice as she called for Peter to wake up.
All the worst-case scenarios flashed back into my mind as I found Amy standing beside Peter’s bed, shaking him by the shoulder. I saw the pill bottle on the bedside table next to a bottle of whiskey, and my training kicked in. Searching his neck for a pulse, I sagged in relief at the steady beat beneath my fingers, the rise and fall of his chest.
Peter was alive, but it felt like a close call.