3. Alaric
ALARIC
For some people, their job is just that. A job.
Clock in. Get shit done. Clock out.
After that, they leave everything behind.
Their insufferable boss. The paperwork they haven’t gotten to yet. The presentation they aced.
Forgotten.
I’m not built that way.
I don’t wind down with a glass of wine when I get home. Books and TV don’t magically wipe away the blood, gore, and tears of the patients I treat.
Going to the gym, when I can, offers temporary relief. But only if I nearly kill myself on the treadmill. Only if I push through rep after rep until my muscles burn.
This afternoon, despite signing out early, I don’t even bother considering it.
What for, when I know nothing will help?
As I head to the hospital’s locker room, I feel something violent and bottomless sitting heavy in my chest. It’s impossible to shake, just like the loud beating of my heart. Like the incessant grinding of my teeth.
This can’t be the third time this year Mrs. Tobin has been “overly clumsy.”
Except, according to her son, Harold, it is.
Her injuries never matched his bullshit stories about her tripping all over her apartment. If they had, his mom would’ve been admitted to the ER instead. She wouldn’t have been fighting for her life.
Still, when the paramedics brought her in back in January, I gave him the benefit of the doubt.
When she landed in trauma again this May, alarms started going off in my head. I stopped by the ICU later while Harold stepped out to use the bathroom, hoping she’d confide in me. That she’d give me something to bring to the authorities.
She simply offered me a tired, apologetic look and whispered that she really did slip in the shower.
Four months later, she’s back.
And tonight, the trauma is so extensive that we barely managed to stabilize her before we could operate.
She did manage to speak, though. Barely.
“I tripped in the shower.”
Again.
Since I can’t prove otherwise, that’s the lie I documented just now before clocking out.
Doesn’t mean I’m letting it slide.
Accident.
Accident, my ass.
Attempted murder times fucking three, more like it.
Breathe, goddammit.
Losing my mind won’t do Mrs. Tobin any good.
So I walk and breathe.
Walk.
And breathe.
By the time I yank open the locker room door, the past no longer matters.
The only thing that does is the present, and right now, that means getting Harold, my next test subject, into my storage unit.
Soon enough, I will.
Then he’ll go through what dozens of other abusers already have at my hands.
Torturous trials that end with their bodies dumped into the Hudson River.
Taking him should be easy enough. I read in his mother’s chart that they live a few blocks from the hospital, making him my neighbor, unfortunately. The good news is, I won’t need a car or any complicated plan to kidnap him. I can just grab him and go.
With that settled, I strip out of my scrubs and head into the shower. Hot water pounds against my shoulders and down my spine, and I stay there until my breathing evens out.
Once I’m done, I shut off the water, grab a clean towel from the shelf, and wrap it around my waist. My dirty boxers stay clenched in my fist as I head back to my locker.
A damp strand of hair clings to my forehead, reminding me I need a haircut. I meant to take care of it yesterday, on my day off, but I was bone tired.
A month of trials, disposing of a body, and the twenty-four-hour shift I finished yesterday morning knocked me out until dawn.
But I can’t put it off anymore. I’ll have to stop by my barber tonight since next week’s going to be busy, with Harold in my storage unit.
I place my dirty boxers on top of the locker, open it…
And frown.
“What the fuck?”
Last time I was here, after I showered at the end of my shift and put on a new pair of boxers, I remember having one clean pair left.
I think so, at least.
Was I too tired to notice I’d run out?
Frowning, I search some more, checking under my bag.
It’s not there either.
I lift my sweatshirt, T-shirt, and jeans and…nothing.
“Hey, Lockwood,” Abe, another trauma attending, calls over to me. “Coming or going?”
I never shower in the hospital before my shift starts.
Abe would’ve known that if we were friends.
We’re not. I keep a safe distance from him and everyone else.
Better this way.
Without bothering to look up, I murmur, “Going.”
“Cool.” He walks up to his locker. In my periphery, I watch him toss his backpack inside. “Lose something?”
“Yeah.”
I don’t stop searching, knowing they have to be here somewhere.
Unless…
I go still, staring at the locker as memories of the last shift slam into me.
Something was off about it. The end of it, anyway. As soon as I headed to the showers and before charting, I felt like I was being watched.
Yes, I talked to Becket as if everything was okay. I showered and dressed like I do at the end of every workday.
And yet.
That heaviness. It settled in the pit of my stomach and wouldn’t let go.
Now, my boxers are gone.
“Need help?”
I need something, but it isn’t his help. It’s making sure my notebook is still in my backpack, exactly where I left it yesterday.
The notebook where I write down every trial, every result, every fucking thing.
Names. Time of death. Suturing methods. How much blood a subject lost before they went beyond the point of saving. How they reacted to new medications on the market. CPR times.
Because I don’t just kill abusers. I run trials on them. I track what works, what doesn’t, and where I can do better for my patients.
Dammit.
Taking it with me to work, where it stayed within reach, seemed like the right decision for years.
It doesn’t anymore. Not when my freedom is at risk.
My heart jackhammers against my ribs. Cold sweat beads on my forehead.
“Fuck,” I hiss, yanking my backpack out of the locker.
My change of clothes drops in a heap on the floor.
Don’t care.
My notebook is all I give a fuck about.
“Hey, you okay?” Abe takes a step toward me.
Before he gets any closer, I turn my back to him while rummaging past the black hoodie that usually covers my notebook.
“I’m fine,” I say, letting out a relieved breath once the worn leather cover peeks out. “Everything’s fine.”
And it’ll stay that way once I lock my notebook in my storage unit, a place that’s nearly impossible to break into.
I’d rather have it out of sight, next to my test subjects, than here, where anyone could pick the lock of my locker and grab it.
Jesus, I still can’t get over what an idiot I am.
“All right. Didn’t mean to overstep.”
“You didn’t.”
“Sure about that?”
“Listen, Abe.” I shove my bag first, then my clothes into my locker, and turn to him, offering what I hope is an I’m not a pissed serial killer look. “We’re good. I thought someone stole my wallet. No one did. That’s all there is to it.”
“Okay.” Changed into his scrubs, he’s farther away now. Almost at the door, a smile on his face. Like every other person I know, my composed facade reassures him. “See you, then.”
“See you.”
Ten minutes later, I’m out of the locker room and walking down the hall in a clean pair of jeans, a long T-shirt, and my hoodie.
Before I leave for the barber, though, I’m going to stop by the cafeteria for coffee, because fuck the filth in the doctors’ lounge or waiting until I get home. I need my fix now.
Forgetting whether I had used my last pair of boxers was bad. Shit like that only happens when I’m exhausted.
Exhaustion leads to mistakes, and I can’t afford to make even one. Even when I’m doing something as simple as getting my hair cut, I need to have my shit together.
As if on cue, a lock of hair falls over my forehead.
I push it back and pick up my pace.
A couple of minutes later, the cafeteria comes into view. It’s mostly empty, with only a handful of what must be patients, family members, and staff scattered around…
And her.
A new employee stands behind the counter, scrubbing it with a blue towel.
She can’t be more than five-one, but fuck me, her presence is anything but small. It’s commanding. With each step I take toward her, the pull grows stronger.
Because the closer I get, the clearer she becomes, and her beauty, much like her presence, is impossible to ignore.
The soft curves of her body beneath the black uniform and red apron are driving me wild.
The way her thick brown hair twists at the delicate slope of her neck makes me want to tug on it hard.
The purse of her plump lips as she concentrates on cleaning does unholy things to me.
Her nose, I notice, is crooked in one place. Like it healed after a break. Not that it ruins the symmetry of her face. If anything, it only adds to how devastating she is.
I’m aware she isn’t alone. Another cafeteria worker stands beside her. Soon enough, she’ll catch me staring like a creep.
I should stop.
Can’t.
Something primal rumbles in my chest. A possessive need that vibrates through my arms, landing in my fingertips.
My hands flex with the desire to hold her.
But that’s not all the feelings she stirs in me.
No.
A strange, persistent certainty forms pressure in the back of my head.
A voice whispering, You’ve seen her before.
Where?
I’m still staring, still walking toward her, when those pale-blue eyes flick up to mine.
The shade is mesmerizing. Their round shape, the dark lashes framing them, are just as striking, as unique, as hers.
However, none of these things knocks the breath out of my lungs.
It’s the endless depths of her gaze.
Objectively, she can’t be older than twenty-three. But when I look at her, really look at her, it feels like she’s been alive way longer than that.
Like she’s been through more than anyone ever should.
A rope cinches around my heart and tugs for what seems like the longest two seconds of my life.
Then, something strange and unpredictable happens.
She blinks, and her eyes brighten. The pain in them is gone.
Her lips curl up, and it’s another mind-fuck.
That smile, it’s a knowing one.
An I’ve been expecting you one.
That, on top of the insistent voice in my head, forces me to stop and think.
Where have I met her?