Chapter 2 The Devil Lives, the Innocent Dies
“Aria, hey. Aria!” Someone shakes my shoulder. “Aria!”
I jolt behind the desk, fingers poised mid-stroke on the keyboard. Acrid smells reach my nose—bleach and copper, death and decay lingering even with all the cleaning and the rain outside.
Belatedly, I register the beeping, the fluorescent lights, the chaos.
I’m at work. Not drowning in a dark gray abyss, with memories of a happier past suffocating me.
I hold up my hand. “One second, Rachel.”
What was I doing? Oh yes. Charting notes for little Grayson in room two.
Checklist. IV fluids—done. Bilirubin’s awful, and his liver enzymes are a mess. He’d better stay put until we can stabilize him.
I inhale.
Professional face on. Grief locked down.
I squint at the bloodwork anomaly.
“Grayson’s not leaving until we repeat his labs.” I type in the order. “He’s looking way too yellow, and if he nosedives in the parking lot, I’m haunting the administration myself.”
“Do it. I trust your judgment.” A blue metal tin slides into view, followed by the inquisitive green stare of my charge nurse. “Delivery came for you. A little wet from the rain.”
I force out a smile.
“Speaking as a friend, and not your boss, you don’t have to pretend to be okay. This week’s been tough on you.” She points to the black ribbon pins stamped with tiny gold words fastened to our scrubs.
In memory of Dr. Blake Amscot, Heart Saver, gone but never forgotten.
A dull ache flares behind my sternum. I pick up the photo frame at the corner of my desk, a lump thickening in my throat.
We looked so happy then.
“Will you marry me, Aria? Be my doom and gloom forever?” he asks, his blond hair disheveled, a lopsided smile on his face as he kneels in front of MoMA while a crowd gathers around us.
I gasp when he unveils from a red box a large princess-cut diamond ring in the shape of a sunflower. My best friend, Scarlett, squeals beside me.
“Sunflowers, really?” I grin wryly. “Shouldn’t it be my favorite flower instead of yours?”
He laughs. “Sunshine. You need sunshine in your life. It’s my way of showing I love you.”
The same ring hangs around my neck on a gold chain now. I fist it, letting the diamond edges bite into my skin.
Pain.
Better than numb. Anything but that gray, murky nothing.
Gently, I trace his beaming smile in the photo.
Gunshot wound to the trachea. No chance of survival.
He was killed in this building, in the place where we met and spent our days—him as a cardiothoracic surgeon, me in the ER.
This was supposed to be a safe place.
Lies.
Safety is a bedtime story we tell ourselves so we can sleep at night.
“Want to take the day off?” Rachel asks.
I set the photo down. Lock it up. Breathe.
“No.” I smile again. Wider. More convincing. “I’m a professional.” And work keeps me sane. “Plus, nationwide nursing shortage, right? That’s what you always say.”
“Well,” she snorts and says, “if they paid us more, there’d be no shortage.”
My face aches from smiling, and I type nonsense onto the keyboard, not looking at her. “I’m going to check on Grayson before I break. Then I need to study for my GRE exam. Can’t get into a master’s program without it. Delayed it long enough.”
She frowns. More pity. More concern.
Enough.
I quickly add, “Plus, shit happens. We see it all the time. Life’s not fair.”
Anger knots inside me, but I tamp it down. I don’t rage. Not here, not in scrubs.
“Well, don’t work yourself to the bone. Go out. Get a hobby or something.”
I shake my head. Who has time for that?
“Speaking of which,” Rachel whispers, leaning over the counter, “did you see Reaper’s gift today?”
“Kind of hard to miss it.” The murky gray inside me thins.
A man collapsed in the lobby this morning with a knife lodged in his gut.
Like the others before him, there was a cryptic note taped to his chest.
Child molester. Penetrating abdominal trauma x3. Broken fingers. Blunt-force injury to the groin.
—Reaper
The Reaper cases should horrify me. Instead, they make my skin hum—the universe finally remembering it has teeth.
There have been at least twelve victims in the last four months.
Most died, but a few survived, albeit with permanent injuries.
His notes are always so precise and matter-of-fact.
Clinical and detached in the way surgeons get after too many years on the job.
“Still nothing from the cops?” I ask.
Rachel shakes her head. “Nope. Only more bodies. All assholes. No clue why he’s doing it.”
“Poetic justice, if you ask me,” I mutter.
“Right? That’s what I said. Anyway, if you need anything, just holler. And you better be at my birthday celebration in two weeks.” Rachel glances at my computer screen, and a sad smile crosses her face. “Sick kids are the hardest. Rooting for the little guy. I know you care about him.”
Grayson King—nine years old, transplant list limbo, repeat ER visitor, Medicaid paperwork hell—is the only patient in this building who smiles when he sees me instead of complaining.
I nod. “So damn hard.”
She squeezes my hand and leaves.
Sighing, I grab the tin on the counter and open the card taped on top.
Aria,
Thinking of you. Here are some freshly baked orange marmalade cookies. A hug in the stomach.
Call me.
Love,
Scarlett (and Lana)
P.S. Watch out for eggshells. Lana insists on “helping” with the baking. And let’s just say…there were mishaps.
P.P.S. This is Lana. Ignore Scarlett. Eggshells are protein. Good for you.
P.P.P.S. Scarlett here. Don’t listen to the woman who doesn’t cook. Eggshells are mostly calcium.
P.P.P.P.S. Which is good for you! Xoxo, Lana.
I snort, then smile at the image of my good friends baking my favorite cookies in Scarlett’s café, Arcana & Bloom. People love me. They want me happy.
That should matter more than it does.
I’ll get through this week—the black ribbons, the pitying gazes, the “are you okays,” everyone treating me like I’m made of glass.
They mean well.
But I don’t need reminders of grief and loss. I need work. Doctors to manage. Insurance companies to bully. Patients to stabilize, recover, and send home. Back to weddings. Kids. Second chances.
Life’s not fair. But I’ll be damned if I’ll accept that.
I’ll fight the system until my last breath.
The day passes with little fanfare. My feet ache. My smile’s stiff. Grayson’s mom cried on my shoulder when the pharmacy declined his specialty meds because of some “review.” Instead of studying for the GRE, I spent my break making someone in a call center hate the sound of my voice.
Sighing, I prepare to clock out and glance at the line by the door.
The new protocols they started last year post-shootout are ridiculous—badge scanned, bag checked, metal detectors screaming at belt buckles and safety pins.
Great. It’ll take at least twenty minutes to get through all that.
Then something catches my eye.
Or, more accurately, someone.
Legs sprawled in a plastic chair like he owns the ward, he stares at me with the same quiet intensity I’ve come to know this past year.
His soot-black hair, longer in the front and shorter on the sides, falls across his dark eyes.
Clad in all black—from leather jacket to fitted cargo pants and boots—he wears danger as easily as the half-balaclava mask, which covers his nose to jaw, revealing only a cutout for his lips.
The same lips currently pressed in a firm line.
Ren.
Goosebumps rise on my forearms, and I move before I catch myself, stopping only when I’m a few steps from him.
We’ve had a few conversations before, if you can even call them that—the man is selectively mute, after all.
They’re more like scribbles on paper, arched brows, and quirked lips.
The first time I saw him, he was standing in the freezing cold outside Arcana & Bloom, like he wanted to avoid all human interaction.
He barely acknowledged me. I got one nod through the window, I think.
Then there was Blake’s funeral when he showed up unannounced and stood next to me after everyone left.
But something’s changed in the last few months.
He’s been in the ER at least once a week. All brief visits. All non-critical wounds.
All I know is that he works with Lana’s husband in the mob business. He’s someone dangerous I shouldn’t associate with if I were smart.
I don’t feel so smart right now.
“Twice this week,” I murmur. “Can’t stay away, can you?”
He lifts his brow slightly, his gaze skimming over me like he’s taking in every stray hair slipping out of my bun and the smudged mascara under my eyes.
Ren motions to his arm.
It’s bandaged.
“Right. Do you have your discharge papers?”
A slight smile tilts his lips. He doesn’t answer.
I sigh. “You know, Lana said she’s heard you talk before. It’d be easier to get you the right help if you used your words.”
He lifts his phone, types something, and shows me the screen.
Ren
Aren’t nurses supposed to have good bedside manners?
I scowl.
Calm yourself. I’m a damn professional.
His smile widens. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile like this.
The sight catches me off guard, and a sharp pull tugs low inside me.
Flustered, I pull up the patient chart portal on the computer next to him.
R. E. N.
Nothing.
“Ren, what’s your last name?”
Instead of answering me, he unfurls his legs with the stealth of a panther. Awareness prickles over my skin. My fingers twitch, but I force myself to remain still.
What’s wrong with you?
His muscular frame dwarfs mine as he hovers behind me. He’s never been this close before.
An intoxicating scent of leather and amber overpowers my senses. Then his heat warms my back as he reaches out and nudges my hands off the keyboard.
John R. Doe, he types.
A patient file appears on the screen.
Deep laceration on the right bicep. Five stitches. Waiting for a tetanus shot. Cause of injury: Hunting accident.
I snort and turn around, my breath catching at our proximity.
“S-Seriously? Hunting accident, that’s what you’re going with?”
Keeping his eyes on me, he types on his phone.
Ren
There’s always a good hunt in the city.
Decent exercise. Hobbies. Keeps me busy.