Chapter 13 The Gift of a Broken Monster
“How are you feeling, little guy?” I smile, bringing a stuffed Dalmatian to room twelve.
“For me?” Grayson’s eyes grow wide. He drops the action figures he’s playing with and grabs the new toy.
“He just came in at the gift shop and I thought he needed a home.”
I sit on the edge of his bed and glance at his chart.
Crap, his numbers are worsening. MELD climbing, platelets low, liver failing faster than we expected, and no one seems to care.
He needs a liver transplant. And the damn admin won’t even free up a bed for him in the brand new children’s wing that opened last month, funded by an anonymous donor—something about reserving beds for the sickest cases and other bullshit.
“Can I name him?” Grayson asks, kissing the stuffed animal as if it were real.
Heat presses behind my eyes, and I strain a smile. “Of course, honey. He’s brave, just like you. Give him a good name, okay?”
“I will! I’ll call him Bruce…like that superhero.”
I nod and stand, needing to get some fresh air and study for my GRE exam. It’s in a little less than five months, and I haven’t made much progress. I need to pass and fight for the little guys like Grayson.
Purpose bolts my spine upright. I blink away my tears and step back into the main ER pit.
Patients sit in chairs, phones ringing off the hook. I spot a flash of black and a familiar, tall silhouette walking toward the front door.
Ren?
The man pauses and turns to speak to a nurse.
No mask. Not Ren.
Disappointment seeps in—the man’s all but disappeared after staying overnight with me at the hotel. No more strange injuries or odd visits. But he’s around. Sofia told me that he and Tristan have some around-the-clock surveillance going for me.
I don’t know why he pulled away after that night. I don’t know why I’m bothered by it.
A commotion gathers around the nurse’s station, interrupting my ridiculous thoughts.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Nut jobs.” Dr. Cavendish shakes his head and blows out an exhale. “The crap we see here. Whoever did this knows how to make a point.”
I frown.
“Reaper has another present. A pretty twisted one if you ask me. Room eight.”
Something kicks low in my belly. I tell myself it’s anxiety, not excitement—never excitement.
It’s been a while since Reaper dropped someone off, and I can’t help but wonder what about this gift has the team all up in arms.
Stopping in front of room eight, I review the notes on the chart.
A gasp tumbles out of me.
I part the curtain to verify my eyes aren’t malfunctioning.
Male. Forty-one. Posterior rib fractures involving ribs one, two, and ten. Bilateral patellar fractures. Severe blunt head trauma.
The specific injury pattern—fractured ribs, shattered kneecaps, head trauma. The swollen face I last saw on Rachel’s birthday.
I recognize the victim.
He’s the father of the abused little girl.
Air slices into my lungs. I flip the page on the clipboard to the observations section, scanning until I reach the part I care most about.
A copy of his note.
Child abuser. Ribs broken from the back by a baseball bat.
Then introduced to the stairs.
Skull presented to a granite countertop.
Kneecaps shattered with a brick.
I would’ve done more. But overkill.
Or not.
Either way, he got more than a taste of his own medicine.
—Reaper
I slap my hand over my mouth.
I reread the note—once, twice—but the words don’t change.
No freaking way.
The room tilts. A hum vibrates in my ears.
“He came back with a bang.” Rachel sidles up beside me. “Strange too—the other notes are short and impersonal. This one looks like he’s writing to someone, don’t you think? Like a little love note. And where did he get all that info? Those injuries are right on the money.”
“I-I don’t know,” I whisper, still staring at the clipboard.
“Kind of want to send him a fruit basket. Don’t you?” She snickers and walks away.
My mouth dries. All I can hear is the swish, swish, swish of my rioting pulse.
I need to think. To process this.
I stride down the hallway, making a right at the end into the stairwell.
The door closes behind me with a resounding bang, cloaking me in thick silence.
My heart pounds harder, and I pull my phone from my pocket.
I swipe to the TellNo1 app.
Sure enough, a message awaits me.
Ghostface444
Sometimes, actions speak louder than words.
“What the fuck?” I drop my phone, and it clatters down the stairs.
My legs give out. I sink onto the top step, staring stupefied at my cell lying at the bottom with a cracked screen.
Ghostface444 is Reaper.
Alarms blare in my head. How did I not see it? The gifts. The notes. The sick satisfaction I couldn’t voice aloud.
I think back to everything I’ve told him—my grief, losing Blake, my anger at all the bastards that come into the ER and leave unscathed.
He saw the dark parts of me and never judged.
He listened. He remembered. And he did something about it.
How does he know where I work?
My lungs strain for air, the sounds echoing in the stairwell. Then I feel it—the same strange loosening that relaxed my tight muscles back when Ren rescued me from the grieving boyfriend.
A ragged breath tears out of me, and it’s then I notice something worse.
I’m smiling.
Something molten unfurls and coils between my legs. I look up, noticing the faint cracks in the pale gray walls, the humming of the fluorescent lights, and the sharp smell of astringents mixing with the musk of circulated air.
I should be scared. I should march right up to Rachel and tell her I have a lead on Reaper’s identity. I should be terrified a man online has gone to such lengths to find my whereabouts and to give me this violent presentation.
But I’m not. Not really.
Is it because I feel seen? Because this should be a warning, a threat, but instead feels like the same kind of recognition Ren gave me when he said nothing was wrong with me?
That should horrify me more than it does.
Instead, adrenaline churns through me, and my lips curve up. Something loosens in my gut.
Why am I smiling?
And why don’t I want this feeling to go away?
Later that night, I sit in bed, exhausted from another grueling shift but too wired to sleep. The entire day was off, tilted sideways.
Reaper’s gift. The five patients—not the typical one or two—who pulled a vanishing act before discharge. Even Tristan, who usually checked in via text, chose today of all days to appear at the hospital and see how I was doing.
I didn’t tell him about Reaper or Ghostface444. I could barely believe the two were the same person. The more I thought about it, the less sense it made. What were the chances my wry but sensitive confidant is the vigilante blessing us with bodies in my ER?
My head spins and I groan. Everything’s confusing.
But come to think of it, the gifts started to appear after I joined the TellNo1 app.
“Dammit,” I grumble.
Scrolling to the app on my phone, I click it, hoping the man in question would respond.
ILoveDarkStories
Tell me the truth. Are you Reaper?
He hasn’t responded. He’s left me on read.
My phone buzzes.
Could it be him?
My lungs deflate when I see messages from the girls instead.
Lana
Are you sure you don’t want to stay at my place? I have plenty of room.
Scarlett
Or mine, if you don’t want the *whispers* dark overlord vibes.
Lana
Hey! Elias is not dark…just misunderstood.
Scarlett
Famous last words. Brainwashed. That’s what you are.
Sofia
Trust me, she’s safer at her apartment than at either of your places.
Scratch that. Lana’s home is safe. Because my brother is paranoid.
That’s when the incessant pings begin in earnest.
Scarlett
Who invited you into our group chat? How did you even get in here?
Lana
Don’t ask. Elias did the same thing to my brothers’ group chat back then. The Kent siblings. Unhinged stalkers.
Unable to withstand their bickering, I reply.
Aria
Sofia’s right. And hi, Sofia. Hanging out with us will make you more human.
Tristan told me running would be useless. With their resources, they’d find me. Staying put is safer. I’m to act normal while he and Sofia investigate this key. He and Ren will monitor me. I get to star in my own horror film. Yay me.
This was Grandma’s apartment—the only thing she left me.
I have memories here, waking up to her special orange marmalade cookies, freshly baked from the oven.
Blake asked me out for the first time in the foyer after he drove me home from work, both of us soaking wet from the rain because we had forgotten our umbrellas.
I glance at my darkened bedroom—the paintings hung back in their rightful places, books shelved alphabetically, security camera pointed at the window. It feels less like my home and more like a guarded perimeter.
But still, I won’t run away from the bastards hunting me. I refuse to cower before them.
Scarlett
Glad you’re sounding…upbeat? But doesn’t Tristan have work? And what does Ren do, Lana?
Lana
I don’t really know, to be honest. But I trust Ren with my life.
I think about the masked assassin. He didn’t show up in the ER today either.
Ignoring the knot under my sternum, I type my response.
Aria
I’m fine. During the day, I’m at the hospital anyway. Stop worrying. See you next Tuesday at Arcana for movie night. Going to bed now.
After setting my phone on the nightstand, I switch off the lamp.
An unsettling darkness folds over the room.
A lone camera light blinks in the corner. A breeze rattles the window.
Then everything is still. Too quiet. I tell myself this means I’m safe. That the only ghosts left are the ones in my head. Eventually, sleep takes me in its grasp.
Sometime later, a sound jerks me awake.
A strange creaking, a soft thud.
My eyes fly open. My lungs pull in a sharp breath.
I see nothing. Only darkness; my blackout curtains are doing their job well.
“Hello?”
No one answers.
“Blake?”
His name echoes in the room. I inwardly slap myself.
Blake’s dead. He’s been gone for over a year. You’re alone.
The thought tightens my throat.
A rickety hum carries through the air as the AC switches on. Tree branches scrape across my window, the wind making a mournful howl.
Sweat mists my skin as I grab my phone and glance at the time. Three a.m.
Must be a nightmare, that’s all.
Ignoring the unease swirling in my gut, I set my phone down.
Then I hear it again.
A soft creak. A rough sigh.
Not by my bed, but somewhere farther away. By my vanity area or the closet.
I freeze, every muscle locked tight.
I should grab my baseball bat and go check. Or, better yet, call Tristan.
Instead, I flick on the lamp.
Light spills across the room. No one’s there.
The window is cracked open as always—I like a bit of fresh air even with the AC on.
But my vanity chair is tucked beneath the table. I don’t remember tucking it in.
My pulse trips.
Then again, maybe I did tonight. Maybe I’m exhausted and jumpy and losing track of things like chairs.
Muttering under my breath at my stupidity, I turn off the light and close my eyes.
Silence follows.
Not an empty silence, but a strange, comforting silence.
Huffing out a breath, I berate myself for being a wuss and kick off the blankets, letting the cool air wash over my heated skin.
It’s been a long week. Everything is fine. I’m being ridiculous.
Eventually, after tossing and turning for a bit, exhaustion drags me under.
The next morning, I dash out of the bathroom after a quick change of outfits.
I overslept.
Cursing myself for not setting the alarm right, I grab my wallet and keys from the vanity table and hurry toward the window to shut it.
Then I spot it. The anomaly.
My feet skid to a stop.
Ice slides down my spine, followed by the familiar surge of adrenaline.
“Why don’t you ever let me play with it?” I pout at Blake, pointing at his precious chess set.
“Collector’s edition. Super expensive.” He wipes it with a terrycloth towel and sets it carefully by the window, then looks up at me. “Beat me first, then we can talk.”
I scowl. I’ll show him.
My breaths stutter out of my lungs as I stare at it.
Blake’s crystal chessboard—the one he’d never let me touch, the one I’ve kept unopened—glints under the bedroom window.
But now, a piece has been toppled, carefully set aside.
A knight.