Chapter 20 Rowan #3
The doors open with a soft chime, and we step inside together. Leo reaches past me to press the trauma floor button before I can.
“What happened?” he asks quietly.
I keep my eyes on the closing doors. “The consult didn’t exist.”
His posture changes slightly, subtle but alert. “Explain.”
“The room was empty,” I continue evenly. “No chart. No patient. The lock engaged after I stepped inside.”
“And?”
“No phone signal. No dial tone.”
The elevator continues its smooth descent.
“And someone spoke to you,” he states. It’s not a question or a guess.
“Yes.”
His eyebrows draw together, the movement slight but unmistakable.
“What did he say?”
“That the hospital is accessible.”
The word hangs between us in the enclosed space.
Leo’s eyes harden. “Did he threaten you?”
“Not directly.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“He made it clear they can reach me here.” I draw in a slow breath that doesn’t quite fill my lungs.
“Why didn’t you tell me immediately?” he asks.
I meet his eyes in the reflection of the mirrored wall.
“Because I wanted to confirm it wasn’t a system error first.”
“And?”
“It wasn’t.”
The elevator slows.
“They’re probing,” Leo says quietly. “This is escalation.”
“Yes.”
The doors slide open, and the noise of the trauma floor rushes in.
“Does Kiren know?” he asks.
“He will.”
Leo nods once.
The trauma bay chaos swallows us whole. A stretcher rolls past, wheels squeaking. A nurse calls out a blood pressure reading. The scent of antiseptic and sweat replaces the chill of the IT office. The hospital looks exactly the same, yet it feels nothing like it did this morning.
The rest of my shift unfolds in fragments. I stitch a laceration while replaying the tone of the voice. I adjust medication orders while mapping potential access points in my head. I reassure a patient’s mother while scanning the hallway behind her.
Hypervigilance settles into my muscles like a wire pulled too tight.
A dropped metal tray sends a clang through the corridor, and my shoulders tighten instantly.
A code announcement crackles over the intercom, and my pulse jumps before my brain processes the location.
When I wash my hands at the scrub sink, the water feels hotter than usual.
Accessible. The word doesn’t leave me.
Mid-afternoon, Lila corners me near the supply cart.
“You look like you’re running on fumes,” she observes, studying my face.
“I’m fine,” I reply automatically.
She leans closer, lowering her voice. “You’re not blinking enough.”
I almost laugh at that.
“Long day,” I offer.
Her eyes narrow slightly. She knows me too well. “If something’s wrong—”
“It’s not,” I cut in gently. “Just adjusting.”
She hesitates, then nods slowly. “Okay. But if you start spiraling, I’m intervening.”
“Noted.”
She squeezes my arm and moves on. I watch her go as a small, unwelcome thought creeps in.
Internal credentials. High-level access. Six or seven people.
I force the thought away before it takes shape. I won’t start suspecting everyone. That’s how paranoia wins.
By the time my shift ends, exhaustion pushes against my temples. Not the physical kind. The mental strain of constant scanning.
The locker room is quiet except for the dull echo of a door closing down the row.
Lockers line the walls in narrow columns, their metal surfaces scuffed and dented from years of use.
A forgotten sweatshirt hangs half out of one open door.
Someone’s spare sneakers sit tucked neatly beneath the bench, the laces looped together.
The room feels paused, as if it’s waiting for the next shift to spill into it.
I set my bag on the bench and sit down slowly. My hands tremble once, briefly, before going still. I stare at my reflection in the narrow mirror bolted to the locker door. Storm-gray eyes. Jaw set. Mouth neutral. I look composed, functional, alive.
Ethan’s attack was direct, physical, and impossible to ignore.
Today wasn’t like that. Today required planning.
Access. Someone who knew how the hospital operates and how I fit inside it.
That’s what rattles me. Access doesn’t happen at a distance.
It happens from somewhere close. Closer than I thought.
I stand slowly and change out of my scrubs, folding them neatly. I slide into my coat and gather my bag. When I push through the hospital’s side exit, the cold air cuts against my face. The sky is deep indigo, streaked faintly with the last remnants of sunset near the horizon.
Leo stands near the curb, one hand tucked loosely into his jacket pocket, the other resting against the open passenger door. He scans the parking lot before nodding once.
Clear.
I slide into the car and close the door.
The interior smells faintly of new leather.
We pull away from the curb. For several blocks, neither of us speaks.
City lights blur past the window. Restaurants glow warm against the dark.
A couple crosses the street holding hands. Traffic flows in steady streams.
“You told him?” I ask finally.
“Yes,” Leo responds at once.
Of course he did.
“What did he say?”
A brief pause. “He’s not pleased.”
That earns a small, humorless exhale from me. “That’s diplomatic.”
Leo’s fingers flex once against the steering wheel before going still. “He recognized the strategy.”
“So do I.”
“They escalated without escalating,” Leo continues quietly. “Testing limits.”
“Yes.”
He glances at me briefly before returning his attention to the road. “Security will increase.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
We stop at a red light. I watch pedestrians move along the sidewalk. A woman in a red coat laughs at something her companion says. A man jogs past with headphones on, oblivious to anything beyond his music.
Normal life continues.
We pull into the underground garage of the apartment building, the security gate lowering behind us. Leo exits first, scanning the perimeter. Only after he nods does he open my door.
We take the elevator up. The ride is silent, smooth, and monitored. A small camera sits in the upper corner, the red light blinking. When the doors open, another guard stands near the corridor junction. He inclines his head as we pass.
Inside the apartment, the quiet meets me immediately. I set my bag on the kitchen counter and pause, taking in the quiet. The refrigerator cycles on softly.
My phone vibrates in my hand.
Kiren.
I answer before the second ring completes.
“I’m fine,” I begin automatically.
“Tell me everything,” he demands.
I move toward the living room window, looking out over the dark street below as I recount the details. The consultation. The lock. The dead phone. The speaker.
He doesn’t interrupt.
When I finish, I hear a quiet exhale on the other end.
“This required internal access,” I add. “Only six or seven people have the high-level credentials needed,” I continue.
Another pause.
“Names?” he asks.
“Not yet.”
I hear a quiet rustle on his end, as if he’s pushing back from a desk or rising to his feet.
“Do you understand what this means?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“And?”
I rest my forehead briefly against the cool glass of the window, watching headlights pass below.
“It means they wanted to see if I would step back.”
“And will you?” he asks.
I don’t hesitate.
“No.”
“Good,” he says.
There’s no triumph in his voice. No heat. Just certainty. For the first time since stepping into that consultation room, my pulse slows.
“Rowan,” he adds, softer now.
“Yes?”
“You’re not facing this alone.”
I close my eyes.
“I know,” I say quietly. “And neither are you.”
And that changes everything.