18. Gray
Gray
Ihit the brakes a little harder than I should have when the gas station comes into view, muscles stiff from twelve hours of standing, leaning, and lifting at the ER.
Every joint aches, and the back of my skull is pulsing with fatigue, but somehow it's Daniel who seems to be simmering under the surface.
He hasn't said much, just tapping his fingers against the center console. The tension radiates off him in waves, and I find myself holding my own breath as if it might calm him.
That's why I told him I would drive back.
We pull into a stall, engine idling, and I ease myself out of the truck, muscles groaning in protest.
Daniel tells us he'll be back in a minute and then rushes toward the washrooms.
The night's adrenaline has worn off, leaving me raw and heavy. I glance at Tess in the backseat—she's scrolling on her phone, thumb moving too fast, lips pressed together. Her eyes flick up to me, hesitant, then back to the screen. A soft sigh escapes her.
"Why won't he call?" she mutters, not loud enough to be fully coherent but just enough to draw my attention.
"Who?" I ask, leaning against the open door, letting my fingers rub at the soreness in my arms.
"The professor," she says, voice tight, like the words are clipped from worry or frustration, maybe both.
I nod slowly. "He'll call when he can. Probably trying to get things in order before he picks up the phone."
My tone is even, but I watch her closely. There's more behind that sigh, something in the way she presses her thumb against her lips.
Then she shifts, voice dropping low, hesitant. "Grayson… what's wrong with Daniel? He's… he's been really cranky. Extra cranky. Did you guys talk after you came home?"
I frown, heart giving a small stutter. Not that Daniel gets cranky often, but this…
this is unusual. I glance toward the washrooms, thinking of the line of his jaw, the rigid way he's held himself since we left the city.
It's a simmering tension I recognize, even from the outside, and I can't help the little spike of concern twisting in my gut.
"Actually, I thought it had something to do with you two.
I haven't had a full conversation with him since we got back into town. "
Tess looks up at me, guilty eyes wide in the dim light of the station, fingers stilling mid-scroll. "Oh, shit. I was really hoping you wouldn't say that."
"Say what?"
"Say that you think it was because of what he and I talked about."
That piques my attention. "What did you and your brother talk about?"
"I… I shared some information with him. That I wasn't supposed to. And now I… I regret it."
I tilt my head slightly, letting the silence hang for a beat. "What information?" I ask, cautious, trying not to make her shrink away further.
She bites her lip, and I can tell the walls she's built around herself are up tight. "I can't say anymore," she whispers, voice almost breaking.
I nod slowly, letting her words settle, refusing to push further. Sometimes people need to carry their secrets themselves, and right now she's carrying hers too tightly.
My mind races a little, despite the exhaustion. Daniel's tension, Tess's guilt—it all loops in a circle that I can't quite untangle. I want to snap at him, yell, ask what he's mad about, but I know it won't do any good. He needs space, even if it's driving everyone else a little nuts.
I lean against the door frame again, pressing my hands into my jeans, letting the fatigue of the ER press down fully, but not enough to numb the worry threading through me.
The next time I have a stretch of free hours, I'll at least try to talk to Daniel, get him to open up. Figure out what's really going on.
I can't leave it hanging like this.
Tess tucks her phone into her pocket, glancing at me once more before leaning back against the seat. The silence stretches, not heavy, but tense. I breathe in slowly, pushing down the urge to check the ER results on my phone one more time, to pull at the worn edges of fatigue with more tasks.
The professor still hasn't called. Daniel hasn't said anything, and Tess hasn't shared more than a fraction of what's gnawing at her. I make a mental note to check in later, when the engine's off, the truck parked, and the two of them aren't burning up the air around me with frustration or worry.
I watch Tess from the side of my eye, her fingers tapping lightly against her leg now, and I think she's trying to calm herself as much as me. There's no laughter, no joke, no lightness.
I straighten, pressing my fingers into my forehead briefly, feeling the ache that comes from twelve hours of alertness, of decisions, of the weight of responsibility in the ER.
And yet, the thought of Daniel, the weight of what Tess might have said, pushes the fatigue aside just a little.
I need to be ready—not for him, not exactly, but for Tess, and for the chance to make sense of it all later.
I glance toward the pumps.
Tess fidgets with her jacket, a small shift of movement that signals unease, and I can feel the tension radiate even from back here.
"Don't push it," I murmur under my breath, more to myself than to her. But I know she hears it anyway.
She gives a small nod, the faintest exhale escaping her. She wants to confide, but she won't. She can't. I understand that. Secrets have a way of binding people in tight coils, and I can't reach in yet.
Daniel never talks about things until he's ready. He's like me in that regard, so I respect his space.
I rub the back of my neck and glance forward, watching the dashboard lights reflect in the windshield, small glowing pulses against the night. The two hours of driving have left a dull throb behind my eyes, fatigue pressing against my skull, but my mind refuses to slow.
I glance down at my watch, noting the time, noting how long we've been on the road.
It's late, the world outside dark with snow and frost, lights from the station casting long reflections across the ice-slick pavement.
I feel the pull of exhaustion, but I push it aside.
Someone has to hold the calm, someone has to keep the air from breaking into arguments or snapped tempers.
Tess leans slightly toward the window, watching the cold dark out there, hands folded in her lap.
I let myself relax my shoulders just a fraction, knowing that the tension in her chest mirrors some of my own.
I glance at the fuel nozzle, then at the dashboard, then at the darkened stretch of road ahead. I make a mental note: first chance I get, I'll corner Daniel—not aggressively, but firmly. Find out what's festering under that jawline and those tight shoulders.
The vinyl of the booth squeaks under my weight, a tired, protesting sound that matches the mood. We are thirty minutes outside of Sweet Creek Falls.
Here, the world dissolves into a smear of neon and darkness.
The diner we've stopped at is a relic, all chrome trim and flickering fluorescent lights that hum a low, anxious tune.
It smells like stale coffee, fried onions, and the faint, chemical tang of the cleaning solution used to wipe down the tables.
Tess insisted. We were supposed to be home, eating something simple and homemade, but she'd bounced in her seat, claiming an emergency that couldn't wait. The emergency turned out to be the ladies' room, leaving Daniel and me alone in this bubble of greasy air and exhaustion.
A waitress with a tired smile and a name tag that reads "Brenda" drops three laminated menus on the table. They're sticky. "Know what you want, hon?"
Tess, breezing back from the restroom, slides into the booth beside Daniel, her face bright. "I do! I want the bacon cheeseburger with extra pickles and a side of onion rings. And a chocolate milkshake. A big one."
Brenda's pen hovers over her pad. "And for you two?"
Daniel hasn't even opened his menu. He just stares out the window at the passing headlights on the highway, his jaw a tight line. "Just coffee. Black."
I sigh, the sound barely audible over the diner's hum. "I'll have the same as her. The burger, I mean. Not the milkshake. And a water."
"Coming right up." Brenda shuffles away, leaving us in a silence that feels heavier than it should.
Daniel's been like this the entire drive.
A void where noise and opinions usually are.
Leo's the one who fills the quiet with bad singing and worse jokes, but tonight, Leo's back at the lodge, and Daniel is a black hole, sucking all the sound out of the truck, out of this booth, out of the air I'm trying to breathe.
He's been on his phone, too. The glow of the screen illuminated his face in the dark cab, casting sharp shadows. Not talking. Just typing, reading, typing again. Something is winding him tight, and I can feel the tension radiating from him across the table.
"Someone's calling. Be right back!" Tess excuses herself, leaving us alone.
I pick up a sugar dispenser, turning it over and over in my hands. The grains inside shift with a soft, sandy hiss. "You okay, man?"
His eyes flick from the window to me, but they don't quite focus. "Fine."
"You're not fine," I say, keeping my voice low. "You're quiet. Terribly quiet. Leo's usually the noise maker, but tonight… you haven't said two words the whole ride. You've been glued to that phone. What's going on?"
Daniel glances toward the counter where Brenda is pouring our drinks. He leans forward, his elbows on the sticky table, the movement sharp and sudden. The space between us shrinks.
"I'm working on something," he murmurs, his voice a low thrum that's meant only for me. "It's a sensitive case. I'll tell you as soon as I have something concrete."
The way he says "case" makes my stomach tighten. It's his lawyer voice, but it's different. Colder. "Is it about Mara?"
I watch him. I watch for the flinch, the subtle shift in his eyes, the clench of his fist. I'm a doctor; I'm trained to look for signs, for the tiny tells that betray what's happening underneath the skin. I see it all.