Chapter Twelve Hailey #3
We spend the next few minutes trading gossip about the department—who’s hooking up, who’s fighting, who definitely needs to invest in better deodorant. I almost forget about anonymous phone calls and keyed cars and the low-level dread that’s been simmering in my gut for weeks.
Almost.
The rest of my shift passes with the usual overnight variety of cases: an asthma exacerbation that responds well to treatment, an elderly woman with severe abdominal pain that will require surgical consultation, and a bar-fight victim with facial lacerations who remains belligerently drunk and keeps trying to show me photos of his ex-girlfriend.
I decline repeatedly. He does not take the hint.
Around four a.m., I get an update from the OR.
Brandon made it through surgery. Dr. Gupta was able to remove all six packets and the necrotic tissue, but had to resort to a partial penectomy.
He’s recovering in post-op now, scheduled for a long course of IV antibiotics and follow-up debridements over the next week.
He’ll have some scarring and a complicated recovery, but he gets to keep some of what he came in with.
That’s going to be a tough conversation when he wakes up, but it won’t be happening in my department. Thank goodness.
By six a.m., I’ve completed my final notes before shift change. I’m halfway to the locker room, strategizing, when I spot Rachel talking to Frank, the head of hospital security. My stomach drops like I’ve just gone over the first hill of a roller coaster.
She sees me notice and has the grace to look guilty—but not enough to stop whatever she’s telling him.
I stand frozen, watching as Frank nods seriously, jotting something down on a notepad.
Rachel gestures as she talks, and I can imagine exactly what she’s saying.
My friend Hailey. Weird note. Keyed car.
Anonymous phone call asking about her schedule.
She won’t do anything about it because she has the self-preservation instincts of a lemming.
Part of me wants to march over there and interrupt, to downplay the whole thing and laugh it off as a misunderstanding. But my feet won’t move. And maybe—maybe there’s a tiny part of me that’s relieved someone else made the choice for me.
That doesn’t mean I’m not also furious.
Rachel finishes her conversation and walks toward me, her chin lifted like she’s bracing for a fight. She’s got The Rachel Look locked in place like a mask.
“Before you say anything—”
“You had no right.” My voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it that makes her flinch.
“I had every right. I’m your best friend, and someone is scaring you, whether you want to admit it or not.” She steps closer, her voice dropping. “I’m not going to apologize for trying to keep you safe.”
“That wasn’t your call to make.”
“Make better calls, and I won’t have to make them for you.
” The words hit harder than a slap. Rachel’s eyes are shiny, and I realize with a start that she’s close to tears.
“Do you have any idea how terrifying it is to watch you brush this off? You’re my person, Hailey.
If something happened to you and I’d just… sat back and respected your wishes…”
She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t need to.
The anger in my chest wars with something else—guilt, maybe. Or gratitude. I’m not sure which. It’s an uncomfortable emotional soup, and I don’t like it.
“I’m still mad at you,” I say finally.
“I know.” She swipes at her eyes. “I can live with that.”
We stand in silence for a moment. Then, awkwardly, she opens her arms. I hesitate before stepping into the hug, letting her squeeze me probably tighter than necessary.
“You smell like garlic,” I mumble against her shoulder.
“It was really good pasta.”
“It’s aggressive.”
“You’re aggressive.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Your face doesn’t make sense.”
We’re both laughing now, the tension cracking just enough to let us breathe. This is how it always is with us—we fight, we make up, we move on. Usually over less serious things than personal safety and potential stalkers, but the rhythm is familiar.
“Security’s going to want to talk to you,” she mumbles against my shoulder. “Frank said he’ll reach out today.”
“Great,” I mutter. “Something to look forward to.”
She pulls back, studying my face. “Are we okay?”
I sigh. “We will be. Just…warn me next time before you steamroll my decisions.”
“If there’s a next time, I’m steamrolling harder.” She says it lightly, but I can tell she means it. “Also, you need to buy me coffee. For emotional damages.”
“You violated my trust and I have to buy you coffee?”
“That’s correct.”
“Your logic is broken.”
“And yet.” She shrugs, already walking backward toward the locker room. “Text me tomorrow. Or later today. Whatever. You know what I mean.”
I drive home in the early morning light, exhaustion settling into my bones after the twelve-hour shift.
I text Cole to confirm a time and place for our jump, then crawl into bed after feeding Chewy, setting an alarm for two p.m. That will give me enough time to shower, get ready, and make it to our meeting place on time.
Just before sleep claims me, a flutter of anticipation cuts through my fatigue. I can’t wait to fall out of an airplane with Cole Matthews.