Chapter Twenty-Four
Twenty-Four
Grier leaned back in her desk chair, spinning side to side while she ran the pendant at her throat along the length of its chain. Numbers were down—clinically speaking, that should have been a good thing. Fewer patients to treat typically meant fewer patient admissions.
But that wasn’t the case.
Occupancy across the hospital was steady, ebbing and flowing over the last four to six weeks in a predictable manner.
But treatment numbers and care plans for the Integrative Health department had dwindled in the last month.
Some weeks, they were only seeing two or three admissions, when they were used to receiving ten, sometimes fifteen.
What gives?
Grier had worked tirelessly to build the department’s credibility—dragging it from a glorified closet to a dedicated hallway.
Now, they had admitted patients filling that hallway, something she had yet to see replicated at any other hospital in the country.
They were legitimately breaking barriers at Aetheridge Children’s Hospital, and she was at the helm.
She had the ear of the Chief of Surgery. The respect and loyalty of the nurses and other hospital staff—regardless of their floor. She was Physician of the Year.
So why did her department suddenly feel deserted?
She couldn’t conjure patients from nowhere, or market like a typical chiropractor could.
Internal outreach was her best bet— connect with other department heads, loop in nursing staff, see if there was a breakdown that could be patched.
Most patients—arguably all—could benefit from at least some form of alternative intervention during an admission.
She doubted there was a sudden and inexplicable change of opinion as far that went; she knew the other physicians had largely come around to the integrative aspect of healthcare—either forcibly via edict or through anecdotal experiences with their own patients’ success.
Reconnecting might help boost referrals, sure. But it wouldn’t explain the why of it in the first place.
As much as Grier preferred to write this off as a fluke, there was a sense of something more deliberate about the whole thing. She felt that sinister intentions were at play. She couldn’t prove it, but she wasn’t going to stop looking.
It wasn’t anything obvious. She doubted it was even enough for her superiors to notice. But something had shifted, even if she couldn’t explain it.
She heaved a deep breath and blew an exasperated raspberry through her lips, then dragged both hands up her neck, kneading the tension from her shoulders to her scalp. A headache was brewing. She needed an adjustment. If only she could self-adjust…
“I concur,” Maren announced, an edge of frustration in her voice, as she walked into Grier’s office and flopped sideways into the chair opposite the desk. “Are you as bored as I am?”
Grier slumped in her chair. It wasn’t even worth trying keep the pretense of busyness up—her staff were as bored as she was. And Maren would call her on her bullshit anyway.
“I don’t get it, Maren. Why are we dead?” The frustration in Grier’s voice cracked at the edges—wounded, disbelieving. “This is so unusual.”
“I know. It’s like we’re a ghost town, but the ghosts are visible and want help. We just don’t have the orders to do anything about it.” Maren leaned into her chair, idly picking at something beneath her nail.
“Exactly!” Grier exclaimed, louder than she had anticipated. She leaned forward palms flat on the desk. “Why? Why are there patients in our halls and no orders coming in? You can’t tell me these kids wouldn’t benefit from acupuncture or an adjustment. Or a massage!”
She fumed.” So why aren’t we getting orders when they were coming in so predictably just a few months ago?”
Maren righted herself in her chair, planting one foot on the floor and crossing the other over her knee. She fixed her gaze on Grier. “You don’t think it’s a coincidence.”
Grier caught the inquisitive arch of her brow, the invitation to speak.
“I can’t explain it, no. But something feels off. Something feels… deliberate.” She drummed her fingers on her desk, thinking. “So, no—I don’t think this is a coincidence.”
“What are you going to do?” Maren’s voice softened. Quiet and concerned.
“I’m not sure, yet. But I have to do something. I’ll bring it up in our next grand rounds. Casually mention we’ve got some… unprecedented availability. See if anyone has a patient who might benefit from integrative support. I’ll offer to consult.
That might work. It was the professional approach. But it felt like begging—like proving her department’s worth all over again.
“Maybe you should do some recon,” Maren suggested, waggling her eyebrows. “See if your brother can get anything out of Dr. Rhodes.”
Grier’s hands stilled mid-tap. She’d confided in Maren once her suspicions about Grant and Haleigh had been confirmed—and they had both consented to her sharing. But she certainly didn’t want to use her brother to do her dirty work.
Still… Maren had a point.
Recon might be necessary. But a middleman wasn’t.
“That gives me an idea,” Grier murmured, reaching for her phone. She tapped the direct line to Haleigh’s office while Maren watched her quietly.
“Dr. Savage! To what do I owe the honor?” Haleigh’s sharp, cheerful voice rang through the phone. “I don’t think I’ve got any patients on your docket this week… dare I say it—is this personal?”
“Hi, Haleigh.” Grier smiled at the familiar sarcasm. Haleigh knew her well enough by now to understand she wasn’t one to call to just chat. “Actually, that’s part of why I’m calling,” she trailed off, waiting for Haleigh to catch up.
“Hmmm, all right, I’ll bite,” Haleigh replied, the intrigue in her tone exactly what Grier had hoped for.
Grier doubted Haleigh was behind the drop in patient numbers—not directly. But she was on the surgical floor, regularly interacting with more physicians and hospital bigwigs than Grier did.
She had access. And access meant information.
She glanced at the clock on her computer screen, confirming what she suspected based on the rumbling in her stomach: ten minutes to noon.
“Good, let’s give you something to eat, then. Got time for lunch?”
“You’re speaking my language. But I get the impression whatever you want to discuss isn’t exactly cafeteria-appropriate. Care to walk to the deli down the street?”
“If I’ve never told you how much I appreciate your conspiratorial brain, then let it be known—I do!” Grier laughed into the phone. “Meet you in the lobby in ten.”
She hung up to find Maren staring at her, one eyebrow cocked, assessing the one-sided conversation she just heard.
“I’m meeting Haleigh for lunch. I’ll do some recon, see if she has any insight about our numbers.
” She hesitated, the thought that had been nagging at her since she began analyzing patient statistics still unspoken.
“I can’t prove it, but this”— she splayed her fingers and circled her hand broadly in the air—”feels like it has Vanders written all over it. ”
“You are becoming what we call in the business a crack whore,” Grier snickered at her own pun as she thrust her palms against Tobin’s thoracic spine, feeling it erupt with cavitations beneath her hands.
Tobin huffed out a breath, assisted by Grier’s thrust. “Does that make you my pimp? Or my dealer?”
“Rude!” Grier laughed, pinching the skin along Tobin’s ribs, tickling her and causing her to squirm. “Flip over—time for your neck.”
Tobin did as instructed. “This is my favorite part.”
“Yeah, because you try to make out with me every time,” Grier chided, swiping a brief, upside-down kiss across Tobin’s lips before settling on the stool at the head of her portable adjustment table.
“Okay, first of all, there is no try, Cinderella. I do make out with you every time. Give a woman some credit.” Tobin smiled in that annoyingly cocky way that Grier adored—even more from this angle, splayed out on her treatment table, relaxed, and completely at her mercy.
“And second of all,” Tobin continued, “my first adjustment included one of the best make out sessions of my life—which you initiated. I thought it was part of the treatment!” Her grin grew impossibly wider, and Grier absolutely needed to both hear her finish her argument and kiss her until she shut up.
She leaned forward over Tobin’s face, aligning their eyes so Tobin had to look her in the face while she tried to make her point. “You seriously can’t blame me if I’ve been conditioned to expect such… dedicated attentions now that I’m an established patient!”
Grier hummed contemplatively, a quippy retort on the tip of her tongue—until she felt Tobin’s fingers lace over the back of her head and gently hinge her down until their lips met.
Minutes later, Grier was sitting on the floor between Tobin’s shins, her legs draped on either side of Grier from her perch on the couch.
“So,” Tobin said, digging the pads of her thumbs into Grier’s trapezius muscles and running slow, broad strokes up her neck and back down again, “why don’t you tell me why you’re so riled up tonight?”
She really needed an adjustment.
“That obvious, huh?” Grier’s head fell forward, her eyes fluttering closed as she reveled in the assertive chirapsia of Tobin’s hands.
She hadn’t exactly been hiding her frustrations, but she had been trying to live in the moment, pushing aside her lunch conversation with Haleigh so that she could be present with Tobin when she’d shown up for an unplanned visit that Grier already knew would be too short.
She moaned softly as Tobin’s thumbs worked deeper. Fuck, she was tense.
Tobin had texted her throughout the day, but Grier hadn’t had the time—or the mental capacity—to respond with more than cursory responses. She figured Tobin had sensed something was off and used her “need for an adjustment” as an excuse to sneak over during her shift and coax Grier into talking.