Chapter 16 #3
I don’t even belong in this ward. This is Theo’s job.
He’s the pediatric surgeon. I belong in the trauma ward.
If I had known that he’d go AWOL after spending one night in my apartment, maybe I would have hit him with the shovel after all.
Where the fuck even is he? It’s almost the end of my shift and he is still nowhere to be found.
Did he leave early so that he could go get dressed for work or go tell someone about what happened last night?
Did he go to the cops? I know, I said it won’t make any sense, but what if he found a loophole?
I wouldn’t put it past him. Cunning little fucker.
Was that his plan all along? To gain my trust and then go tattling to the police?
The paranoia I thought I’d buried resurfaces, sharp and acidic.
My grip tightens around Kennedy’s patient chart, knuckles white against the plastic.
Trust. I let myself trust him. Stupid Holly. So incredibly stupid.
The rational part of me argues back, reminding my brain of the way his gaze softened when I told him about not wanting to sleep with him in my apartment. The unexpected sincerity in his voice when he assured me I’d be safe with him. But the doubt still lingers, a bitter aftertaste in my mouth.
“Wanna hear a joke?”
I look at Kennedy. “What?”
“A joke,” she goes on. “It’s what people tell other people to make them laugh.”
“I know what a joke is.”
“Okay, so do you wanna hear one? You look like you could use a laugh.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“My mom says laughing helps women age slower.”
“And where is your mom right now?”
Kennedy narrows her eyes. “Where is your mom?”
Jesus fucking Christ. “Fine. Let’s hear this joke.”
“Yes!” She clasps her hands and sits up straight, pausing to think for a second. “Ooh got it! This is a good one.”
Doubt it.
“Why do moon rocks taste better than earth rocks?”
I wince. “Do you even know what a “moon rock” is?”
Her nose twitches. “Um, duh? A rock from the moon. Are you sure you’re a doctor? Aren’t they supposed to be super smart or something?”
“Moon rock is slang for Molly.”
“Molly Mathewson?”
“What?”
“My classmate,” Kennedy says as if I’m the stupid one. “She has long blonde hair, big eyes, really pretty. But she’s also a grade-A bitch so everyone hates her.”
“She sounds like my role model.”
Kennedy makes a face.
“Molly is a drug, you little smartass,” I explain. “MDMA? Ecstasy?”
“Don’t you think it would be more concerning if I did know that?”
Every cell in my body regrets passing on that second cup of coffee this morning. Although, in my defense, no amount of caffeine would be enough to deal with the antichrist. “Why do moon rocks taste better than earth rocks, Kennedy?” I ask in my sweetest, nicest, fakest voice.
She perks up and a few strands of her hair fall over her forehead. “Because they’re meatier!”
I blink once. Twice.
“Get it?” she giggles. “Meatier? Meteor?”
“That’s awful.”
“You’re awful.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s not a compliment.”
“It is to me. And for future reference, that wasn’t a joke. It was a riddle. There’s a difference. Look it up.” I flip her patient chart shut and hand it to one of my interns. “Let’s go.”
“Wait!”
This kid needs a sedative. Or a muzzle. “What now?” I respond not having any patience left.
“You have to tell me a joke too.”
“Why?”
“That’s how this works. I tell you a joke, you tell me a joke and the funniest one wins.”
“Wins what?” What the hell does it matter?
“I dunno.” She shrugs. “Bragging rights?”
“Trust me, I will not be bragging about this interaction to anyone.”
“Oh, come on. Pleeease?” Judging by the grotesque puppy-dog look on her face, I know I have only two options.
One: waste the next fifteen minutes arguing with this abomination of a child.
Or two: give her what she wants, tell her the damn joke, and get the hell out of this room before I do something drastic like snap her neck in two.
“Fine. I’ll tell you a joke.”
“Yes!” She claps and repositions her upper half against the blue pillow behind her.
A joke, a joke, a joke. Come on, Holly. The faster you think of one, the faster you get out of here. “Okay, I got one,” I say, and her eyes immediately light up. “It’s one of my favorites. Are you ready?”
She nods vigorously.
“What is red in color and goes round and round?”
“I don’t know, a red ball?”
“No.”
“A red dog chasing its tail?”
I frown. “No.”
“Okay, what then?”
“A baby in a blender.”
A hush falls around me. No one laughs. What the hell? Has no one heard a dead baby joke before?
“Your joke makes zero sense,” Kennedy states, sounding incredibly unimpressed. “How would a baby even fit inside a blender?”
“It’s a dead baby. You could chop it up.” It’s possible that every single one of my interns audibly gasps.
“My joke won, and you know it.”
“Your joke was stupid. A moon rock and an earth rock? Neither of those things taste good.”
Kennedy crosses her arms across her chest. “How do you know? You’ve never had a moon rock.”
“And you have?” I counter.
“I don’t do drugs, sorry.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She smiles. “I know.”
My pager buzzes in my pocket — thank God. I take it out. It’s from one of the ER nurses. “Blunt-force trauma with suspected internal bleeding or head injury. Two second-year interns needed.”
Without sparing mini-Theo another glance, I march out the ward and instruct two of my interns, Jennie and some lanky guy, to go wait for me in the ER while I grab a quick cup of coffee from the hospital cafeteria. I desperately need some caffeine in my bloodstream.
She scurries off with all my patient charts, the clacking of her shoes growing distant with each passing second and I make my way to the cafeteria.
It’s way past lunchtime so there isn’t much of a crowd, but there are still a handful of people gathered near the counter waiting to grab a quick evening snack or two.
The cafeteria’s mini-TV plays quietly in one corner and I order myself a cappuccino and go stand near a wall away from the crowd, waiting for the barista to call out my name.
I pull out my phone to see if I’ve gotten any more of those creepy stalker messages.
I haven’t.
Which is obviously a good thing, even though it doesn't feel good. Logic applauds, but my instincts scream. It feels like the calm before a very bad, very violent storm.
A few more minutes pass, and the barista calls out my name. I grab my cappuccino and just as I’m about to head towards the ER, I feel a cold hand on my shoulder.
I jump a little and scalding coffee sloshes over the rim of the mug. I spin around, ready to unleash a barrage of curses, but then I see the familiar face in front of me and all is forgotten. “Audrey?”
She smiles. It’s weak and forced. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just that…” her eyes flit around the surroundings. “Can we talk?”
She’s wearing the same clothes as the last time I saw her in Cami’s bar. Same sparkly overcoat. Her long, brown waves are tied up in a messy ponytail and her usual glittery eye makeup is replaced by something a bit darker and smokier.
“Yeah, sure. Do you want something to drink? They have coffee and some brown sludge vaguely resembling tea.”
Audrey’s smile is a lot more genuine this time. “I’m good. I can’t stay that long. I’m visiting family and…can we please sit and talk?”
I spot an empty table in a secluded corner by the window. We settle down in our seats and the murmur of voices and clatter of trays create a physical bubble of white noise around us.
“So, what’s up?” I ask, taking a sip of my cappuccino. Dammit, I forgot to put sugar.
I hear Audrey inhale a deep breath before she says, “I want to help you.”
“Help me?”
Audrey’s gaze bores into my skull like a laser, the smell of disinfectant and bleach clinging to us like a second skin. Her voice is softer now. She leans forward. “With the messages.”
I frown. “What are you talking about?”
“Holly, I know about the messages. I want to help.”
At first, I don’t get it. What messages? She must see the confusion on my face as she reaches across the table, her hand cold and surprisingly strong on mine. “Roses are red, violets are blue, aren’t you glad I found you?”
My stomach clenches with nausea.
I yank my hand back and force myself to stand up. Words fail me. How…how the hell does she know about that? Unease stabs through the numb fog in my head and another — more concerning — question moves to the forefront of my brain. What else does she know?
Her eyes dart around the room again. “Please sit, people are looking —”
“Is it you?” I ask. My voice is tinged with anger. It all makes sense now. The bathroom. The spare outfit. The showing up at my place of work. I had a hunch from the start. I should have trusted it.
“It’s not me, but I know who it is.”
This is fucking absurd! “Okay, so tell me.”
“I can’t,” she says, and the tube light flickers again.
“Why not?”
“Because it doesn’t work like that. I can’t just tell you who it is. I have to help you figure it out on your own. I want to help you figure it out.”
Have to help me? “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Nate Lawson. How much do you really know about him?”
The cut on my palm turns into a gaping wound, raw and exposed. I feel a pinch in my gut. The blood pounding in my ears falls silent and for two seconds I forget every word I’ve ever known. How does she know who Nate is?
“What about Sid?” Her tone is harsher this time. Like she’s interrogating me. “How much do you know about him? Have you spoken to him at all about this? Has he reached out at all?”