Chapter 7
BERNIE
Four days after the Murder Mamas’ soiree, Bernie steered her Audi into the staff parking lot at Sunnyvale, powered up for the day on the combination of a pre-dawn kick-boxing class and a chia-banana smoothie.
But her good mood took an uppercut to the jaw when she spotted the other vehicle ahead of her.
She gripped the steering wheel so hard, the ring on her right hand cut into the underside of her middle finger.
One of the residents—Reeve? Rivers?—had snaked in and stolen Bernie’s favourite parking spot, the one closest to the exit.
Who does she think she is? Those spots are unofficially officially reserved.
Bernie backed her car into an inferior spot and was just about to put it in park when the resident, whatever her name was, popped out from behind a post and was suddenly standing in front of the passenger side of the car, waving dumbly at Bernie through the windshield.
Bernie’s right hand twitched. She batted the intrusive thought away as quickly as it had flitted across her mind and tingled down her arm.
Slowly, deliberately, she changed gears to P and turned off her car.
The brainless idiot was still waving at her.
Well, maybe brainless was unfair. This particular idiot actually showed great promise as a cardiac surgeon and was talented at the continuous suture technique.
Nowhere near Bernie’s skill level, of course, but still.
The resident knew she was good, and that she was getting a reputation as “one to watch,” but she didn’t seem to know that being watched by Bernie was not necessarily a good thing.
At Bernie’s last hospital, there had been a surgical resident who flew a little too close to Bernie’s professional sun; within the year, that young doctor had switched residency programs and cities.
As she got out of the car, Bernie had already firmed her face into a professional mask (a cool competency modelled off Dr. Addison Montgomery from Grey’s Anatomy).
She’d practised the expression in the mirror until she was confident she could call it up on cue.
The resident pounced the moment Bernie’s feet hit the pavement, like a puppy who needed a good swat on the nose.
“Dr. Parvis! Good morning. I’m so glad to get a moment with you, I know you’re very busy. I was wondering if you’d already selected your team for that midcab surgery—and, if not, I wanted to humbly express my interest.”
Bernie locked her car door and turned to face the nuisance, who was thankfully wearing her ID badge over her scrubs.
Although Bernie didn’t give two shits about getting to know the residents, it was good for her image if they thought she did.
“Good morning, Dr. Rivera. Now, why didn’t I see you at my robotic-assisted surgery seminar last week? ”
“Your seminar? I didn’t . . . I wasn’t . . . I’m sorry, what seminar, Dr. Parvis?” Confusion and worry crinkled Dr. Rivera’s smooth forehead beneath her shiny bangs.
“Ah. I see. I thought you would have been invited. But if your supervising physician didn’t think you were ready . . . Never mind, there’s always next time. It’s been good chatting with you, but I have to run—I’ve got a myectomy on the docket. Take care.”
Bernie allowed herself a small smile as she strode off, certain that this imaginary seminar would torment Dr. Rivera, or at the very least ding her self-confidence.
She shook off her frustration about the parking spot, knowing she needed to be laser focused on the multi-hour surgery she was about to begin.
Plus, once she landed the medical director position—and her chances were excellent, especially with Celeste on the board—she’d have a reserved parking spot that no one would ever dare steal.
On her way into the hospital, Bernie mentally mapped out the operation she was about to perform.
Her photographic memory afforded her perfect recall of cardiac imaging results, and was one of the many reasons why surgery was the perfect discipline for her.
She remembered being shocked in med school when she learned that not everyone had the ability to visualize a crystal-clear diagram of cardiac veins and arteries; most people actually had to spend hours memorizing stuff that, for her, was as easy to access as hitting Ctrl F on a keyboard.
Bernie imagined herself holding a scalpel above her patient’s naked torso, making the initial cut along the midline, splitting open the thoracic cavity, carving out the thickened muscle, wiring the breastbone back together, and closing the incision.
Bernie felt most herself in the OR, crackling with the powerful knowledge that she was the reason the person would live or die.
But to be clear, her patients almost always lived—it was a point of professional pride.
Satisfied with her mental prep, Bernie checked the time and calculated that she could squeeze in a detour to the cafeteria.
As she walked, she undid her watchband, which was irritating the itchy bump on her wrist that she’d acquired during a spontaneous outing a couple of nights ago.
Bernie’s interest in Imogen’s home life extended far beyond the limited voyeurism afforded to her by the window in her walk-in closet.
When she’d installed her front-door security cameras, she’d set them up to capture wide angles, including Imogen’s walkway and entrance.
The cameras were motion activated and recorded both video and audio.
Whenever Bernie was feeling curious, she scrolled through the door-cam app to see what Imogen had been up to (although most of the clips were boring snippets of deliveries).
Last Friday, Bernie had opened up the app for a casual browse.
When she saw the footage of the confrontation between Imogen and Derrick, her curiosity was piqued.
The audio wasn’t the clearest, but Bernie was able to pick out enough to know where to go.
She had the night off and nothing more interesting to do than make her way to High Park in search of trouble.
Once she spotted Derrick (drinking straight from a bottle on a bench by the path), she tucked herself behind a tree to keep watch.
The results were more than worth the mosquito bites she suffered in hiding.
While Bernie waited to pay for her green juice in the cafeteria, two cardiac nurses joined the line behind her.
They were in a rush, running short on time on their break, so Bernie let them cut in front of her.
They thanked her profusely; she smiled and waved it off.
Bernie was not in the habit of kind gestures—this was purely a strategic move, an easy trade for some precious goodwill.
As a rule, Bernie did not tangle with the nurses.
They were an extremely competent group, good at their jobs, and did a huge amount of the actual work.
Moreover, they had eyes everywhere and they considered a slight against one a slight against them all.
They were like crows that way, and they could really hold a grudge.
If the nurses didn’t like you, things got much harder, and why on earth would Bernie make things hard for herself?
As she approached the front of the line, Bernie dug around in her fleece for her card holder.
But instead of grasping the slim leather envelope, her fist closed around a chunky metal object.
Without taking her hand out of her pocket, she traced the grooves of the ring with her thumb, mentally chastising herself for taking unnecessary risks, but also getting off on the shiver of danger.
Her treasures were supposed to stay in their bowl, secure in her home.
It was what she’d always done. It was the smart thing to do.
But there was something irresistible about this piece—ugly and heavy as it was, with its blue centre stone and excessive engraving—that had compelled her to slip it into her zip-up as she got dressed that morning.
She had absolutely no business having Derrick’s class ring in her possession, which was exactly why she loved it.