Page 21 of Unhinged

She hadn’t cried yet, but that would come later. Grief was a funny thing. Until one really acknowledged it, allowed it to take over, one could push it down, pretend it wasn’t there. Failure, however, wasn’t. It hung heavy around her neck, and she touched her chest, the action dredging up the memory of a necklace that had once hung there years ago.

It was a replica of one that Selah had owned, the one that had been stolen from her the night of her murder. Hannah’s locket lay in the bottom of her jewelry box, broken but not forgotten. She knew where she’d gone wrong that night with Selah and the stranger, but what about Rachel?

Heart heavy, she climbed out of the shower and toweled off. Not bothering to dry her hair, she pulled on an old pair of sweats and a t-shirt, then curled up in bed, thoughts of Rachel and Selah parading past her mind’s eye. The darkness outside turned almost to dawn before she fell asleep.

Somehow, she made it through the morning, dressing and heading to the church for Rachel’s service. Elizabeth and Rachel’s mother, Joanne, were welcoming and kind, and both expressed their thanks for helping Rachel over the past few months. Hannah wanted to refute their statements, protest that she could have—should have—done more for Rachel. What had she missed?

Fueled by the need for answers, she drove to the health center and took the stairs in lieu of the elevators, hoping to avoid any stragglers. As soon as she reached her office, she locked the door behind her. Finally alone, she leaned her head against the cool glass of the door and drew in a shuddering breath. A riptide of emotions rolled through her, and she wished that, just once, she had someone to lean on—someone to hold her and promise her that everything would be okay.

Shaking off the thought, she pushed off the door and made her way through the dark room. Satisfied that she wouldn’t be interrupted, she gathered Rachel’s files from the cabinet. Hugging them tightly to her chest like it would contain the emotions within, she leaned against the wall.

The reality of Rachel’s death finally hit her with brutal force, and she slid to the floor. Hot tears slipped down her cheeks as she cracked open the first folder and began to read.

CHAPTER

TEN

Luke pushed open the door of the stairwell and stepped into the darkened hallway, the corridor lit only by the faint red glow of the emergency exit sign hanging overhead. He stepped up to the frosted glass door of the office to his left—her office.

For some inexplicable reason, the hair on the back of his neck stood at attention, anticipation and apprehension snaking through him. He shook his head and shoved the feeling aside. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but something was bothering him. Probably just the thought of Dr. Whitmore herself. The woman grated on his nerves something fierce, and every inch of this space reminded him of her.

The health center was small, and he had spent the past two days acquainting himself with the layout, searching out each small alcove and closet that could pose a threat. The building housed several private practices, all medical, but vastly different fields. The bottom floor of the building belonged to a group of dermatologists, including two elderly men he was fairly certain should be taking medical advice rather than giving it.

A married couple, Dr. Scott Gerber and Dr. Audrey Stanton, occupied the second floor with their family medical practice. He had met Dr. Harbaugh on the third floor, a self-absorbed man who considered himself a god of maxillofacial surgery, as well as Dr. Sosa, a neurologist on the fourth floor.

Since Dr. Whitmore had barred him from her office during business hours, he usually roamed the lower portion of the health center and hung out with Raúl in the security office until it was time to make his final rounds. He had walked all four floors that afternoon long after everyone had closed up shop.

This time of day was perfect, and he made his way through the building, blending inconspicuously from shadow to shadow. Here in the quiet darkness, he could focus better, play scenarios through his mind, and search for any weaknesses in security. The final walk-through brought him to the fifth floor where he stood now in front of her office.

Dr. Hannah Whitmore, Ph.D. was written across the frosted glass in gilded script, almost indistinguishable now in the near-dark, and he unlocked the door using the key Raúl had given him. It swung open without a sound, granting access to her inner sanctum. It amazed him, sometimes, that a woman so cold was in the business of helping people to sort out their emotions and address their vulnerabilities.

He hadn’t seen her all day—not that he was watching for her. It was merely an observation. He paused in the doorway, and the memory hit him with startling clarity. Raúl had mentioned it that morning in passing, but it hadn’t even registered. Dr. Whitmore’s office had been closed today. He wished he’d remembered that sooner so he could’ve gotten out of there a little earlier.

Not like it mattered anyway. The only thing on his agenda for the evening was to head back to his little fixer-upper and chill alone in front of the TV. If he was really motivated, maybe he’d do some work around the house.

He stepped inside, quietly closing the door behind him as he scanned the small space. The lobby was fairly spacious with large, comfortable couches and potted plants that made it feel more like a living room than an office. A couple of abstract paintings hung on the walls, and a large window overlooked the city, the lights twinkling in the dark sky.

Directly opposite was a short hallway. One door on the right, two on the left. And one directly at the end of the hall. Hers. It was like seeing the light at the end of the tunnel—he didn’t want to venture closer, yet he couldn’t deny the pull.

The first door on the right led to the receptionist’s office and small kitchen area for employees only. As far as he knew, only Dr. Whitmore and her receptionist, Fiona, worked there. A gentle jiggle to the handle confirmed that it was locked up tight, everything safe and sound. A restroom and a small closet graced the left side of the hallway, and he opened each door, checking to make sure the rooms were empty.

A muffled sound caught his attention, and his ears perked up. Keeping his tread silent on the industrial-grade carpet, he slowly walked toward Dr. Whitmore’s office. The door stood open, the room lit by the glow of the city lights spilling slim shafts of light onto the floor through the blinds over the windows.

Pausing just outside the office, he pulled his sidearm from the holster at his waist and held it low in front of him. Craning his neck around the doorjamb, he searched the darkened corners of the room, watching for movement, listening for anything out of place. Someone was there—he could feel it. Every instinct on alert, he stepped into the room, simultaneously pushing the door open wide with his left hand.

Gun trained, he swiveled toward the soft sound of protest as the door collided with the tiny form curled up on the floor. Dr. Whitmore sat huddled in the shadow of the door, dozens of papers and a discarded manila file folder scattered around her feet. Legs drawn tightly to her chest, she lifted her head to regard him.

Even in the dim light, he could see the glistening trail of tears running down her cheeks. He held her gaze for a long moment before she pillowed her forehead on her hands where they lay clasped over her knees.

Her tears filled him with a combination of fury and protectiveness. Fury at whoever had caused them and the protective instinct to want to swoop in and make things better. Staring down at the prickly doctor, he debated what to do. Maybe he should just turn around and leave. What were the odds she’d accept his offer to help anyway? After all, she’d made it abundantly clear that she didn’t like him. The feeling was mutual.

But… he couldn’t just leave her like that. After seeing her initial aloofness on the news after the murder, then being carved up by her scathing tongue at their disastrous first meeting, he hadn’t expected this from her. Her posture spoke of helplessness and fragility, like she bore the weight of the world on her shoulders. No one deserved that.

Slipping his pistol into its holster, he took a step closer and squatted next to her. “Ma’am?”

A tiny hand shot out and shoved his shoulder. “Stop that! I hate being called ma’am.”

She didn’t even bother to glance up, but he smirked nonetheless. “Just a sign of respect, ma’am.”