What kind of doctor am I? What kind of daughter? What kind of friend? I miss the signs, miss the connections, miss the chanceto save the people who matter. The weight of it crushes the air from my lungs, leaving me gasping like a landed fish.
Sebastian's face flashes through my mind—the concern in his eyes, the careful way he tried to comfort me. I shouldn't have pushed him away. Shouldn't have lashed out. But the tenderness in his gaze was unbearable.
A sob finally breaks free, the sound ugly and raw in the quiet room. I curl in on myself, knees drawing up to my chest as if I could somehow make myself small enough to disappear. My shoulders shake with the force of my grief, each gasping breath painful in my tight chest.
The darkness presses against my closed eyelids, but it can't block out the images cycling through my mind—Cheryl's still face, my father's final breath, the moment the light left his eyes while I stood frozen. They blur together until I can't tell which memory belongs to which death, which failure is which.
I know what I have to do. The clarity cuts through my grief like a blade, sharp and undeniable.
I can't keep failing people. Can't keep missing the signs, arriving too late, watching death steal away the people I care about while I fumble for answers that never come. There's only one solution, one way to ensure I never have to stand helplessly by another hospital bed again.
I have to leave Sierra Mercy, leave medicine entirely.
Chapter 31
Sebastian
Iscribble my signature on the last line of Cheryl's paperwork, the pen nearly tearing through the page with the force of my hand. My fingers are steady, but everything else inside me is rattling like loose change in a dryer. Mia's face when she ran from that room—fuck, I can't shake it. The shattered look in her eyes, like something fundamental had broken inside her. It's been forty-seven minutes since she disappeared, and each one feels like another weight pressing down on my chest.
"Make sure the family is notified immediately." I tell the nurse.
The protocol for patient death feels obscene right now, this methodical checklist while Mia is somewhere in this hospital falling apart. Or worse, not in the hospital at all. The thought makes my stomach knot tighter.
"Dr. Walker, are you alright?" the nurse asks.
No. No, I'm not fucking alright. "Fine," I say instead, handing her the clipboard. "Have Dr. Patel handle the rest of Ms. DuBois's paperwork. I have an urgent matter to attend to."
Before she can respond, I'm already moving. The hallway stretches ahead, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like staticin my brain. I check my phone again. No messages, no missed calls. Just the lock screen photo of a mountain range I've never actually visited.
Where would she go? The lounge is my first stop, but it's empty except for a first-year resident passed out on the couch, mouth open in an exhausted snore. The women's restroom next—I knock, ignoring the startled looks from passing nurses, then peek my head in when there's no answer.
Empty.
Supply closets. On-call rooms. The MRI suite where she sometimes hides out between cases to gather her thoughts. Nothing. No one. No wild red hair or fierce green eyes anywhere.
My pace quickens with each empty room, my heart rate climbing to match. I pull out my phone again, dialing her number for the seventh time.
"You've reached Dr. Mia Phillips. Leave a message and I'll call you back when I can."
The cheerful greeting turns my blood to ice. I hang up without leaving another message. The previous six are embarrassing enough.
"Come on, Trouble," I mutter, thumbs flying across the screen with another text.
Me:Please tell me where you are. I'm worried.
It joins the others in a pathetic blue bubble parade with no responses.
A group of nurses glance up as I approach their station, their conversation dying abruptly. "Has anyone seen Dr. Phillips?" I ask, working to keep my voice professional.
Head shakes all around. "Not since this morning," one offers. "Is everything okay?"
"Fine," I say again, the word sounding hollow even to my own ears. "If you see her, tell her I'm looking for her."
As I turn away, I hear one whisper, "What's with him? He looks like he's about to combust."
She's not wrong. My skin feels too tight, like it's shrink-wrapped around muscles coiled for action with nowhere to go. Sweat prickles at my hairline despite the hospital's aggressive air conditioning. I rake a hand through my hair, not caring that I'm destroying whatever professional appearance I'd maintained after the morning's chaos.
I check the ER next, thinking maybe she threw herself into someone else's emergency to escape her own. The controlled chaos of the department washes over me—monitors beeping, staff calling out vitals, the squeak of gurney wheels—but no Mia.
