He escorts me back to the waiting room, and I reclaim thechair I’ve occupied for the past eight hours. An ache presses behind my eyes, and I close them briefly to ease the strain.
It took too long to transfer Grayson by ambulance. The hospital is only five miles from the courthouse, which shouldn’t have taken more than fifteen minutes to get him into care. Those extra minutes cost Grayson his consciousness.
A mocking voice whispers from a dark corner of my mind:This is what you wanted.
I did—I wanted Grayson’s death. I wanted the threat he posed eliminated. My self-perseverance is stronger than my feelings for him.
I blink against the dryness of my eyes. Even if I tired, I couldn’t will a tear forth.
Most psychologists are able to diagnose and treat their patients because they genuinely care. They possess a well of empathy to draw from, enabling them to give of themselves and help those the world would otherwise reject.
I can’t relate
I don’t empathize with my patients; I commiserate with them.
Grayson and I share an intense connection—one forged by something dark and twisted, and yet…I’m different from him. I’m stronger, better. I deserve to survive, to be the one to move forward, to continue to help others. For that to happen, he has to fail.
So yes, I wanted his death—but not like this. I wanted the system to kill him. I wanted justification, a clear conscience, and I hate this hollow pang in the center of my chest and I want it tostop.
“Dr. Noble.”
My eyes snap open to see the ER doctor standing before me. “Yes?”
“Can I have a moment to speak with you?” he asks kindly.
I reach over and grab my handbag. “Of course, Dr. Roseland.”
Grayson’s medical file still hasn’t been transferred. Had the staff wasted valuable time running unnecessary tests, I doubt Grayson would be alive. I had to throw my professional weight around to make sure Dr. Roseland knew what to test for immediately.
He leads me toward the emergency wing where Grayson is being monitored. “Don’t worry. I’ve gotten you clearance.” He glances my way. “A doctor should be able to see her patient.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that,” I tell him.
“He’s awake,” the doctor says. “I’m sure once I clear him for questioning, you won’t get another opportunity to speak with him privately. He’s been asking for you since he woke up.”
My brow furrows. “Dr. Roseland, you’re taking a risk by allowing me access. While I appreciate it, I don’t think Detective Foster will.”
He waves a hand dismissively. “Foster is a hot-head. Let me worry about him.”
I offer him a small smile. Sounds like the ER doctor has regular dealings with the detective. “Well, again, thank you. Grayson is a…unique patient.”
He nods thoughtfully. “I noticed. His brain scans were impressive. It’s unfortunate someone with his potential resorted to… Well, it’s just unfortunate.”
I lower my head as we pass the two officers guarding the front of the hallway. “Do we know how he received the antibiotic?” I ask.
As we reach the room door, Dr. Roseland pauses and turns toward me, his expression serious. “He administered the drug to himself.”
My heart slams against my chest, rib cage caving beneath the crushing pressure. I force myself to inhale an antiseptic-laced breath just as the door swings open.
An officer stands guard outside the room, another inside stationed near Grayson. His ankles are shackled to the gurney, his left wrist cuffed to the bedrail. He’s still dressed in his suit, less his jacket and shoes, tubes taped to his left forearm.
And he’s awake, watching me through unfocused eyes as I enter.
“How medicated is he?” I ask Dr. Roseland.
The doctor hovers in the doorway. “Heavily,” he says. “A few minutes more, and Mr. Sullivan may not have made it. The EMT noted you administered CPR until they arrived.” He gives me a tight smile. “He has you to thank for his life.”
My eyes close briefly, the hollow pang burrowing deeper.
