Page 12 of Craving Sin

“I’ll see you in six months,” he says, because yes, I do this twice a year. If Moira had been checked sooner, maybe she would still be here today.

He leaves, and I get dressed. All of this is off the books. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the course of my life, it’s that money can get you nearly anything.

I leave the room, then walk down one of the hallways of the hospital. There’s a guy in front of me, walking in the opposite direction. He’s tall, about my height, but not as broad, with red hair, shorter on the sides than on top.

I glance his way, but he has his head down, looking at his phone. He’s wearing a white jacket, telling me he’s a doctor.

Just before we pass each other, he puts his cell to his ear, then looks up, giving me a courteous smile. The second he does, I feel it—the tingles at my nape—while at the same time, it’s almost like a calmness washes over me.

My hand shoots up, and I immediately swat at the back of my neck, like there’s a spider or, hell, any bug there.

The doctor doesn’t seem to notice, just continues walking in the opposite direction. My hand massages my nape, and the feeling dissipates just as fast as it arrived. I have no idea what that was. I swat at the back of my neck again for good measure as the doctor walks around the corner, disappearing from view.

I imagined it. I had to have, I tell myself, then I continue on my way again.

*

For the second night in a row, I’m at the hospital.

I have no medical reason to be here this time, no reason that makes any kind of sense at all. I just know that I’m curious about the doctor. I haven’t stopped thinking about the brief encounter—if you can even call it that—since last night.

And you can’t…call it that. Not really. The man walked by me in a hallway, and now I’m stalking him? This is so out of my wheelhouse, so fucking foreign to anything I’ve done or thought I would ever do that I’m not even trying to make sense out of it.

How can I find sense where there is none to be found?

I don’t even know if the man is here again, or what his specialty is, or a million other variables…

But even more importantly, I don’t know why I care.

Last night, he had turned down the opposite hallway from where I’d come. As I retrace his steps, I find that amongst other departments, it leads to surgery, so I decide to start there.

There’s no receptionist in the waiting room, which I assume is because of the time. As far as I know, surgeries aren’t scheduled at night unless it’s an emergency.

I peek over the counter, trying to catch a glimpse of something—anything—that might help me figure out who the man is. I don’t know what I expect. It’s not as if there’s going to be a flashing neon sign with his name and photo on it.

Feeling frustrated with myself, I slip out of the waiting room and continue down the hallway. ICU is at the end, with a locked door and an intercom you have to use to get in.

“I’m losing my fucking mind,” I whisper to myself, before continuing the way I came.

Still, I don’t leave, following the signs for the cafeteria. I know this area of the hospital by heart. I spent plenty of time getting coffee from here and pretending to eat when Moira was sick.

My gut twists the same way it used to when I step inside. The cafeteria isn’t far from the cancer center where Moira spent so much of the last year of her life. Where she would get sick from her treatments, but still somehow managed to always have a smile for Cillian and me, trying to be okay for us.

Dizziness hits me, a frustrating wave of weakness as I reach out, steadying myself with a hand on the wall.

I take a few deep breaths, then open my eyes, though I don’t even remember when I shut them, and straighten my suit jacket again.

The cafeteria is dim, only a few people scattered around here and there—some in scrubs, likely on a break, and others dressed in street clothes, taking a moment for themselves while here caring for loved ones.

I go straight for the coffee machine first, filling a paper cup with what is pretty close to black sludge. I don’t bother with cream or sugar, preferring it bitter—one of the only things I don’t like sweet—before heading toward the small, square, two-person table where I used to sit before.

Once I’m settled in, I take a sip of the coffee before setting the cup on the table. There’s a chip in the corner that hadn’t been there before, or hell, maybe it’s not even the same table.

“You’d laugh at me right now,” I say softly to my dead wife. Staking out a hospital because I got fucking neck tingles is a Moira O’Shea thing to do—not a Rian one. She believed in weird stuff like fate, destiny, that what’s meant to be will always find a way, and that kind of thing. I used to tease her about it, tell her I make my own fate, that no one controls me but me, and again, she’d just give me a knowing smile, one that made me feel like she was in on a secret that I wasn’t—like maybe she was right and the universe had shared more with her than what I knew.

I sit in the cafeteria so long my coffee goes cold, shifting in the uncomfortable seat, the room having emptied—one person left about an hour ago, then another forty-eight minutes ago, and another a few minutes later, on and on, until they left me alone.

I’ve learned over the years to always pay attention to my surroundings, to know who’s in a room with me, where all the exits are, how many windows and doors, because you never know when you’ll need that information.