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Chapter One

"Just this once, Doc. Please. I’m begging you."

Dr. Rachel Thorne looked into the panicked eyes of the seventy-four-year-old Marine veteran sitting on the exam table. Six months ago, Mr. Peterson had been given oxycodone following back surgery. Now he was taking more than prescribed, running out of his medication early, and showing up in the emergency department asking for enough pills to carry him through another few days.

This was the second time in two weeks.

His pain was real. So was his desperation. She wanted to help him, but in her experience, the worst decisions almost always began with the words just this once.

"I’m sorry, Mr. Peterson. I can’t give you another oxycodone prescription tonight."

"So that’s it?" His voice sharpened. "You’re going to let me sit here in pain?"

“No. I'll treat the pain, but I won't give you something that could make the situation worse."

"So, you'll give me an aspirin?" he grumbled, a disgusted look in his eyes. "I came here for help, not a lollipop."

"We can start with a lidocaine patch and another non-opioid treatment. I'm also going to have the addiction-medicine clinician speak with you."

"I'm not addicted."

She ignored that comment, turning to Rita Gonzalez, the nurse standing at the end of the bed. "Lidocaine patch and a consult with Dr. Carlton. Keep an eye on his oxygen level."

"Will do."

She entered her orders into the computer mounted beside the door, then stepped into the hallway.

Every treatment bay was occupied, and seven patients remained in the waiting room. It was unusually busy for a Thursday night at East River Veterans Medical Center. Thankfully, it was nine o'clock, and she only had two more hours before the end of her shift.

She jumped as a man shouted from one of the rooms farther down the corridor.

"Get away from me! I'm leaving."

His declaration was followed by a crash, and she hurried toward the commotion. The door to the exam room was open, and as she stepped inside, she saw Dr. Rick Morgan and nurse Anna Ramirez struggling to restrain a tall, angry, wild man, one she'd seen in her office several months ago.

Jack Barrone was forty-one years old and had come to her for headaches and insomnia. But he'd missed his last appointment, and she hadn't seen him for at least two months. Now, she could see those months had not been kind to him. He had lost at least fifteen pounds. His sweatpants and T-shirt were wrinkled and filthy, as if he had slept in them. A heavy beard covered his jaw, and his brown hair hung in greasy strands across his forehead.

His head suddenly snapped in her direction and recognition sharpened his gaze as he paused in his struggle. "You."

A chill ran through her at the accusatory anger in his tone.

"Mr. Barrone," she said calmly. "What's going on?"

"You know this man?" Rick interrupted.

"He used to be my patient."

"This is because of you," Jack said, nodding as if that realization had just come to him. "This is your fault."

She stiffened as his fury turned to her. "What's wrong, Jack?" she asked, trying to remind him that they'd had a friendly relationship at one time.

"You know. You did this to me." He pressed one hand against the side of his head, grimacing with what appeared to be pain so intense he squeezed his eyes shut.

She turned to Rick. He answered her unspoken question. "He was brought in by ambulance after collapsing about a mile away. The paramedics saw his ID and brought him here. He woke up while we were trying to examine him, and he was not happy to be here."

Jack's eyes snapped open. "I don't want to be here. I have to go."

"We need to examine you first, Mr. Barrone," Rick said.