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24
Six weeks later
Lucas had just ended another radio conversation with the new sheriff of Hamlet when he heard the irritating chime of the front doorbell ring out in his office. Slapping his communicator down on his desk, he bit out a curse.
Jesus Christ. He’d kill for five minutes peace.
Not that he blamed the other man for finding excuses to buzz. Like his predecessor before him, Collins clearly wanted to have a good working relationship with the town doctor. Lucas just wished Collins’ deep voice didn’t rub him the wrong way, like the grate of sandpaper against his nerves.
It always had, ever since the first time they met, when the newly hired deputy came to Maria’s rescue the night Turner attacked her. Sure, he’d be forever grateful that Collins had been there for his sister when she needed someone. Didn’t mean he had to like the guy.
Even if he should—and, albeit grudgingly, did—show respect to the new sheriff of Hamlet. At least he tried.
The emergency election had been unanimous—Sylvester Collins was sworn in two weeks after they buried Caity. Lucas had to admit the former Marine was a good man, one who actually seemed to believe in the drivel Maria painted every year on the Hamlet sign. Plus Collins was good to Maria. He’d answer the sheriff’s buzzes for that reason alone.
Rubbing his temples, he debated if he should do the same for his door.
His head felt heavy on his neck. Dropping his hands to his side, he rolled his head back and forth, trying to relieve some of the pressure.
It wasn’t getting any better.
He was tired. So fucking tired.
Time dragged. The calendar said only a month and a half passed since Caitlin’s murder and Walsh’s arrest. It lied. Lucas barely remembered what life was like before a pair of outsiders found their way to Hamlet, leaving nothing but a maelstrom of loss and confusion in their wake.
As if he couldn’t stop himself—or didn’t want to—his mind lingered for a heartbeat on Tessa Sullivan before he angrily shoved it away. Then, raising his fingers to his forehead, he exhaled a rough breath as he brushed the strands of his hair, ensuring it was perfectly in place.
There were patients to be seen, and he’d put off re-opening his practice long enough.
With the exception of stitching up a gash in Liam Johnson’s forehead last Sunday, Lucas had managed to avoid most of Hamlet. His neighbors were allowing him to grieve and he found himself taking full advantage of that.
It was one of the reasons why he tended to spend most of his time in his office instead of at his house. Too many people thought it would be just fine and dandy to check up on Lucas when he was at home. They were way more hesitant to crowd Doctor De Angelis. And the mountainside of town was quiet and content, the perfect setting for his unsettled mood.
But the bell had rung, once again cutting into his imposed solitude. If someone was at his door, it might just be an emergency. He had to check. The doc had responsibilities that his—
Lucas paused. His stomach wavered, his hands folded into fists. Six weeks and he couldn’t keep pretending he didn’t know what had him so fouled up. He never thought he’d miss her so much but hell if this wasn’t loneliness—
Flexing his fists again, he forced himself to push past that, too. He had goddamn responsibilities that this loneliness wouldn’t stop him from seeing to.
With a quick massage to his tightened neck muscles, Lucas fought to erase the scowl that etched its way on his face. Leaving his office, he couldn’t stop his thoughts from returning to Tessa once more.
To Tessa and the flippant advice he had given her right when she was trying to process the shock of her husband’s murder. He told her that it had to be worse before it didn’t hurt so bad; only with pain could she finally heal. Wasn’t that the truth?
The bell didn’t ring out a second time. No surprise then, when he opened the door, that nobody was standing out on the porch.
But someone had been by, he saw. Because, placed neatly on the ledge outside the nearest window, was a manila envelope addressed to Dr. L. De Angelis.
They didn’t have a real post office in Hamlet—just Phil Granger who accepted all the mail from the next town over and spent his afternoons driving around Hamlet in his repurposed golf cart, delivering letters and packages to the townspeople.
For most of the townspeople, he would’ve held onto the mail until it could be delivered in person. But Lucas was the very busy, very respected town doctor. Even before the events of the last few weeks, no one in Hamlet bothered him if they didn’t have a very good reason to. So that meant ringing the doorbell and dropping the manila envelope off on the ledge in case he didn’t get an answer.
With a jolt, Lucas recognized the return address. He blinked, narrowing his gaze at the type as if that would explain why this envelope was waiting for him.
It was sent from the outside lab he partnered with whenever he wanted a second opinion on his findings, or when he needed more advanced equipment than what he had at hand in his office in Hamlet. The lab did good work, even if they were usually too bogged down for a quick turnaround, and they insisted on mailing out a hard copy of their findings so that they couldn’t be tampered with.
Except what findings did they have for him? He couldn’t remember having contracted them anytime recently.
It hit him a second later: Sullivan’s samples.
