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She rolls her eyes and turns back to her patient.
That’s as much permission as I’m waiting around for. “Let’s go.”
“Sure. Where are we going?”
“Back to the George Stanley.” I crutch my way to the front door and peek out into the crowd still milling around.
Reporters continue to shout. Cameras continue to roll. Where Miranda’s screeching and demanding legacy left off, dozens more step up and do the job instead.
“We can go through the underground parking lot.” Now Aubree places her hand on my arm as she counts reporters under her breath.
They fan out, and if it’s possible, there are twice as many here now than there were earlier.
“You can take a seat for a sec,” she continues, “and I’ll drive the car under. Or—”
“You parked out front?” I glance across in time to catch her nod. “How far?”
“About thirty yards that way,” she points to the right. “Gotta get through the mess of people first. You’re on crutches, Minka. They’re gonna bowl you over.”
“Still too soon to call me Minka.” My tone is flat and serious, but when Aubree looks to me, I grin. “It’s alright. If I’m going to speak to them anyway, let them see me on crutches. It’ll soften the reputation they’ve already slapped me with.”
“What do you mean?”
When I start forward, Aubree grabs the door and lets me through. The instant the seal is broken, a wall of shouted demands hit me like a physical blow.
“Youwantto look soft on TV?” she asks incredulously.
I shrug and move onto the hospital’s walking ramp. If I try the stairs with crutches, the chances of falling on my face are high, so I take the safe route and milk my softness for all it’s worth before the reporters charge forward and shove a camera in my face.
“So far, Miranda has painted me as a bitch. Stony. Cold. The doctor for the dead.” My breath comes faster as we walk. “She wants me to be Copeland’s newest scapegoat, so when shit goes south, it’ll be easy to point fingers and not feel bad about it.”
“I… I still don’t—”
“So I’ll show them a gentler version of me. Injured. On crutches.” Pleased with my plan, I continue forward with slow swings. “I was the one who brought Miranda back. And I’ll be the one to help bring the Opulus Killer to justice. Then later, I’ll give a little of my time to the reporter you and Seraphina selected for an exclusive. Hi. Hello.” I stop in front of the hard packed crowd and smile. It’s not a full smile, and it’s sure as shit not aMiranda is on the newssmile. But it’s better than a scowl.
“Doctor Mayet!” the one in front shoves a microphone so close to my face, my friendly demeanor almost slips away for a snarl. “Doctor Mayet! Did the Opulus Killer hurt you? Did he attack you as he attacked Miranda London?”
“I cannot confirm if the Opulus Killer attacked Ms. London. That is an ongoing investigation, I’m not the detective in charge, and it would be remiss of me to make such polarizing statements on national television.”
“You injected Miranda London with something.” Another reporter shoves in closer. “You pushed a needle into her skin. Can you explain that?”
“I can only confirm Ms. London gave her consent for me to administer medication that would help her feel better.”
“Because she was injected by the Opulus Killer?”
“I do not know if the Opulus Killer was here today.” I glance from one face to another. Slowly. Questioning. “Do you? Can you confirm he or she was here? In fact, do you know who he or she is?”
“Do younotknow who the killer is?” The first reporter’s face pales as the crowd grows tighter and shoulders press together.
Iknow Ethan O’Dey is the killer responsible for three deaths so far and an attempt on Miranda.Iknow he’s not here, as far as I can see. But the reporters have no clue if the person next to them is a killer.
“I am not the police,” I repeat. “I do not have the answers you seek.” I cast a glance back toward the hospital. “I wish Ms. London all the best and hope she recovers soon.”
I start forward again, spurring the shouting reporters to grow loud once more. “I’m on my way to my car so I can get back to work. I want to do my job and help bring a killer to justice.”
“Are you on your way to the George Stanley?” another reporter shouts.
“Yes.” I look straight down the barrel of a camera and force a friendly smile. “I can’t help Copeland’s police department unless I’m in my lab, doing what I do best. So that’s where I’ll be.”
