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Next, I peel my underwear away, and one arm at a time, I shuck off my blouse and bra, and drop them to the floor.
By the time I’m done undressing, the room is warm with steam from the blistering shower stream. I push up to stand and drop the toilet lid closed, but I don’t flush. I don’t dare interrupt my shower’s perfect flow.
After reaching into the stall and adjusting the knob fractionally, adding a little cold water to the mix so I don’t burn my skin away, I step inside—and moan as the still-boiling spray hits my back and pulses against Doctor Tran’s masterful stitchwork. The scar that’ll be with me for life. The reconstruction that, once completely healed, is likely to leave me with a better shoulder than the one I had prior to the Copeland Bank robbery that busted me up.
Small mercies, I suppose.
I make fast work of my shower, my pain meds kicking in and my sleepy brain washing down the drain with the used water. I soap up and wash off a day inside the morgue, then reaching up one-handed, I shampoo my hair… and hate the fact I’ll have to blow it out when I’m done.
One-handed.
But it’s on the to-do list, which is ever-growing, now that I’m losing my evenings to exhaustion.
I’m in the shower for no more than four minutes—maybe five, as I let the conditioner sit—then I’m turning the tap off again and reaching out for a towel. I wrap myself up and revel in the magic of prescription medication masking the neuro pathways in my mind that would otherwise register pain.
Halle-frickin’-lujah.
Tucking my towel in at my chest, I grab another and scrub my hair with it to soak up excess water. Finally, I hang it back up on the rack and open the bathroom door to find Chloe’s regal form. Watching. Waiting.
Probably keeping tabs on me, in case I do something to upset her sensitive moods.
Rolling my eyes, I turn left, toward the living area to search for my phone. But I keep the lights off, using the bright moon and streetlights through the open windows to lead my way.
I check the kitchen counter first. There, I find Archer’s phone and laptop, but not mine. Then I peer to the front door and find my briefcase. But I know my phone wasn’t in it when I left the office yesterday. I had intentionally slipped the device into my pocket to keep it handy.
Heading to the couch, I lift the cushions and drag my hand along the inside of the armrests. Striking gold, I pull out the device, and spin in place to sit down where I, evidently, sat last night.
The screen displays dozens of notifications that all want my attention. I scroll through my emails—most of which are from the toxicology lab—and then my texts, heavily dominated by Aubree.
‘You said you wanted a staff meeting tomorrow, aka Sunday. Staff is out till Monday. Want me to table it till then, or annoy everyone by bringing them in on their day off?’
Smiling because my tired brain would have caught my mistake eventually, I set her messages aside for a beat and move to the next thread, purely because the name intrigues me.
Cato Malone:You okay yet, Doc? I saw you on the news with Arch.
Cato Malone:My therapist says the fact I check you out is not, in fact, lust. But rather, some other hokey-ass emotion. I disagree. I think you’re hot, especially for an old chick. I realized I have a new kink. Wanna chat about it?
Cato Malone:Lix said you’re coming to New York for my birthday. It’s soon. Don’t forget.
And then I find one from Felix himself.
Felix Malone:I want proof of life, Doctor Mayet. Seeing you on the news isn’t good enough. Check in. Archer told me he’s bringing you to New York for your honeymoon. You can have half the house to yourselves, so you don’t have to worry about us walking in on you by accident.
We’ll walk in on purpose. I’d pay decent money to fill out my visual collection of derrieres.
Felix Malone:Remember, proof of life. Or I come searching.
Acknowledging that Archer’s brothers are, well,emotionally destroyedand I’m the only stable female they have in their lives, I hit reply to Felix first:
Here’s your proof. I’m awake and ready for the day. Archer hasn’t talked to me about New York yet. I’m not sure I can get time off work. But if that’s the plan, then I guess it’s the plan. Now leave me alone.
Then I move to Cato’s name and type:
Happy upcoming birthday. Eighteen’s a big one, and I’m pleasantly surprised no one has killed you yet. Might I suggest, as a gift to yourself, you spend more time with your therapist? You need it. May 1sthas passed; which college have you decided on? No one is telling me, and I know you will have had to decide by now. NY schools are amazing, but Copeland’s is decent too, and Archer’s old apartment is available to you. I hope you made a choice and didn’t leave those schools hanging!
Finally, I navigate away from my text screen and move to my call log. Selecting Aubree’s name, I push up to stand, my legs still a little wet from my shower, and make my way to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. I drop a filter in the top of the machine and pour ground beans to the brim, then smacking the lid closed and flicking the button to bring it to life, I turn just as Aubree sleepily answers my call.
“‘Ello? Is there an emergency?”
