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Calla wandered out of her room with a pair of sneakers in her hands. “Where’s my pretty shoes Grandma bought me?”
My eyes jumped to Lachlan’s. His gaze devoured me.
“Uh, I’ll help you find them,” I said, but my attention didn’t leave his expression. Because his eyes were promising unholy retribution. And I couldn’t wait.
Seventeen
Lachlan
Irubbed my eyes and glanced at the clock. Six AM. Groaning, I stretched back in my chair, reaching my arms over my head with a patient file in one hand. I had two hours of my shift left, and then Clemens would be in. I was beat to Hell. The last three days had gone by in a blur—I’d worked forty-five hours in three days, which wasn’t abnormal, but it did make me want to hibernate for a week.
A knock sounded on my door and “Ariel”—I grinned to myself at Laurel’s nickname for Angela—poked her red hair around my doorframe. “Patient in three is asking for pain management.”
“I’m sure they are,” I replied dryly. I had their chart in my hand, and it detailed four previous opioid overdoses other than the one they were currently suffering from. “Give her point one of Clonidine and see where that gets us.”
She patted the doorframe, “You got it.”
Thank God our one-night stand hadn’t affected our working relationship. The town was small enough as it was—it had been beyond stupid to jeopardize a working relationship that couldn’t be replaced easily. Although, arguably, in a town the size of Montpelier, any relationship was a risk if it went south.
I wasn’t going to let that happen with Laurel, though. I wasn’t in the habit of second guessing my instincts. My instincts with Laurel were pretty simple: Yes. Yes to all of it.
Speaking of which. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and shot off a text to Remington. He was still in California, but if I didn’t ask him while it was on my brain, I’d probably forget by the time I stumbled home to catch a few hours of sleep.
Surprisingly, even though it was five in the morning his time, he texted back immediately.
Lachlan: Goat yoga a thing here?
Remington: You got it bad, dude. She’s into that shit? Yeah, call McKaydee Ranch. They only do it Saturdays, though.
Lachlan: Why are you awake?
Remington: We got food poisoning from a taco truck.
I cringed. Yikes. Sounded like their vacation was going swimmingly.
Lachlan: Sorry, man. So no taco salad next mon?
Remington: Fuck tacos. Oh, I got another email. It’s a weird one bc it mentions you. I’m forwarding.
I frowned. So, this person did know Remington’s identity if they were able to mention me directly. That didn’t sound good. My email app dinged, so I opened it, and I skimmed it before my eyebrows shot up to my hairline. “Fucker,” I hissed under my breath.
Mr. Cade,
In addition to the numerous case files found in your possession—illegally—we wanted to take a moment to discuss the interesting passion your brother has.
Specifically, we refer to his recent, field-changing work with connectomics and the geometrically aware neural framework computations he and his partner have managed to create. It’s been made aware to certain people that his mSPD-NN was not included in his preprint because the necessary calculations derived from an MRI 3T have not been properly gathered yet. We can therefore assume they are hesitant to share this crucial formula with the medical community before it has been completed.
It would be a shame if this information, which our associates are now in possession of, made its way into another preprint. Especially if those interested parties had access to technology to complete the research before he could.
I’ll be in touch.
I texted Remington back immediately.
Lachlan: I know who it is.
Remington: Whatd you do? Amputated the leg off the wrong guy?
Lachlan: I don’t amputate legs, moron. When you get back, I need your tech brain to hammer this shithead to the wall.
