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Pulling back, I bring Aubree close and press my hand to the camera lens that tries to invade our space. Turning away from Miranda, I head in the direction of the front doors of the hospital. It’s slow-going as we work through the crowd.
“We’re leaving,” I speak to my small group. “I’ll place you inside the hospital, Aubs. You can wait for Mellet there, if you insist on staying, but you don’t get to do it out here.”
“Tim?” When Aubree sees what I saw the moment I arrived, she startles under my arm and pales in an instant. “What are you—”
“Doctor Mayet?” The roar of the crowd changes. The demanding questions, the shouts for attention. Miranda, shaking off her pout the instant a new exclusive arrives, charges toward the street in heels that threaten her ankles, but a smile that threatens Minka.
I don’t see her. But I sure as fuckfeelher nearby.
Tossing Aubree toward Fletch and spinning away, I push through the thick crowd.
“Doctor Mayet,” Miranda’s voice is prevalent amongst the others. “We need a statement from the chief medical examiner. It is your responsibility to speak for your team and provide Copeland’s people with clarity. What happened inside the George Stanley last night that resulted in a significant number of your staff waiting on Copeland Memorial’s step this morning?”
“Ms. London.” Minka’s tone is cold, indifferent, when I’d prefer to smack the bitch out of the way. “You need to disburse right now and take your team with you. I don’t believe it’s safe for—”
“Doctor Mayet!” Miranda shouts instead. “We require an update on the Opulus murders. We demand it.”
“Leave,” Minka snarls as those she shouted at earlier—the EMTs and the transport driver—circle closer. To protect her? To shield her? “Miranda London, remove yourself right now.” Then she looks to the other cameras. To the other reporters. “Every single station that leaves right now will receive communication from me personally with material to use for your six o’clock slots tonight. But those of you who stay—”
“Doctor Mayet,” Miranda tries again. “If you insist on ignoring questions about your current caseload, then perhaps you’d like to speak on your relationship with the esteemed Detective Malone instead?”
An icy chill settles over the packed space. Where everyone else freezes, my blood boils and my eyes shoot to Minka’s. Where the other reporters stand back and watch the two-woman-war, I shove through the crowd in a fruitless attempt to save Minka’s face from being splashed all over tonight’s news.
“Do you have anything to say, Doctor? Do you wish to squash the rumors floating around Channel 63?”
“I have nothing to say.” Standing taller, prouder, Minka shakes her shoulders back and cuts Miranda down with a glare. “I will never, for the entirety of my career, comment about my personal life. With you, or with any other news outlet.”
“So you admit there’s an— Ouch!” Miranda’s gaze whips down to her arm, then back up to Minka. But this time, it’s different. This time, there’s fear instead of hunger. “I don’t… I just…”
The second I arrive by the woman’s side, her eyes move to mine and roll back. “I don’t feel—”
“Shit!”
Miranda’s legs collapse out from beneath her, forcing me to catch or let her slam to the concrete. But while I bundle the television shark in my arms, Minka’s eyes scan the bustling crowd.
“Fletcher! Over here.”
“Minka!” I lower Miranda to the ground as the crowd scrambles in a panic.
People trample each other, and teams leave their weakest to fend for themselves. Miranda vomits in my arms, and her eyes turn a bloodshot-red in the time it takes to blink.
“Oh shit, Minka! He got her.”
“The Opulus Killer is here.” Minka’s words are for me. Her hiss of pain as she slams to one knee and tears open a plastic baggie goes unheard except by me. “Iknewhe would be. I friggin knew it!”
She tears the cap off a needle with her teeth and spits the trash to the curb. Grabbing Miranda’s face, she shoves the convulsing woman onto her side so her vomit drains instead of choking her. Then she yanks Miranda’s tailored coat open and pops the buttons off so they ping across the now deserted concrete.
“Miranda London, I’m asking your permission to jab you with a drug I have no way of knowing if it’ll save you. But I have it on good authority you have a twenty-percent chance of surviving—which is better than the zero-percent chance you have right now. Chest compressions, Archer.” She grabs my hands and places them on Miranda’s bare chest. “Compress. Go. We have to keep her heart moving.”
“What are you—”
“Miranda?” She looks to the woman whose eyes are already closed. “Great! Thanks for your permission.”
Rearing back, Minka swings her hand down again and sinks the two-inch needle straight above Miranda’s heart, missing my hand by a mere quarter of an inch. Pressing her thumb to the plunger, she rockets whatever is in the needle into Miranda’s body faster than any infusion I’ve ever seen her give herself.
“Keep going, Archer.” She uses her free hand to press above mine. “Compress. Keep her going.”
Then she yanks the empty needle from Miranda’s chest and snags a mini penlight. Kneeling near Miranda’s head, she peels back one eyelid. Then another. “I can’t stand this woman. And now she’s forcing me to save her.”
