Open Wounds
1511 Words
The hospital’s east wing is eerily quiet, the only sounds being the humming fluorescent lights and the faint buzz of security radios, setting a tense backdrop for the unfolding investigation. The once-thriving surgical floor of St. Felicia’s had slowed to a whisper, like a heart trying to beat after trauma.
Amara stood just outside OR-4, where the cleaners had yet to begin their work. The blood was still there. A smear near the door. Another dark patch where Theo’s body had collapsed. It looked like an abstract painting from afar until you smelled the iron and felt the heaviness in the air.
She swallowed.
Theo's death had thrown Amara's world off its axis, a reality she was still grappling with as she stood outside OR-4.
She had known he was flirtatious, reckless, and impulsive. But murdered? That was something she had never considered
The sound of approaching footsteps made her tense, a reminder that she was not alone in the aftermath of the tragedy
Detective Kweku Fordjour was walking down the hall again, his hands buried deep in his coat pockets, a look of concentration on his face as he watched her silently.
“You’re still here?” he asked, his voice calm but with a hint of caution.
“I work here,” she replied. “Or has that changed too?”
His lips twitched at the edges. It might. If the hospital board gets spooked.
She sighed and folded her arms. “So now I’m guilty by proximity?”
“No,” he said. You’re involved because you’re too close to the centre. You knew him. You worked with him. Rumour is you slept with him.
Amara’s jaw clenched. “That was over. It was brief. And I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“No,” Kweku agreed, taking a step closer, “but you’ll owe the law one. Eventually.”
Their eyes locked tension thick between them, a reminder of unresolved issues from their shared past. That single night four years ago after his mother died. Her silent comfort. His guarded eyes. Their kiss.
But there was no time for nostalgia. Not now.
Kweku pulled out a small notepad. Let’s start with this. Where were you last night between midnight and 2 a.m.?
Amara didn’t blink. In the on-call room. Sleeping. Alone.
“Anyone see you go in?”
I wasn’t exactly taking attendance.
“No cameras in the on-call wing,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Convenient.”
Amara’s eyes narrowed. “You think I killed him?”
“I think someone with access to the OR, surgical knowledge, and a motive is responsible.”
His tone softened. And I think you know Theo better than you’re saying.
She inhaled sharply. “I knew he was reckless. That he bent the rules. But I didn’t know he was hated.”
“He wasn’t hated,” said Dr. Kwabena Sarpong, a new voice entering the conversation.
They both turned to see Dr. Kwabena Sarpong, the head of the surgical department, walking toward them in his dark blue suit and tailored tie, his hands folded behind his back like a general surveying his battlefield.
“He was envied,” Sarpong continued reflecting on the challenges of being young, charismatic, and naturally gifted in a competitive environment.
Kweku studied the older man. “Dr. Sarpong, did Theo ever mention anyone threatening him? Colleagues? Patients? Anyone with a grudge?”
Sarpong paused at the OR entrance, his eyes on the dried blood. “He was popular with women.” Too popular. That never ends well.
Amara looked up sharply. “You think a jealous partner killed him?”
“I think,” Sarpong said, turning toward them slowly, “there might be more to learn from Nurse Lydia Ofori.”
Kweku raised a brow. “Why?”
Sarpong gave a dry smile. “Because two weeks ago, she slapped him in the hallway. Loudly.”
In the Nurse’s Lounge 30 minutes later
Lydia was pacing. Her usually neat bun was frayed at the edges, and her badge hung crooked on her chest. She looked up as Kweku and Amara entered together.
“I didn’t kill him,” she blurted before they even spoke.
“No one said you did,” Kweku replied mildly.
“But you think it,” she said, crossing her arms. “Because I fought with him? Because I finally snapped?”
Amara stepped forward. Lydia, I didn’t even know.
“Of course you didn’t,” Lydia snapped, her frustration evident. “He had a way with the new interns making promises he never intended to keep.” He was a predator with a smile.
Kweku nodded. Tell me about the slap.
Lydia hesitated. Then sat down.
“He cornered me outside the med room. Said some things. About how I was too old to be interesting, but that he liked the challenge.” She clenched her fists. I slapped him. He laughed.
“Did you report it?”
“No one listens to nurses when a doctor’s involved.” She looked up at Amara, eyes glassy. But I swear, I didn’t hurt him. I wanted to hurt him, but I didn’t.
Kweku scribbled something in his notes.
Amara sat beside her. “Did he ever mention anything… shady? A patient, a mistake, something that could’ve put him in danger?”
Lydia hesitated. “There was a file he kept hidden. A man named Kwesi Tetteh. Private patient. Theo said he came in for a post-op check-up which didn’t make sense. No record of the initial surgery. Said the guy paid cash. No insurance.
“Illegal procedure?” Kweku asked.
“Maybe. But Theo stopped talking about it. Said it was ‘handled.’ Then he started acting… strange. Paranoid.
Kweku closed his notebook. “I’ll need that file.
Lydia nodded.
Amara stood slowly, her eyes lingering on Lydia. If I find out you’re lying, Amara warned, leaving the threat unspoken.
“I’m not,” Lydia said. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry, Amara. I know you… cared for him.
Amara didn’t reply.
The Morgue 9:12 p.m.
The city morgue always smelled like bleach, a scent that seemed to mask hidden secrets.
Theo’s body lay on the steel tray, pale and cold. A single overhead light cast deep shadows across his face. Kweku, the detective assigned to the case, stood beside the chief coroner, flipping through the preliminary autopsy report.
Cause of death: exsanguination from a single puncture wound to the heart,” the coroner said. The incision was perfect. Straight to the left ventricle. Almost no hesitation.
Kweku frowned. “What are the chances a non-surgeon could do that?”
The coroner laughed darkly. “Zero.” Whoever did this knew where to cut and wanted it to be fast.
Kweku nodded. “And the scalpel used?”
“Standard issue, but it had initials scratched into the handle. ‘A.B.’”
The detective’s jaw tightened.
“Dr. Amara Blake.”
Meanwhile Hospital Roof
Amara stood on the rooftop of St. Felicia’s, seeking solace from the chaos below. She needed air. Space. Distance from the stares and whispers and blood-soaked memories.
The door creaked open behind her.
She didn’t turn.
“I know you’re there, Detective.”
“You left before I could finish asking questions,” Kweku said, stepping beside her.
“Are you here to arrest me?”
“No,” he said. Not yet.
She turned, eyes flashing. “Then what?”
“I found your scalpel, Amara.”
She froze.
The one with your initials etched into it.
She shook her head. I lost that weeks ago. It went missing during a procedure.
“Did you report it?”
“No.” Her voice was strained. “Because it happens. Instruments get swapped, misplaced.
Kweku sighed. The press will eat that alive.
Silence fell between them. Only the wind and the distant honk of a taxi below.
Finally, Kweku said, “It seems like someone might be trying to frame you, or at least make you uneasy.” Either way, you’re caught in the middle now.
Amara turned toward him. Then help me, Kweku. Don’t just interrogate me. Protect me.
For the first time, his expression cracked. Beneath the badge, the suit, the measured voice there was a man who had once leaned on her in the darkest hour of his life.
“I will,” he said softly. But you need to trust me. And tell me everything you’re not saying.
Her voice dropped to a whisper, as if sharing a guarded secret. “There’s something you need to know Theo came to me three nights ago. He was afraid, convinced someone was following him.”
Kweku’s eyes narrowed. “Did he say who?”
No. But before he left… he slipped something into my locker.
She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a sealed envelope.
Kweku took it gently.
Inside was a single sheet of paper. On it, a name was written in black ink.
Kwesi Tetteh.
- Writer
