Chapter 3 - The Name He Doesn't Say
1281 Words
Emma didn't leave the hospital until nearly three in the morning.
Even then, she wasn't sure why she felt unsettled.
Patients arrived with gunshot wounds every week.
People made threats.
People got hurt.
Chicago wasn't immune to violence.
But this felt different.
Because violence usually ended when the bleeding stopped.
Nathaniel Reed's hadn't.
It was still following him.
Waiting outside the door.
Looking for another chance.
The thought lingered with her long after she got home.
It followed her into bed.
And somehow it followed her back to the hospital the next morning.
________________________________________
The first thing Emma noticed was that security had doubled.
The second thing she noticed was that the agents looked angry.
Not alert.
Not cautious.
Angry.
Something had happened.
She spotted the same broad-shouldered federal agent from yesterday standing near the nurses' station.
He was speaking into a phone.
His voice was low.
Controlled.
The kind of control that usually meant someone was one step away from losing their temper.
Emma tried not to listen.
She really did.
Then she heard a name.
"...I don't care what Moretti wants."
She froze.
The agent continued.
"No. Listen carefully. If Vincent Moretti knows Reed is here, then we have a leak."
A leak.
Emma's stomach tightened.
The agent turned.
She immediately looked away and pretended to read a patient chart.
A few seconds later, he walked past.
Fast.
Purposeful.
Gone.
Emma stared after him.
Moretti.
The name meant nothing to her.
Yet something about the way he'd said it made the hairs on her arms rise.
Like everyone in that conversation already understood how dangerous it was.
________________________________________
Nathaniel's room was quieter today.
The television was off.
The curtains remained closed.
Rain tapped softly against the glass.
He sat in a chair near the window, one hand resting against the sling supporting his injured arm.
The position should have looked casual.
It didn't.
Nothing about him ever truly relaxed.
He looked up when she entered.
"Doctor."
"Patient."
His gaze dropped to the coffee cup in her hand.
"That's not for me, is it?"
"Absolutely not."
"A tragedy."
Emma set her things down.
"How are we feeling today?"
"We?"
"Humor me."
Nathaniel considered the question.
"Tired."
"Anything else?"
"Annoyed."
"Why?"
"At the determination of the men in suit to keep me alive for one."
She laughed despite herself.
Nathaniel watched her.
The sound seemed to catch his attention every time.
As though he wasn't used to hearing genuine laughter anymore.
Emma checked his chart.
"Your wound looks good."
"I was hoping for something more dramatic."
"You were shot."
"Fair point."
She examined the dressing.
His skin was warm beneath her fingertips.
Healthy.
Strong.
Her attention drifted again to the scars crossing his ribs.
They peaked her interest and she couldn’t help her gaze falling back to them.
One in particular stood out.
Long.
Jagged.
Old.
Not from the recent shooting.
Nathaniel followed her gaze.
The atmosphere changed immediately.
Emma felt it.
Like stepping across an invisible line.
"You ask a lot of questions, Doctor."
She met his eyes.
"You avoid answering them."
For a moment neither looked away.
Then surprisingly—
Nathaniel smiled.
A real smile.
Small but unmistakable.
"There she is."
Emma blinked.
"What?"
"The stubbornness."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Sure."
The smile faded.
Not completely.
Just enough.
Leaving something softer behind.
Something warmer.
Dangerous.
Not because he was threatening.
Because he was attractive.
Ridiculously attractive.
And Emma was beginning to spend far too much time noticing things she shouldn't.
The shape of his mouth.
The deep timbre of his voice.
The intelligence in his eyes.
None of which mattered.
She was his doctor.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Nathaniel interrupted her thoughts.
"What made you become a physician?"
Emma looked up.
The question surprised her.
Mostly because it was personal.
And because it came from him.
"You interviewing me now?"
"Maybe."
"Why?"
His shoulders lifted slightly.
"I'm curious."
Curious.
The word settled strangely between them.
Nathaniel Reed didn't strike her as a man who spent time being curious about other people.
Not anymore.
Not after whatever had happened to him.
Emma pulled a chair closer.
"My father was a pastor."
Nathaniel listened quietly.
"My mother taught third grade."
"Small town?"
"Very."
A faint smile touched her lips.
"There were more cows than people."
"Sounds peaceful."
"It was."
Nathaniel's gaze lowered.
Briefly.
Painfully.
Emma noticed.
Again.
He missed peaceful.
Whatever his life had become, peaceful wasn't part of it anymore.
"My grandmother got sick when I was fourteen."
Nathaniel remained silent.
Waiting.
"Heart failure."
Emma folded her arms.
"I remember sitting beside her hospital bed."
The memory appeared vividly.
The smell of antiseptic.
The hum of machines.
The fear.
"So many people seemed overwhelmed. Busy. Distracted."
Nathaniel nodded once.
Emma continued.
"Then one doctor sat down beside her."
Her throat tightened unexpectedly.
"He held her hand."
The room seemed quieter now.
"He treated her like she mattered."
Nathaniel's eyes never left her face.
"Not her illness."
Emma swallowed.
"Her."
Understanding flickered across his expression.
And suddenly she realized something.
Nathaniel knew exactly what she meant.
Because he rarely got treated that way himself.
Most people probably saw the billionaire.
The headlines.
The money.
The witness.
The target.
Not the man.
A long silence followed.
Comfortable.
Thoughtful.
Then Nathaniel spoke.
"You remind me of someone."
The words emerged so quietly she almost missed them.
Emma looked up.
"Who?"
For the first time since she'd met him—
Nathaniel looked caught off guard.
As if the admission had escaped accidentally.
His jaw tightened.
A shadow crossed his face.
"My mother."
Emma blinked.
The confession landed with surprising force.
Because it was personal.
Unexpectedly personal.
And because Nathaniel clearly wasn't accustomed to giving pieces of himself away.
The silence stretched.
Then—
A knock sounded at the door.
Both of them turned.
One of the federal agents stepped inside.
His expression was grim.
Again.
Always grim.
Nathaniel immediately straightened.
The softness vanished.
The walls returned.
"What?" he asked.
The agent looked uncomfortable.
That alone was alarming.
"We need to talk."
Nathaniel's eyes narrowed.
"About what?"
The agent hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then—
"Moretti."
The room froze.
Emma felt it immediately.
The change in Nathaniel.
His entire body became still.
Not surprised.
Not confused.
Prepared.
Like a soldier hearing the name of an enemy commander.
The agent glanced toward Emma.
"Doctor—"
"I'm finishing up."
Nathaniel interrupted.
"No."
Both of them looked at him.
Nathaniel's gaze remained on the agent.
"Whatever you're going to say, say it."
The agent looked reluctant.
Very reluctant.
Then finally—
"We intercepted communications this morning."
Nathaniel's expression didn't change.
"Okay."
"Moretti's people are looking for a woman."
Emma frowned.
The agent continued.
"A doctor."
The blood drained from her face.
The room suddenly felt very small.
Very quiet.
Nathaniel's eyes snapped toward the agent.
"What?"
The single word came out low.
Dangerously low.
"We don't know how much they know."
The agent looked at Emma.
"At this point we are treating everyone that accessed this floor last night from the time of Mr Reed’s arrival as potentially compromised."
Emma stared.
"What does that mean?"
The agent's expression darkened.
"It means someone may have leaked what happened last night and Dr. Emma here has been implicated as a result."
Silence.
Nathaniel's jaw clenched.
Hard.
For the first time since meeting him, Emma saw something that looked remarkably like guilt.
And it terrified her.
Because she suddenly understood that her being his doctor had become a problem.
Her safety was at risk.
And judging by the look in Nathaniel Reed's eyes—
that realization bothered him far more than the bullet in his shoulder.
- Writer
