Chapter 9
785 Words
9
Sara
The next two days fly by in a blur of work. On Tuesday, I stay late in the hospital for a delivery, and Wednesday is another shift at the clinic, where I’m once again the only doctor seeing all the patients.
It’s exhausting, but I don’t mind because Peter finds a way to be near me both evenings—on Tuesday, by catching up on some emails at the Snacktime Café by the hospital, so I can pop out to see him while waiting for my patient to be ready to deliver, and on Wednesday, by volunteering at the clinic alongside me again.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask him as we’re driving to the clinic. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m very glad you are—and Lydia is over the moon, for sure. But is this really what you want?”
He glances at me, his eyes gleaming silver. “What I want is you, in my bed twenty-four-seven. Or falling short of that, handcuffed to me at all times. But since I know how much your career means to you, I’ll settle for the next best thing.”
I stare at him, unsure how to react. With any other man, I’d be convinced that it’s a joke, but with Peter, that’s not a safe assumption to make. Especially since I understand how he’s feeling.
I also miss him fiercely when we’re apart.
We arrive at the clinic a minute later, and I go to prepare for a flood of patients while Lydia grabs Peter to move some furniture. From seven until ten, I see women for issues minor and major, and then a familiar name pops up on my chart.
Monica Jackson.
My chest tightens painfully. The eighteen-year-old girl came in last week after a second brutal assault by her stepfather, who got out of prison on a technicality instead of serving out his seven-year sentence for raping her when she was seventeen. I’d helped her that time, giving her some money to lessen her alcoholic mother’s financial dependence on the bastard, but there was nothing I could do last week. Monica was terrified that her stepfather would sue for custody of her younger brother and win—or that the child would end up in the foster system.
Her hopeless situation had shaken me so badly I’d cried for a solid hour.
Taking a deep breath, I put on my calmest face and stand up as the girl enters the room. “Monica. How are you?”
“Hi, Dr. Cobakis.” Her small face is so radiant I almost don’t recognize her. Even the half-healed bruises still visible on her skin don’t detract from her glow. “I’m ready to get my IUD.”
I blink at her enthusiasm. “Wonderful. I assume you’re feeling better?”
She nods, hopping up on the exam table. “Yes, much better. And guess what?”
“What?”
She grins. “He can’t bother me anymore. Like, ever. Last week, he was going to work at night, and he got mugged in an alley. They slit his throat, can you believe that?”
“They… what?” I sink back into my chair as my legs fold under me.
Her grin fades, and she gives me a penitent look. “I’m sorry. That sounded mean, didn’t it?”
“Um, no. That is…” I shake my head in a futile effort to clear it. “Did you say someone slit his throat?”
“Yeah, the muggers or mugger. The police don’t know how many there were. His wallet was taken, though, so they were definitely after his money.”
“I see.” I sound choked, but I can’t help it. The memory of the two methheads Peter killed to protect me surfaces so vividly in my mind that I can smell the coppery stench of death and see the puppet-like way they’d crumpled, with the dark pools of blood spreading out from under their prone bodies…
So much blood that their throats must’ve been slit.
“Dr. Cobakis? Are you okay?”
The girl sounds worried—I must’ve gone pale.
With effort, I pull myself together and smile reassuringly. “Yes, sorry. Just some bad associations, that’s all.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out. And please understand: I’m not saying I’m happy he’s dead. It’s just that—”
“You’re glad he’s out of your life. I get it.” I stand up again and, as calmly as I can, hand Monica a plastic-wrapped paper gown. “Please go ahead and change. I’ll be right with you.”
Leaving the girl to it, I step out, my legs unsteady and my lungs fighting for breath.
Last week, after I learned about Monica’s second assault, I didn’t just cry.
I also confided in Peter, telling him exactly what happened.
If this is not a macabre coincidence, then Agent Ryson was right.
I’m as much of a monster as Peter. I killed Monica’s stepfather by pointing at him the deadliest weapon I know.
My new husband.
- Writer
