I think I’m going to be sick.
I never told anyone about that night and I moved on, even switched hospitals. I had to go through therapy after that because I blamed myself for things I should’ve done better.
But there was nothing I could have done. He'd been unconscious when they brought him in, and he never woke up. But I've never forgotten his face or the way I felt when my bosses accused me of failing.
I spent years trying to prove them wrong, even digging into that case on my own time, searching for answers the police never found. And now someone's dragging it back up. Dragging me back to that night.
"Queens, 2011," I whisper, and my throat feels tight. "There was a patient. Uh… a gunshot wound." My mouth feels so dry. "But he died in surgery."
The man's expression doesn't change, but I see the minute shift in his posture. He knows what I'm talking about somehow. I search his face but he gives nothing away as he says, "What do you remember about him?" His voice is quieter now as he calms down, lowering himself into the chair next to me. I notice how intently his eyes stare at me, like he's as haunted by this as I am.
"Everything." The unwanted memories flood back so vividly, it's like I’m reliving it now. "Uh, he had three gunshot wounds—two to the chest, one to the head. The head wound was the fatal one, but he was still alive when they brought him in. We tried everything—transfusions, chest tubes, emergency thoracotomy—and nothing worked. He was gone within twenty minutes."
"And after?"
"After?" I meet his eyes, searching for whatever answer he's looking for. "After, the police told me it was a Mob hit. That he was connected to organized crime. They questioned everyone on staff, looked for witnesses, for any information that might lead to the shooter."
He leans back, running a hand through his hair. The gesture is the first crack in his composure I've seen. "You need to understand something. Whoever brought you here, whoever put that bullet around your neck—they know about Queens. They know about that patient. And they know about me."
"Who are you?" My voice shakes as I ask the question because I'm not liking the feel I'm getting from him. He is starting to creep me out, and that's not an easy thing for someone like me.
"Nobody." He turns away, shoving the bullet into his pocket. "Nobody you should know."
When he stands, I can only sit and watch him. This whole fucking night is a blur and I'm terrified. If this has to do with that dead man on the surgical table five years ago, then I'm fucked. I've been digging around trying to figure out what happened, playing amateur sleuth, and clearly, I've barked up the wrong tree.
I have no clue who this man is or what he has to do with that dead man and I don’t want to stick around here to find out. Whoever he is, he knows something, and maybe he's not the one who drugged me, but I don't trust him.
"I gotta piss. Stay where you are. I'll be back." His grunt as he walks off gives me just enough time to get my bearings, and as soon as the bathroom door clicks shut, I'm on my feet and moving.
The drugs are still heavy in my system, but I can't stay put. I'd rather take my chances on the cold side of a mountain with the lions and wolves and bears in sub-freezing temps wearing only this dress than to sit here waiting for him to come back.
I didn't see where he put his keys, but I can hope maybe he left them hanging. In under a few seconds I’m out the door, racing for his truck. The ground is rocky and I stumble around a bit because of the drugs still in my system, but I think my mind is clear enough to drive away. At least I have to try.
Staying here feels like a death sentence and I'm not ready to die tonight.
3
DANE
The bathroom door clicks shut behind me and I brace my hands against the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror for a second. I've built a good fucking life here, albeit a bit lonely, but private, and that's why I came out here. I wanted privacy. I wanted distance from that mess in the city and a chance to do the right thing and make amends—my penance, so to speak.
And I never expected that past to catch up with me, but it has, and now it's tangled up with this woman's past and someone knows. They know the link between us and I never saw them coming.
I unzip my pants and pull my dick out to relieve my bladder and the engine sound registers a second too late. I freeze mid-stream and listen. It's the unmistakable rumble of my truck turning over, coughing to life, and then the crunch of gravel under tires as she peels out and takes off with my fucking truck.
"Shit." I'm moving before the thought fully forms, yanking the bathroom door open and sprinting through the cabin whilezipping my pants back up. The front door stands wide open, cold air pouring in, and I hit the porch at a dead run and see my truck bouncing down the driveway, taillights glowing red in the darkness.
She actually stole my fucking truck.
"Come back here!" I shout, and I take off running after her anyway, boots pounding dirt and gravel, but it's useless. The truck picks up speed, takes the curve too fast, and disappears into the trees below. The sound of the engine fades until there's nothing but wind through the pines and my own harsh breathing.
"Goddammit." I kick some rocks off the driveway and watch them skitter into the underbrush under the glow of the overhead moon while the rage pent up inside me comes to a full boil.
Five years of keeping my head down living in perfect invisibility, and now I've got a woman tearing through the mountains in my vehicle, high on whatever they dosed her with, probably about to wrap herself around a tree.
If she dies out there, that's on me. If she makes it to town and starts talking, that's worse.
I turn back to the cabin, mind racing through options, and try to decide what to do. I could wait until morning, hope she crashes somewhere non-fatal and I can track her down. Or I could grab my emergency pack and start hiking, try to cut her off at one of the main roads, but that's a long shot. Even the hairpin turn is a mile, and she'll be there in seven minutes. I'd have to all-out sprint through the trees, and in darkness, that'd never work. I'd break my fucking neck.
