Malik lay asleep at my breast in the private hospital. The warmth of skin on skin pulled me near to the tiny life I had created. Someone knocked on the door.
“Come in?” I expected to see the nurse. She’d shown kindness. Hadn’t asked who my child’s father was, though the entire hospital—from general practice to specialized care, and hell, even the Ear, Nose, and Throat doctors—had speculated.
Edwin entered. He pawed the silver streak in his thick goatee, shut the door behind him, and leaned against it. “Boy or girl?” he asked.
“Ihad a son. His birth certificate won’t include your name, rest assured. Just go.”
“Why are you doing this to us, Zuri? We’re dynamic. I heard you want to treat scum.”
I rolled my eyes. “Not scum.Peopleat County don’t have the best health insurance.”
My position at the county hospital began in a few weeks. I’dsecured childcare. But healthcare? I’d be damned if I wasn’t sticking the bill to this hospital.
“You’ll start at their free clinic. Is it Wednesdays and Fridays or Tuesdays and Thursdays? What’s next, Saturday morning cartoons and a tin can for coins?”
“Does it matter? I’ll be doing what I love.” My arms wrapped around Malik, tiny and new. “Do me a favor. Don’t ask the next first-year med student to abort your child. Doesn’t matter if she reveals her pregnancy on Chicken Wing Wednesday. Life matters. Those I’ll treat at County matter too, Dr. Heine.”
I glared at him, hand sneaking under the crumpled covers to reach for the nurse call button.
He grabbed the remote and flung it against the wall.
Malik jerked awake. Tiny newborn cries rent the air.
“Shut him up!” Edwin pulled an envelope from inside his blazer.
At his harsh glare, a dread seized me, and I pulled Malik closer. My baby stimulated and latched.
“Good.” Edwin opened the envelope. He placed it in front of me.
“Adopt … adoption?” I murmured. “You want me to put my child up for adoption?” I’d never mentioned foster care. My past was a drain on his affluent life. He was a prominent member of the hospital board. In addition, he’d coauthored medical journals that I had cited while in college.
I shook my head no as he turned to leave. “Think about it.”
Later, I’d gone to the nurses’ station.Empty.
A beep cut through the night. The narcotics cabinet had a similar beep in the ER. A blue glow spilled across the maternity-supply room. I froze as a lean man opened the cabinet. Dr. Edwin Heine. Not in a white lab coat. No ER scrubs. Not even a badge.
He placed a box on the linoleum floor. Then another andanother. White boxes, glossy packaging.Opioids. Edwin scanned barcodes with his phone, each beep sharp.
Fear snaked my gut. I started backward, lost my balance, and whacked my hip on the crash cart. It rattled loud enough to wake the dead.Great.Classic Zuri.Chapter 420: Clumsy Espionage Edition.
Edwin didn’t even lift his eyes when he said, “Zuri, I sent the nurses to lunch. What do you need, Little One?”
“Wh-what?” I squeaked like a giant who asked a phlebotomistifit was going to hurtwhen they glimpsed the needle.
He scanned another barcode. The beep sliced through my panic. He then stood to his full height. Smiled that too-white smile. “Why do you think I saw you as chief resident material?”
I tried to think of something sharp, biting. My brain came up withbecause you’ve binge-watched too much Grey’s Anatomy?An inaccurate depiction of the medical field.Nah, I got something better.Arms folded, I said, “Because you’re lazy and wanted me to do your paperwork?”
After hefting one arm, as if in agreement, his smile thinned. “Okay, you are so stupid. You never figured it out, Little One.”
“Stop. Calling. Me. That. I never liked it.”
But I remembered. Dang, I hated how I remembered. The nickname carried a hundred memories—vendor lunches with slick reps flashing Rolexes, Edwin shoving forms under my nose, murmuring,Just sign, Little One.
I’d signed because what else do awkward people-pleasing interns do? Say no? Ha. And then I wanted to forget.
Pregnancy brain arrived with brain fog thick enough to hide a body. Then his scalpel-sharp denial of being a father? The anesthesia over my guilt.
