The NYPD sent an officer to take a report. He was young, earnest, and out of his depth. He walked through my destroyed apartment with a flashlight, took photos of the spray-painted wall, and asked me questions while Brian stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching.
"Any idea who might have done this?" The officer's pen hovered over his notepad. "Anyone who might have a grudge against you? Ex-boyfriend, disgruntled patient, neighbor dispute?"
I hesitated. I could feel Brian's eyes on me.
"There have been other incidents," I said carefully.
The officer looked up. "What kind of incidents?"
"My car was keyed two weeks ago. Outside my apartment building. Deep scratches across the driver's side."
"Did you file a report?"
"Yes."
Brian shifted in the doorway.
"Anything else?" the officer asked.
I thought about the formal complaint against my license. The investigation that was stalling. The councilman's son, who'd confessed to murder in my trauma bay.
"There's an ongoing police investigation," I said. "I'm a witness to it. I believe these incidents may be connected."
The officer's pen stopped. "What investigation?"
"You'd have to contact Detective Diaz at the 114th Precinct. She's the lead."
He wrote that down, nodding slowly. I could tell he wanted to ask more, but something in my tone, or maybe the spray-painted threat on my wall, told him this was above his pay grade.
"I'll follow up with Detective Diaz," he said. "In the meantime, I'd recommend staying somewhere else. Somewhere they don't know about."
"Thank you."
He closed his notepad and headed for the door, pausing to take one more photo of the message. Brian stepped aside to let him pass, then waited until we heard the stairwell door close.
"Ava."
I busied myself picking up a torn book from the floor. One of my Agatha Christies. The spine was broken.
"Ava." His voice was quieter now. "What investigation?"
I set the book down. Looked at him.
He was standing very still, his expression caught somewhere between concern and something harder. The kind of look I imagined he wore when he arrived at a scene and realized it was worse than dispatch had said.
"It's complicated."
"Then uncomplicate it."
I sat down on the arm of my overturned couch. Watson had crept out from Brian's apartment and was winding between my ankles, purring uncertainly.
"Three weeks ago, a patient came into my ER. Overdose. While he was delirious, he confessed to a hit-and-run that killed a seventeen-year-old kid six months ago." I kept my voice steady, clinical. "I reported it. The patient's father is connected. Politically."
Brian was quiet for a moment, processing. "How connected?"
"City council connected."
"Jesus, Ava." He ran a hand over his face. "And you didn't tell me?"
