I nodded as I started to stand.
"There's something else."
I lowered myself back into the chair. Park's expression had shifted. Something heavier was settling into the lines around his eyes.
"Kevin Lang made bail this morning. His father posted it."
The brief peace of the new apartment, the warmth of the last few days with Brian and the crew, was gone. Just like that.
Kevin was out.
The man who'd confessed to killing Derek Edwards while delirious in my ER. The man whose family was systematically dismantling my career.
He was walking free.
"The bail was set at two million," Park said. "Richard Lang paid it in cash."
Two million. The same amount he'd donated to the cardiac wing. I wondered if he saw the symmetry, or if that kind of money was just a rounding error to someone like him.
"The case is still proceeding," Park added. "The police are still investigating. This doesn't change anything legally."
But it changed everything else.
I'd spent my whole life running from my father's world. The world where connections mattered more than competence. Where wealth bought immunity. Where the rules only applied to people who couldn't afford to break them.
It turned out the world had found me anyway. And now it was standing on the other side of a two-million-dollar bail, waiting.
I went through the rest of my shift on autopilot. Sutured a laceration. Diagnosed appendicitis in a teenager. Talked a panic attack patient through breathing exercises. My hands were steady. My voice was calm. I gave nothing away.
Inside, I was checking over my shoulder every time the ER doors opened, jumping at shadows. I watched out for exits, scanning faces, my body running threat assessments I couldn't turn off.
Kevin Lang was out there somewhere. And his father had already proven he'd do anything to protect his son.
The shift dragged on. Every hour felt like three. When my replacement finally arrived, I changed out of my scrubs so fast I nearly put my shirt on inside out.
The walk to the subway was the same route I'd taken for years. Three blocks through the hospital district, past the 24-hour pharmacy and the deli that always smelled like coffee, down the stairs to the platform. I'd done it hundreds of times. Thousands. I could do it in my sleep.
I was halfway to the station when a hand closed around my upper arm.
I didn't have time to react. One second, I was walking, bag over my shoulder, phone in my pocket. Next, I was being yanked sideways into the narrow alley between two buildings, my back shoved against brick, a man's body blocking my only exit.
He was tall. Dark jacket, baseball cap pulled low. I couldn't see his face. Just the glint of his eyes in the dim light, the hard line of his jaw.
"Dr. Rothwell." His voice was low, calm, terrifying in its steadiness. Like this was a business transaction. Like grabbingwomen in alleys was just another item on his to-do list. "I have a message for you."
My heart was slamming against my ribs. I tried to pull away, but his grip tightened, fingers digging into my bicep hard enough to bruise.
"Recant your statement." He leaned closer. I could smell cigarette smoke on his breath, something chemical underneath. "You misheard. It was drug babble. The ramblings of an addict. You're a doctor. You know how unreliable that kind of testimony is."
"Let go of me."
"This is your only warning." His grip tightened again, and I bit back a gasp of pain. "Next time, we won't be having a conversation."
Then he was gone. Melted back into the shadows at the far end of the alley like he'd never been there at all.
I stood frozen against the brick wall, heart pounding, arm burning where his fingers had been. My whole body was shaking. Adrenaline and fear and rage all tangled together until I couldn't tell which was which.
I don't remember the subway ride home. Don't remember climbing the stairs to our floor, finding my keys, or unlocking the door. One moment I was standing in that alley, and the next I was in our apartment, the door closing behind me, my legs finally giving out.
