"I have patients scheduled."
"Reschedule them." Thatcher's voice leaves no room for argument.
And that's it. The thing that tips me over the edge.
"Don't tell me what's important."
His eyes narrow. "Someone broke into your office."
"Someone broke into my office to search my files. My patients are still alive and need surgery." I cross my arms. "I'm not rescheduling."
"You're a target. You need to?—"
"I need to do my job." My voice rises. I don't care that Rivera and the tech can hear us. "You don't get to decide what I do with my schedule."
"When it affects your safety, yeah, I do."
"No, you don't. You're my protective detail, not my commanding officer."
"Protective detail means keeping you alive. Can't do that if you're standing in an OR with your back to a door."
"Then stand outside the OR like you've been doing for three days. But don't tell me to abandon my patients because you think it's safer."
We're facing off in the hallway, voices raised, both of us too stubborn to back down.
Rivera clears her throat. "How long is the surgery, Dr. Abernathy?"
"Two hours. Maybe three."
"Can you do the inventory after?"
I don't look away from Thatcher. "Yes."
"Fine." Rivera nods. "We'll process the scene. You do your surgery. Captain Caine can provide security. We'll circle back this afternoon."
Thatcher's jaw is tight, but he nods once.
Rivera disappears back into my office. The tech follows. And it's just me and Thatcher in the hallway, both of us still wound tight.
"This conversation isn't over," he says.
"Yes, it is. I'm doing the surgery. You can stand outside and glare at people, which seems to be your specialty." I grab my bag. "Are you coming, or do I need to find my own way to the OR?"
His eyes flash with something that might be anger or might be respect. "Lead the way, Doc."
The surgery goes smoothly despite the tension crackling between us. I focus on the patient, on the procedure, on doing my job the way I've always done it. When I emerge two hours later, Thatcher is exactly where I left him.
We walk back to my office in silence. The evidence tech has finished processing. Rivera is waiting with a clipboard.
"Ready to do the inventory?" she asks.
It takes over an hour to catalog everything. The files are all there, just scattered. My computer was accessed but my encryption held. Whoever did this either found what they wanted or didn't find what they were looking for.
By the time we finish, exhaustion is setting in. Thatcher hasn't said a word since the hallway argument. Just stands there, watching, cataloging threats with that tactical brain of his.
"We need to get your things," he says when Rivera finally clears us to leave.
"My things."
