Page 24
“No.”
“Did he get close enough to touch you?”
I hesitate. That, apparently, is answer enough.
Carter’s hand rises slowly, like he’s reaching for something fragile. His thumb glides over my knuckles, where the blood is drying. The tenderness, against the rigid set of his jaw and the way his whole body hasn’t quite unclenched, cracks my own shaky control.
“You hit him,” he states.
“I did.”
His expression darkens, not just with anger, but something deeper, more tangled.
“Good,” he says, and the word ripples through the air.
Chris shows up at the end of the hallway, holding a radio, clearly wishing he were somewhere else. Carter doesn’t need to look back. He already feels it, his shoulders stiffening, weight shifting forward like he’s ready for a fight before he even realizes it.
“Sir,” Chris begins, “I need to ask you to—”
“Is he still in the building?” Carter interrupts, eyes still on me.
“Sir, I can’t—”
“Carter.” I press my hand to his chest. His heat seeps through his shirt, his heartbeat pounding wild and quick beneath my palm. “They’ve got him. He’s not going anywhere. The police have it under control.”
His gaze drops to my hand, covering it with his, pressing it against his chest, and we stand there, my palm over his heart, his hand over mine, the hallway stretching out empty around us.
“I got a call,” he says softly, “saying there was an incident involving you. That’s all they said. An incident.” His jaw tenses. “I didn’t know if you were okay.”
The rawness in his voice hits me deep. I imagine him in his truck, racing across town, phone clenched in his fist, picturing me crumpled on the floor, or not answering the door, or worse.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m right here.”
His grip tightens over mine. “Yeah.”
The moment hangs between us, fragile, until Karen’s voice cuts through from Exam Room 3.
“Trixie, she’s asking for you.”
I glance past Carter’s shoulder. My patient is visible through the half-open door, wrapped in a blanket, her eyes locked on the hallway with the drained intensity of someone who’s used up all their courage for the day.
“I need to finish up with her,” I murmur.
Carter follows my gaze. Something in his expression softens, just a bit. He nods once, briskly, and steps back, letting go of my hand.
“Go,” he says. “I’ll be here.”
I don’t ask what he means. I don’t have to. I’ve seen it before.
He always positions himself between the door and whoever he’s protecting, angled to catch anyone coming in before they catch him. For Carter, “right here” is strategy.
I turn back toward the examination room, catching Karen’s eye over his shoulder. Her look says, clear as day, We will be discussing this later. I nod and step inside.
My patient sits where I left her, perched at the table’s edge with the blanket around her waist. But her posture has shifted. The exhaustion is still etched on her features, but now there’s a determined set to her jaw, a subtle lift to her shoulders, something I haven’t seen in her before—a quality less like surrender.
“You hit him,” she says, echoing Carter.
It’s not a question. She heard it all, the hallway drama cataloged like only someone in her shoes would. For survival. I nod.
