Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 67000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
I nodded and went to the breakroom, Garrett hot on my heels.
When I had my stuff in my locker, I gestured at Garrett. “I think I might be okay for now.”
I mean, there were about fifty law enforcement officers outside.
“You’d be surprised,” he said. “Most drownings happen in pools full of people.”
With that comment, he left me to talk to a few of my coworkers, one of which was Dr. Brewn.
Dr. Brewn nodded at Garrett, then held out his hand for him to shake. Garrett did so, gave me a look that said ‘be careful’ then disappeared to talk to more people.
I waited for him to disappear before turning to Dr. Brewn, who was limping toward me looking a bit rough.
“Dr. Brewn.” I smiled, but it didn’t reach my eyes. Shit, I was tired. “What did you do to yourself?”
He groaned as he took a seat beside me, wiggling the mouse in front of him to wake up the computer.
“Did it hiking,” he admitted.
I blinked in surprise. “You did?”
“Yeah, in Beaver’s Bend.” He sighed. “I spent the week fishing for trout. Then I went on a couple of hikes. But there was a lot of rain in the area, and I stupidly thought I could make it through this hike despite it being slippery. But hey, look at my fish!”
I looked at the picture he’d pulled up on his phone.
He was with some sort of guide service that ran through the area of Beaver’s Bend. He helped his brother, who lived there, when needed, or when he could get away.
Heck, I’d actually been to Dr. Brewn’s house there. It was right on the river, and there were no houses anywhere around it. A bunch of the nurses from the ER had gone up there on a retreat last summer, and we’d adored it.
“What did you do to your knee?” I wondered.
“Twisted it coming down a bit unbalanced. I think I might’ve torn the ACL,” he admitted as he stood and limped toward the chart in the carousel. “Who do you have today?”
I glanced up and looked at the rooms that I had, blinking when I saw that I had the serial killer’s victim.
“Looks like I’m working with Dr. Bower.” I sighed.
Dr. Bower was nice and all, but he was very abrupt and to the point. Sometimes it was nice to have a meaningful conversation rather than being railroaded into his way of thinking.
“Have fun with that. I’m in minor injuries,” he said as he disappeared around the corner and to the nurses’ station that was set off to the side for the nurses and doctor working that specific area.
There was a lot more traffic there, seeing as there were patients coming in for lacerations, broken bones, and things that weren’t considered serious.
It didn’t make sense for them to be traipsing back and forth across the bottom floor to head back to this particular area, so a nurse had petitioned the ER director for a better area over there and got it.
It was nice and, I agreed, much needed.
Gathering my charts, I quickly familiarized myself with the patients, then went to work.
I saved the serial killer’s victim for last, since she was technically about to head up to the first floor to stay overnight.
I imagined the only reason she was still down here was due to the questions the cops were asking.
I was right.
When I got into the room to check on her, her IV bag was empty, she looked tired as hell, and both of her eyes were almost swollen shut.
The rest of her didn’t look much better.
She had lacerations, contusions, and what looked like a broken right arm.
The bottom of her feet were hurt, and she was clutching onto Atlas’s hand so hard his fingers looked bloodless.
The man questioning her was at the foot of her bed, writing in a notebook.
But I’d seen enough almost the second I walked in.
And ignoring Quaid, who was posted up in the corner of the room, I said, “Everyone out. Now.”
All of them turned to me.
I felt Quaid’s eyes on me and nearly shivered.
“Sorry, but we have more questions.” The man turned, and I recognized his voice as Tobin’s.
“I realize that,” I said. “But she’s just gone through a very traumatic experience. She needs rest right now. She’ll answer your questions later, after she’s accomplished that.”
Tobin grumbled, looking like he was about to put up a protest, but there was my man—and he was my man, wasn’t he?—stepping in the way.
“Let’s head out,” Quaid urged his friend. “We can give them an hour or so.”
Tobin crossed his arms over his chest, and then nodded once in grudging respect.
“There’s a conference room just to the left once you leave out of the ER doors,” I suggested. “Feel free to hole up there. Once she’s recovered a bit, she might want to talk to you again.”