Do No Harm

by Christina McDonald

  “Sir! Sir!” I rushed up to a security guard lounging behind his desk. “Someone’s breaking into my boss’s car! Can you call her? Her extension is four-four-two-two.”

  The security guard leaped up. He called Marjorie, then took his baton out and headed outside. I flattened myself into a quiet nook behind the stairs and watched. Within a few minutes, Marjorie emerged from the elevator. Once she was outside, I rode the elevator upstairs and hurried toward the clinic. I had my keys ready, but in her haste she hadn’t even bothered to lock the door.

  The clinic was small, with two doors: one that patients entered and one they exited. Behind the reception desk was the medical records room, and through that was Marjorie’s office, which was connected to the exam rooms by a hallway. I moved quickly toward Marjorie’s office. I scanned the Post-its on her desk, little beads of sweat popping up on my forehead and above my lip, sliding into my mouth and tasting of fear. There was nothing useful, no log-in code or password.

  My stomach plunged.

  I ran my hand along the underside of the desk, my trembling fingertips snagging on a loose nail. Nothing. I flipped through the colossal stacks of paper and folders. My heart was booming, almost deafening in my ears.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” I muttered.

  I rifled through her desk drawers. Phone charger, paper clips, pens, pencils, loose paper, more sticky notes, but not the one I needed. I checked the filing cabinet, looking for a video surveillance company. If only I knew the company’s name.

  I glanced at the clock. Seven minutes had passed. How much time was left?

  I swiped my sweat-slicked palms on my jeans as I stood in the middle of the office. “Think, Emma, think.”

  My gaze landed on Marjorie’s computer. The screen saver was on, one of those migraine-looking designs flashing in strange geometric patterns. Her log-in and password for the computer were written on a sticky note.

  I sat in her chair and logged in. The screen saver disappeared, revealing a background picture of Marjorie with her husband and their two grown children, smiling in front of a Christmas tree.

  As messy as her office was, Marjorie’s home screen was organized with military precision. I scanned the screen, but there were no folders with passwords or what looked like a surveillance company file. I did a search for all the words I could think of on her hard drive: password, log-in, video.

  Nothing.

  Finally, in desperation, I clicked into her recent downloads. There! She’d downloaded the software for Sunshine Surveillance two weeks ago. And in the application folder she’d saved a Notes file with her log-in name and password.

  “Bingo,” I whispered.

  My phone vibrated. “She’s on her way up,” Gabe whispered.

  “Shit.” Scalding jolts of adrenaline zipped through me. “How long?”

  “She’s in reception at the elevator. Maybe a minute or two.”

  I hung up. A bead of sweat rolled down the slope of my nose. I shook it away.

  “Come on, come on.” I clicked through the folders until I found Recording Log. Each recording was categorized in a dated folder beginning last week. Looking at the date the application had been installed, I could tell they’d begun recording two weeks ago, but it looked like after a week the recordings started overwriting themselves.

  I clicked Disable so no more recording would be done.

  Control A to highlight all. Right-click. Delete. Accept.

  I right-clicked on the Recycling Bin and emptied it.

  My phone vibrated again. Gabe.

  I lunged out of the office, just as I heard the horrible metallic slide of a door opening.

  Marjorie had returned.

  CHAPTER 18

  I PERFORMED A DESPERATE gymnast’s leap down the hall into one of the exam rooms and threw myself behind the door.

  I didn’t have time to close it, so I just huddled in the narrow crack between the door and the wall. My chest heaved as I tried desperately to catch my breath. My back was soaked with sweat. I couldn’t remember if I’d closed the recycling bin on Marjorie’s computer. What if she saw what I’d done? What if her screen saver hadn’t turned back on?

  Marjorie was moving around the reception area. I froze, straining to hear. But I couldn’t tell what she was doing, the sounds muffled by the door. I rested my head against the wall, trying to think through my options.

  I could text Gabe and ask him to come up. Maybe he could distract Marjorie. Or I could try to slip out when she was back in her office. I’d done it before, although that time she’d had music on.

  My phone buzzed again. I pulled it out, my screen lighting up the small exam room. Afraid Marjorie might see the light bleeding out of the office, I curved my palm over the top.

  Gabe: You out?

  I replied with numb, clumsy fingers: Trapped in clinic.

  Gabe: There’s a bunch of cops out front!

  The cops had probably come when Gabe broke into Marjorie’s car.

  I closed my eyes. I was on my own.

  Leather creaked as Marjorie sat down. She was back in her office.

  I stood silent and still for what felt like forever. Rain fell in sheets on the other side of the window, a curtain separating me from the outside world. Sepia shades of yellow cast long rectangular shapes on the tiled floor.

  My eyes adjusted to the darkness. Across the room I could make out the hulking shape of the exam table, the computer on its small desk just beyond. I glanced at the tools in the room, trying to figure out what I could use now. Stethoscope. Scales. Paper towels. Gauze. Reflex hammer.

  If worse came to worst, I could just knock her out. There was always gauze to bandage her afterward. I almost laughed at the absurd thoughts whirling through my brain like demented birds.

  The clinic was set up like a square, reception in front, exam rooms along the corridor at the back. Marjorie’s office was at the end of the hall, facing the exam rooms. Directly across from me was the hallway that led past the medical supply room and out into reception. Marjorie’s office door was open, so sneaking across wasn’t an option unless she was distracted.

  I had to distract her.

  I grabbed the reflex hammer and eased around the open door, tossing it across the corridor toward the medical supply closet. It made a solid thunk, and Marjorie instantly got out of her chair. I peeked through the crack by the door’s hinges. Marjorie’s back was to me as she bent to pick up the little hammer. She then opened the supply closet, momentarily obstructing her view of me.

  This was it.

  I slipped out, scuttling to the left, then cutting right down the hallway toward reception.

  I crouched behind the desk while I waited for her to return to her office, but instead she walked toward reception. I could hear her breathing, the shuffle of her shoes against tiles. My heart banged against my rib cage, my whole body flooded with adrenaline. It felt like my blood was made of fire.

  I waited, sweat dripping down my nose, splashing into my mouth. Finally she turned and shuffled back to her office. I counted to ten before creeping to the front door. My palm was sweaty when I grasped the doorknob. I stepped into the hallway, shut the door with a soft click, and sprinted down the white maze of halls.

  My heart slammed in my chest, bang, bang, bang, trying to get out. I flung myself into the stairwell—no time for the elevator—and raced down, two at a time. At the bottom, I paused in the stairway, trying to get hold of myself. I sent a text to Gabe.

  I’m out.

  I took a few deep, steadying breaths and smoothed my hair, wiping sweaty strands that clung to my forehead. When I pushed through the stairwell door into the bright light and moist warmth of the hospital’s entry, I was still sucking in deep breaths. A few people wandered around near the front reception desk, looking lost and confused.

  I hurried straight for the revolving doors in the entrance, not looking where I was going.

  And ran smack into Nate.

  “Nate! Oh my God!” I gasp
ed. I rubbed my forehead where I’d thwacked into his shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was just…” He cleared his throat and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “There was a break-in in the parking lot.”

  I studied Nate. He was sweating. I mean, I was sweating too, but I’d been running. He wouldn’t usually be called to deal with something like a car break-in. That was a cop’s job, not a detective’s. And why would he start a new case right as he was on his way home? Nate was lying; I was sure of it.

  And suddenly I knew he’d been about to go get the video surveillance footage from Marjorie. Behind my back. It was lucky I’d been here to catch him.

  I let a smile slide into place and linked my arm through his, moving us toward the revolving doors. But Nate didn’t budge.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Didn’t you get my text? I forgot my purse.” I laughed. “It was in the bathroom all the way up on the oncology floor. Your mom’s with Josh.”

  Nate laughed too, and nodded at my sweaty head. “And did you run all the way up and back down?”

  I swiped at a loose tendril of hair glued to my forehead. “Yeah. I haven’t been getting a lot of exercise lately so I thought I’d run up the stairs.”

  “Did you see anybody suspicious wandering around the parking lot?”

  I frowned and pretended to think about it. “The parking lot?”

  “Yeah. Dark clothes, beanie. Likely male.”

  I caught a glimpse of Gabe walking casually past the entrance. He was wearing jeans and a blue blazer, carrying a pink balloon that said IT’S A GIRL. One of the cops smiled at him and said congratulations. Gabe nodded and returned the smile, continuing past the door. Our eyes met, fleetingly. As he moved away, I caught sight of a beanie sticking out of his blazer pocket. I would’ve laughed if it wasn’t all so completely terrifying.

  “Emma? Emma! I’m talking to you.”

  We stepped outside, the brisk wind buffeting us as we crossed the parking lot. “Sorry. No, I went upstairs, got my purse, and then I had to go to the bathroom, so I stopped there. And then I came back downstairs.”

  “Did you see anyone matching that description come inside?”

  “I don’t think so. Maybe they came in the back way?”

  “Who were you with? Did they see anything?”

  “I wasn’t with anybody.”

  Nate studied me, his eyes narrowing. Cop’s eyes. Dead eyes. The ones that showed he had something cold at his core. He could turn it off and on when he wanted to, when he was on the scent of a case. But this was the first time he’d ever looked at me like that.

  Nate was cheerful, but he was also a detective, I reminded myself. He was susceptible to suspicion and skepticism. I just had to convince him not to be suspicious of me.

  “While it’s always fun being interrogated by my husband, I’d really like to go home now,” I said, letting sarcasm drape my words.

  Nate smiled then, an unexpected smile, his good-cop smile. “Just try to remember.”

  A crackle of frustration zipped through me, but my phone chimed the arrival of a text before I could reply. It was from my colleague Julia.

  I need your help.

  I stopped walking so abruptly that Nate’s arm jerked my shoulder socket.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  I showed him the text. “I think I’ll swing by Julia’s on the way home.”

  He shook his head. “Julia’s in a lot of deep shit. You should stay away for now.”

  “She’s my friend. I need to go.”

  “Why? Once we have that surveillance video, the courts are going to throw the book at her. If you get pulled into a drug case, it won’t look good for you. And it won’t look good for me if my wife is involved in even a hint of a drug case while I’m trying to get a promotion. I don’t want you getting involved.”

  I stepped away from him. “Are you telling me I’m not allowed to go to my friend’s house?” I asked, my voice icy.

  “Of course not! I’m just saying, think of your career. Think of mine. And if you won’t think of anything else, think of Josh!”

  Anger kicked inside me, bitter and raw as an oozing wound.

  “I can’t believe you’re implying I don’t think of Josh. He is all I think of!”

  Nate shoved a hand through his hair. There were mud-colored circles under his eyes. He’d been working late every night, up early every morning. Trying to spend time with Josh when he could. The exhaustion and strain were starting to show.

  “He’s all I think of too!” he said wearily. “That’s why I’m trying to solve this case. We need this promotion, Emma.”

  Nate was only a few feet from me, but the distance might as well have been a mile. The space between us prickled, charged with the energy of our anger, suspicions, and fear. I stared at my husband, wanting to reach out and touch him, to pull him closer to me, but I couldn’t. Instead I took another step away from him.

  We were not in this together.

  Bitterness stung deep in my belly.

  “I can’t just abandon her,” I said.

  I turned and got in my car. I adjusted the rearview mirror and watched as Nate stared at me helplessly, then got in his police cruiser. He started the engine and drove away, the distance growing until he turned and I could no longer see him.

  CHAPTER 19

  I DROVE TOWARD JULIA’S, guilt filling my chest with an ache so fierce it threatened to crush the air from my lungs. What I was doing was very dangerous. I was risking everything. Nate’s love and devotion. My son’s respect. My career. My freedom.

  Everything felt unstable and scary when Nate and I argued. But selling prescriptions was the only tool I had to get money to pay for Josh’s treatment. I didn’t know what else to do. I’d already called asking for an increase to my credit limit on both my credit cards, but neither had been enough.

  I pulled into the long driveway that led to Julia’s house, a small blue Craftsman with white-painted shutters, wood-scalloped rafter tails, and a cute wraparound porch.

  My phone buzzed as I parked, and when I looked at the text, I saw it was from Nate. I’m sorry for being a shithead. I love you. Of course you should see Julia. P.S. Happy first kiss anniversary.

  Relief gushed, warm and sweet, into my chest. I replied: I’m sorry too. I think we’re both just stressed. I love you back. X

  Nate always remembered. Every year. Even amid Josh’s sickness and our squabbles, he had remembered.

  After I’d stitched up Nate’s hand at Harborview, I hadn’t expected to ever see him again. But then he was there at a Christmas party my roommate made me go to. I’d invited Gabe to the party that morning as he was dashing out of my apartment. But about an hour after arriving I knew he wasn’t coming. My high heels were pinching my feet, and I was feeling rejected and alone and, by that time, a little tipsy.

  I’d run into Nate—literally—as I headed outside. He was looking down at his phone and we collided, red liquid from his cup spilling down the front of my dress.

  “Oh, shit!” he’d exclaimed, eyes wide with horror. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t watching—I mean, I was texting my mom.”

  I arched an eyebrow.

  “Or something less dorky.” He smiled, the left corner of his mouth pulling up in a way that was completely disarming. “It’s you.”

  And there it was. Il colpo di fulmine. The thunderbolt hit me. Again.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I remember the physical sensation of relief I’d felt seeing him again. His touch felt like oxygen.

  Nate held his hand up to show me his scar, a neat seam. “You’d barely know it was there. Thank you.”

  I flushed. “It was nothing.”

  “Hey, do you want me to take you home to get changed?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Nate laughed at my expression. “I mean, your dress. It’s covered in cranberry juice.”

  “Oh!” I bru
shed at the damp patches. “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t you trust me?” He smiled.

  The funny thing was, I did trust him. Without even knowing him, I felt a closeness that I’d never felt before.

  We went back to my apartment and stayed up talking all night. We never returned to the party. And when Gabe finally called a few weeks later, I didn’t answer the phone. I never looked back.

  Nate had told me his dad had suffered a stroke a few years back. He told me about his high school sweetheart who’d abruptly dumped him the day before he left for the police academy. He told me about his friend Robbie, who’d killed himself right before graduation, and the guilt he carried because he’d allowed Robbie to be bullied.

  I’d realized then that there was so much more to Nate than met the eye. He seemed so happy-go-lucky, sweet, with a little bit of swagger. But there was something a little broken, hidden like a bruise before it purpled the skin. I could see it in his eyes. It drew me to him as much as our initial chemistry had.

  Maybe I wanted to fix him a little bit.

  I walked up the gravel path almost hidden by dripping leaves and evergreen bushes to Julia’s front door. As I lifted my hand to knock, it opened, and Kia Sharpe nearly walked straight into me.

  I was surprised to see her—Nate had said Julia and Kia were dating, but she was a detective and Julia had been arrested. Wasn’t there some sort of conflict of interest there? And why would someone as sweet and fuzzy as Julia date a prickly bitch like Kia?

  Kia trained her dark eyes on me. “What are you doing here?” she asked, her usual charming self.

  It was no secret that we didn’t like each other. Nate had once suggested that I was jealous, but it wasn’t that. Kia was just hard to get along with. She was tiny, with something sharp and complicated coiled beneath the surface that somehow inflated her size.

  “Julia texted me. I thought I’d stop by and see how she’s doing.”

  Kia stepped outside, pulling the door shut but not latching it. She rubbed a hand over her square jaw and lowered her voice. “Julia’s been released on bail. She isn’t in a good place right now. Maybe come back another time?”