by S. M. West
If it’s drugs, nothing here looks like something you couldn’t easily get. Definitely not something worth harassing a doctor and nurse in front of witnesses and then coming back to break in for and risk getting caught.
On the same wavelength, Caro interrupts my thoughts. “But there’s nothing stronger in there than what you can get over the counter in any drug store.” She rakes a hand through her hair, securing the tie.
“Can you tell if there’s anything missing?” The beam moves slowly across each row of the cupboard.
Caro’s now at my side, concentrating and shaking her head. “Nothing looks out of place.”
I grab at the handle, checking to see if it’s unlocked like the clinic door was.
“Kit, you shouldn’t touch that. You’re contaminating any evidence.”
“And you touching the box,”—I dip my chin to Elliot’s stuff on the counter— “isn’t?” I give her my best nice try smirk.
Her look, a cold, hard stare, is sadly all too reminiscent of our final days together. This very topic—the law—was another sticking point in our relationship and why she broke things off.
I can no longer twist myself in knots about it. For the most part I’m law-abiding, and sure, some things are slightly gray, but a little variety isn’t a bad thing.
Caro is a rule follower, always doing things by the book. Not me. Much like her brother, I want to be in control and would rather take my chances on my own. The cops, or those on the side of law, haven’t always had my back.
“Good point.” Her shoulders deflate. “So now what?”
“You’ve had break-ins before, right?” I recall from conversations with Nick in the past as I bury the surging frustration and anger that came every time I heard she might have been hurt.
“Yes…” Her gaze scans the room and then the hallway behind her. “This feels different.”
“How?”
She doesn’t say a word, and I sense her reluctance to share any information. The idea of partnering with me must drive her mad. As much as she may not like me here, too bad. I'm not leaving her alone no matter how uncomfortable it makes her. I care about her and will do what’s needed to get her out of harm’s way.
“The other break-ins had been for shelter. A homeless person looking for somewhere to sleep for the night. And no one ever came back here or damaged anything.”
“What about for drugs?” I look to the locked cabinet again.
“Sure, some people came in demanding opioids, but we don’t have any.”
There’s an island in the middle of the room, and three of the four walls contain shelves of medical supplies. She rifles through each shelf, taking inventory.
“Besides, that stopped once we put up the signs saying we didn’t have narcotics and we don’t give out prescriptions for opioids. Patients have to get them from their family doctor or a hospital.”
Illegal prescription drugs are a thing. A booming market, not just in Toronto but globally, and annually tens of thousands of people around the world die from opioid overdoses.
“Then there’s also the texts,” she mumbles more to herself, and at the same time, a phone buzzes. It isn’t mine.
“Can I see them?” The hair on the back of my neck prickles. Is this another one coming in?
She pulls her phone from her jacket, staring at the screen for what feels like an eternity. Finally, she lifts her head and I’m hit with her troubled expression.
“It’s the same private number. Again.” She holds up the phone so the screen faces me.
I read the most recent text and then the ones before. All of it is ominous, and my insides coil with apprehension.
“It looks like your last text, the hello, prompted this latest text. Do you think it’s the guys from earlier today?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” Caro’s rattled, moving closer. For what? Protection?
We both stare at the text once more.
Unknown: This isn’t a joke. Where the fuck is it?
Caro
My heartbeat thunders in my ears, and I’m only filled with gratitude to have Kit by my side. When he first appeared in the doorway with a gun aimed at me, I’d been a ball of confusion.
Part excited, since my love and desire for him is still alive and kicking, and part annoyed at Nick for not trusting me to do this on my own. And my warring emotions are even directed at Kit for killing my silly hope.
He’s never far from my mind, but I’ve been thinking more about him lately. I’d been considering reaching out, seeing if maybe he could forgive me. That maybe things could be different—better—now that we had both grown and his life was different.
But the gun in his hand only reinforces all the concerns I’d had when we were together. Violence is still part of his life.
But now, with these mysterious texts and their subtle threats—some not so subtle—I don’t want to be alone. I won’t lie—I’m scared, and if I have to have someone by my side, I want Kit.
He’s my ex, but not just any old flame. I was with him the longest, loved only him, and I dreamed of settling down with him.
The last time we talked was awkward and tense. I said some horrible things, and I told him to stay away. Never talk to me again. And until today, he has respected my wishes.
Sometimes I still struggle with how things ended because a part of me hadn’t expected him to give up so easily, and when he did, I didn’t know what to do.
Finally, I came to grips with reality. I’d lost him and I couldn’t fault him for disappearing from my life. So the fact that he’s here now is huge. I’ve always wanted Kit, even when I told him to leave.
“Caro, are there any more texts?” His somber tone pulls me back to the present.
I shake my head, handing him the phone. “No, just these, and they started today.”
“Do you have any idea who these people are?” Concerned brown eyes bore into me.
“I don’t know who they are or what they’re talking about. Until today, I’d never seen those men. The police said they’d let us know if they’re able to identify who the men are from the video.”
“Okay. And still nothing from Elliot?” He hands me back my phone and then starts to roam the small room, examining the rows upon rows of supplies with renewed interest.
“Nothing.” I want to yell at Elliot if he ever calls me back.
Yes, he likes to keep people waiting, show how busy and important he is, but this is ridiculous.
“Call him again.” His order sparks a burst of annoyance, but I have to remind myself he’s here and trying to help me.
He squats onto his haunches in a corner where two boxes rest, a recent delivery of medical supplies, and proceeds to open them with a switchblade he fishes from his pocket.
Always with a weapon. Do things change? Does it matter anymore?
My fingers rake through my hair, curling at my scalp and lightly tugging. Hopefully the slight pain will incite a new thought or banish any frustration.
“Caro, call him now.” Kit snaps his fingers in front of me, and I’m taken aback, not remembering him being so bossy.
Or more like forgetting he can be demanding when he’s concerned. He’s a kindhearted man, and despite his large, muscled frame that has people shaking in their shoes upon first sight, he wouldn’t hurt you unless you’re a threat. He isn’t that kind of man.
“Fine. Relax.” I make the call, not holding out for an answer.
“Voicemail,” I say to him and then leave another message, following it up with a text to the same number.
“So you two are no longer together?” He runs his hand against parts of the wall, curling his knuckles and rapping ever so often.
“We broke up five months ago.” The prickly heat of embarrassment creeps up my spine at admitting this to him. After all, Kit always said Elliot wasn’t right for me, and he wasn’t wrong.
“What are you doing?” I ask, pushing any more thoughts of both my exes from my mind.
“I’m trying to figure out if anything is behind these walls. Does Elliot still work here?” He’s still walking the perimeter of the room, lightly knocking on parts of the wall.
“No.” This time my frustration slips out and it isn’t at him, but more the situation.
“Do any of these shelves move?” He grips the sides of a shelving unit and lightly tugs.
“No, they’re screwed into the wall.”
Nodding, he stamps his foot a few more times and stops to listen, repeating the process over and over. He’s methodical, working from the outside in, and it isn’t long before the now-familiar thud shifts to a hollow thunk.
“Wait. Did you hear that?” I inch closer, now very intrigued.
At first, his actions seemed pointless, but something might be there. He’s in front of the island with his boot half-on and half-off the black anti-fatigue mat. The toe of his boot nudges the mat a few inches, revealing the corner of…a door?
What on earth? Is it a secret compartment? Or an exit from the building?
Kit bends and shoves the black rubber out of the way. There’s a square door, about four feet by four feet, with a metal ring in the center. There isn’t any kind of lock.
I drop down beside him and he looks to me. “Did you know this was here?”
“No. I’ve never seen this before, and it wasn’t there when the clinic first opened. I don’t know how or when…”
I’ve worked at the clinic since day one and even toured the place during construction. This door, hatch, or whatever you call it, leading God knows where, wasn’t here.
“This looks newer than the rest of the floor.” He presses on the tile. “Was any work done on this room?”
“Yes.” A memory slashes at me like a whip. “It was Elliot, right after he joined the clinic. That was around the same time Léa’s Home had just opened.”
Like now, my days are split between the clinic and the Home, but things were moving at a snail’s pace at the Home. A day here or there wasn’t working. At that rate, it would have taken us years until we were fully operational.
“Go on.” Kit slides his finger into the metal ring.
“I took two weeks off from the clinic to focus on the Home. I had to train staff and put processes in place. Elliot ran things for me at the clinic during that time. There was another woman here at the time, Flora, and she was in charge of doing most of the office manager type things. Willow, the nurse here, was only part-time then and I remember she was the one to tell me work was being done on the storage room.” The words tumble from me like water from a tap.
I’m rambling, trying to keep up with all these snippets of things that happened in the past. Things that at the time seemed insignificant but now feel like they hold such meaning.
The door leading under the floor opens easily, and it looks like a metal containment space. It isn’t very big, but it’s dark and only a portion of the space is visible from the opening.
It appears to be empty and I want to scream, annoyed and exhausted. So what if we found this vault under the floor? If there’s nothing in it, that’s all we have. Nothing. Another dead end.
“Do you think whatever was in here was what those guys were after?”
“Maybe. Tell me more about when Elliot could have had this built.” Kit takes out his phone again and then gives me his full attention.
“I remember thinking it was strange that Elliot never said anything to me and when I called him about it, he said it was a surprise. I even remember him getting upset with Willow for telling me.”
Mentally, I’m back all those months ago and recall that was the first of many disagreements Elliot would have with Willow. He never liked her, and that should have been a sign that we wouldn’t last.
“There’d been so much going on at the Home that I never gave it a second thought. And then when I saw he’d put in an island and new shelves…”
“You didn’t question him any further,” he finishes for me, and while his voice is neutral, there’s something in his eyes.
He’d never say it out loud, but I can’t help but feel it’s an I told you so. At the time, when Kit made comments about Elliot being stuck-up and arrogant, we had been talking, but rarely, and I’d chalked it up to jealousy. We weren’t together, but there was no denying we still cared deeply for one another. Always would.
But I should have known better. He isn’t the jealous type. He’s good at reading people, much like Nick, and his dislike was more about who Elliot was or wasn’t than anything to do with me.
What an idiot I was.
“Why didn’t I question him more?” I feel my lower back slump into the counter, the weight of everything hitting me at once.
Sure, my relationship with Elliot was new at the time but I wasn’t blind to him. We were taking things slow, and truth be told, our relationship never advanced.
With the benefit of time and hindsight, I’d had reservations about Elliot from the beginning. He’d pursued me, and there was something about him that had me keeping my distance. That’s why I eventually ended things.
“Don’t beat yourself up. It might be nothing.” He doesn’t believe that and it’s clear in his voice, but his attempt to make me feel better brings a small smile.
He jumps into the container, getting onto his knees, and I peer in after him, but it’s so very dark and cramped. A vault is the closest thing I can compare it to. He crouches as low as he can go, and given his big, brawny frame, he still takes up almost all the space.
Out of my view, he pulls at something, then hands me an open cardboard box, bigger than a toaster. “Check this out.”
“Where was that? I thought there was nothing in there?”
“It was in the far corner, we wouldn’t have seen it from the door.”
The box is light, it may even be empty, and the first thing to catch my eye is my name and the clinic address on a label affixed to the outside. Fear grips my insides.
“What on earth?” This makes no sense. Deliveries to the clinic aren’t personally addressed nor do they come in boxes like this.
“What is it?” His voice is muffled with his head inside the container.
“My name’s on the box label, but most everything about it is wrong. And I’ve never seen a box like this before.”
I open the box, and the bottom is covered in popcorn-sized chunks of Styrofoam packaging material.
Carefully, my hands swim through the kernels, coming across a wad of paper. I remove it and flatten the edges. It’s a page of labels with all but one removed and it looks a lot like what’s on the front of the box. Except this label includes a number.
“I’ve got a phone number.” I hold out the paper, and Kit calls from under the floor, “Good.”
Buoyed by this one clue, I want to make sure there isn’t anything else, even if I have to take out every single kernel. I dump mounds of packaging onto the counter and there at the bottom, there’s a blue tablet, long and cylindrical in shape, enclosed in a small, almost quarter-sized baggie.
This could be a number of different drugs, so I look carefully at the capsule for any indication. Prescription pills usually have numbers and letters to indicate the drug. One side of the pill is imprinted with a strange bug-like icon, and the other with the letters OC. Oxycontin.
“Kit, look at this.” I bend over, holding up the bag as he sits up, curling his hands over the edges, readying to lift himself out.
“Damn, there’s our reason for someone to break in. That’s probably what they were looking for. Is that the only one? Do you know what it is?”
“Yes, it’s the only one. It’s Oxycon—”
“Fuck.” Kit’s staring at something inside the vault.
“What is it?” My gaze locks with his, tension emanating from his tense jaw and rigid brow.
“It looks like opening this triggered some kind of countdown. Here in the hinge of the door.” He jumps out of the container and points to tiny red digits counting down. “There’s
a timer. We have ninety seconds.”
“Until what?” Alarms scratch at the darkest corners of my mind.
“It could mean any number of things. We gotta go.”
His hand wraps around my bicep and my mind spins, eyes glued to the timer. We now have eighty-three seconds.
My phone buzzes again, and he stops in his tracks as my blood turns cold. I shove the pill and paper into my pocket and remove the phone. It’s a text from Elliot.
Elliot: What have you done? Get out of there. NOW.
“Shit. He knows we’re here and something bad is going to happen. Let’s get out of here.” His tone and expression are tightly wound, and every word plunges into my dread like a dagger.
“The back exit is closer.” The words come from me but I don’t recognize my voice.
I wince when Kit yanks my arm, nearly taking it from the socket. Running alongside him, I rush down the hall to the red exit sign.
My heartrate thunders in my ears, panicked tears springing to my eyes. Not knowing how much time we have left and what will happen when it runs out scrambles my thoughts and fills me with a cold and deadly fright.
We both push on the metal bar in the middle of the door, and it swings out into the icy darkness. The shrill emergency alarm pierces the still night.
“Kit, slow down,” I cry. Danger and the possibility of death claw at my insides, rattle my bones, and force all the air from my lungs.
The gravitational force hits me first, punching at my back before the earsplitting blast or searing heat registers.
An explosion rocks the ground beneath my feet, and I’m lifted from the pavement as if I’m a Lost Boy and can fly.
Fingers intertwined with his, I cling to his hand, desperate not to leave his side, but it’s out of my control. Something heavy whacks the back of my head.
A white-hot pain shoots through my skull, down my neck, and into my shoulders. My neck cracks forward, sight and sound shifting and blurring.
I’m inside Edvard Munch’s Scream painting, and my vision tunnels to a dark pinpoint in the distance. My lungs fill, burning, and blackness as dark and thick as tar eclipses everything.