Kit

by S. M. West

  “Hey, it’s okay.” I gently glide my hand down her silky curls, rubbing small circles along the tight muscles of her back. She buries her face in my chest, the anguished heat of her cries seeping into my body.

  Eventually, she lifts her head. “Do they think I have more pills?”

  It isn’t much of a leap to think the box we found in the clinic at one point in time had been filled with small baggies of pills.

  And thanks to Elliot’s text and the fact he had the compartment under the floor of the medical supply closet built, odds are he’s behind those shipments and the clinic was a delivery destination. From there, the pills were smuggled out by staff, patients, or both. Or the clinic was used to deal drugs.

  All of this is speculation, no proof. I’ve filled in holes and jumped to conclusions based on the little we have, yet sharing my theories at this point won’t bode well for me.

  She’s too raw and unsettled, and when she discovers the clinic was used for drug trafficking, she’ll lash out at the messenger. Unfortunately, that poor bastard is me.

  There’s still a lot I need to figure out before I share any of this with her. Besides, for the risk, effort, and trouble someone is willing to take on, as shown by last night’s inferno and now tossing Caro’s home, we’re not talking about small change or a few drugs.

  This is huge. And they’re willing to go to great lengths.

  Elliot is the key to all this. We must find Elliot fast.

  Caro

  “You should leave.” My hand, secure in Kit’s, rests on his muscled thigh.

  I quickly changed while in the house, stuffing his shirt and my torn pants into a plastic bag inside a small suitcase I took with me.

  We’re in his SUV in my driveway with warm air blowing from the vents, waiting for the police to arrive. And that’s why he shouldn’t be here, because I don’t want him implicated. But I’m more than grateful that he is. I can’t imagine doing this alone.

  “Not a chance.” The intensity of his voice matches the fierce look in his eyes.

  It’s more than determination; a protective and animalistic stare drills into my soul, destroying the wall around my heart.

  I don’t deserve his unwavering protection and endless compassion. At one time, I could have included love into that mix but…I made sure to kill his love for me.

  Fool.

  Through the years I’ve been nothing but distant, and yet, this man’s loyalty, his concern for my well-being has never faltered. He’s been there time and time again when Nick’s asked and even when not asked.

  Reluctantly, I slip my hand from his. “You said so yourself, Holman’s looking at you for this.”

  We called the police twenty minutes ago and their arrival is imminent. As much as I want to tell them everything, about the pill and vault in the clinic and even about Elliot, it makes us look like we can’t be trusted or have something to hide.

  “We’re in this together.” He grabs my hand again and squeezes before laying it back on his leg. While comforted by his touch, my stomach roils. I’m unworthy of his devotion. I was so wrong to ever leave him.

  Detective Holman is the first to step from the entourage of cars and vans pulling up to the curb. They descend upon my home like you’d see in a scene from any TV crime show.

  We’re told to stay in the car, a cop standing sentinel, while the detective goes inside. Many minutes later, he exits, beckoning us to meet him halfway.

  Holman’s in the same bedraggled clothes from the night before and as surly as he was when we first met. He isn’t impressed to find us involved in another incident in less than twenty-four hours. He emits a sour odor from his mouth and carries the same spiralbound notebook he had before.

  “You two can’t stay out of trouble, can you?” The tip of his pen scratches at his weathered face, covered in the beginnings of a gray beard. “Take me through what you found when you arrived, why you were here and so on.”

  His benign tone bothers me. I’m tired of his fake boredom, as if his lack of interest will get us to reveal more than if he was engaged and pleasant. Idiot.

  I lie about how far into my place we went, and the sad truth is, it’s getting easier to leave out details. Holman doesn’t instill any kind of confidence. I’m not even sure he’s competent at his job.

  “Dr. Archer, you’ll have to come down to the station and give an official statement. About both last night and today.” He scribbles something in his notepad, and from this angle it’s illegible to me, looking like chicken scratch.

  I’d rather not go to the station but it doesn’t sound like we have much choice.

  “Mr. Jensen, you too.” His once lethargic regard is suddenly laser-focused on Kit, as if trying to unnerve him.

  The man beside me is wound tight, his muscles tense and bunched, and as much as Kit may want to object to or delay Holman’s order, he doesn’t. My respect for him grows even more, not reacting to this annoying man.

  I watch as the detective motions for an officer to escort us to the police station where he’ll meet us. What? Does he think we’re going to make a run for it?

  As we drive to the station, Kit says, “Remember, it’s better if our recall of the events or some of the details from the clinic explosion differ. If we say the exact same thing, it’ll sound rehearsed.”

  I nod. I’m not worried. I’ve already given my account last night at the hospital and this is more of the same. He turns into the lot, parks, and meets me on my side of the vehicle.

  “Don’t stress about how you say things.” He smiles, trying to reassure me. “Just keep it simple and as close to the truth as possible.”

  “I’m okay, really.” I pull my jacket around me, heading toward the police officer waiting for us by the door.

  As expected, Holman carries on his little games and power plays, leaving us in separate rooms. I wait for nearly two hours before I’m interviewed, and during that time, Nick sends a group text to Kit and me.

  Nick: The Home is all clear. Nothing. Any word from Elliot?

  Me: Nothing. I just called him again and got voicemail. Again.

  My fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitating to mention the break-in at my house. Nick’s already itching to come home, and I feel awful because I’m sure the last day of their vacation is anything but peaceful.

  Kit: We’re at the police station. Giving official statements.

  I wait, wondering if Kit will say anything else, and then another text comes in from my brother.

  Nick: OK. Kit, Paddy’s going to text or call about Elliot’s phone.

  I gave him Elliot’s number earlier today so they could try and locate it based on its signal.

  Kit sends a thumbs-up emoji and that’s it. They’re silent for the rest of my wait. The interview is as expected. Holman asks almost the same questions from last night and asks me to write it down and sign. Then I’m told to wait in the front of the station while Kit’s statement is taken.

  “You okay?” Kit’s expression is neutral but worn as he leads me to the exit of the station several hours after we arrived.

  Holman watches us, scrutinizing how close we stand to each other, if we linger or anything else, as if our movements can tell him anything.

  I wait until we’re in the car to say anything. “I’m fine. You?” I buckle my seat belt and he nods. “Now what?”

  “We pay Elliot a visit.”

  I never thought I’d be anxious to see Elliot, even excited, but I am. The sooner we talk to him, the closer we’ll be to putting all of this behind us.

  “Okay, and I can drop off the pill at the lab.” I’m not sure of the significance of confirming the drug—my need is more curiosity than anything else—but I suspect Kit and Nick will know who to ask for more information based on the drug.

  “Where’s the lab?”

  “Near the hospital.”

  We head downtown to University Avenue, to a stretch known as “Hospital Row” because, as it sounds, several hospitals
are situated one next to the other on both sides of the multiple-lane road. When in med school, I’d interned at one and even picked up extra hours at another.

  Elliot works in the ER for one of the hospitals and my friend Sanjay in a lab at another. We stop at the lab first and rather than waste time looking for a parking spot, Kit’s going to drive around.

  Before I get out of the car, he takes a picture of both sides of the tablet and sends Nick and me a copy of the photo.

  Sanjay is alone in the lab and he smiles, expecting me as I called him on the way here. We’re friends from med school, where we took pharmacology together. I’ve helped him out in the past, no questions asked, and he’s agreed to do the same for me.

  “Hello, Caro, it’s been a while.” He frowns as I near him. “How are you? What happened?”

  Never one for a lot of makeup, I only put on what was necessary in the car while we waited for the police outside my house. But I’m not an expert, and in some spots, you can see faint scratches or bruising.

  I lean in for a quick hug and smile. “I’m okay. There was a fire at the walk-in clinic I work at.”

  “No shit. Did anyone get hurt?”

  “Fortunately, no.” I hand him the little bag with the pill, sensing he’ll ask more questions about the fire if I let him. “Here’s the tablet. Can you find out what it is as soon as possible?”

  He examines the pill and looks up at me. “First guess, I’d say oxy.”

  I nod; that’s what I’d told him on the phone. “How quickly do you need it?”

  “Like yesterday.” I’m sheepish, knowing he’ll have to squeeze it into whatever else he has on his plate.

  “All right, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you. Call or text me when you have something.”

  “Will do.”

  Next, we drive half a block up the street to the hospital where Elliot works. It doesn’t take long to find out Dr. Foley has missed several shifts. He called in sick for the first two but as for his third shift, today, no one has heard from him. If he doesn’t show up tomorrow, they’re going to send someone to check on him.

  Normally, this kind of information wouldn’t be readily available to just anyone. Fortunately, the nurse I speak to knows me and is under the assumption Elliot and I are still dating. I don’t correct her, although I have to do some fast talking to explain why I don’t know where he is or why he hasn’t been in to work.

  Lying is becoming a habit, and I hate it even if it’s for a good cause—saving my life.

  Kit is where I left him, leaning against a wall in the ER waiting area. I asked him not to come with me so as not to raise any suspicion. I know a fair number of people in the ER from working here years ago, and it’s easier to get information on my own.

  He’s oblivious or ignoring the admiring stares from several women in the waiting area. He’s hard to miss, and not only because of his brawny six-foot-five frame and the T-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders.

  Rough-edged good looks and just-got-out-of-bed tousled caramel locks would make anyone take a second look. And his face…oh my. Eyes dark and insanely intense. His nose slightly crooked from being broken at least once, a strong angular jaw, and those damn perfect lips. He’s my kind of beautiful, and just being near him is messing with my head.

  My fingers massage at my temple, banishing my heated thoughts. “Elliot has missed his last three shifts.”

  “What’s that, three days since anyone here has seen him?” He isn’t surprised, more confirming a conclusion he had already reached.

  “Yes, and they’ve tried calling him today and nothing.” I force my gaze from his defined chest back to his eyes. “We could go to his place and check things out for ourselves.”

  He nods, pulling car keys from his jacket pocket. “Do you know where he lives?”

  “Dr. Archer, is that you?” From behind, a man’s smooth drawl skates over me and I shiver, cringing.

  Kit’s eyes lift to meet whoever is there as I face Victor Walsh, President & CEO of the hospital, decked out in a charcoal bespoke three-piece suit.

  His hair, more salt than pepper, sweeps up and off his high, smooth forehead in a classic Cary Grant coif, and his fading tan, from vacationing somewhere warm, seems darker in contrast to the gleaming pearly whites of his smile.

  “Mr. Walsh.” I shake his hand and force a casual smile of my own.

  I’m not a fan of healthcare administrators, and in addition to the ER sucking every ounce of life from me, men like Walsh are right up there among the reasons I no longer work for a hospital.

  “I thought that was you. To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit today?” He gives Kit the once-over but it’s cursory, his attention squarely back to me.

  “I had to drop something off for a friend. How are you?”

  “I’m great, thanks. We were in St. Barts, our annual vacation. It’s so lovely this time of year. But we made sure to come back in time for Léa’s investor reception. Will you be there?” He oozes fake charm and it pains me to look at him.

  Yes, the party…tomorrow night. I hadn’t completely forgotten about it, but with everything going on, it felt days away.

  “Yes. So glad you’ll be there.” It takes effort not to choke on my phony words.

  The man is a pompous ass and a misogynistic prick. I’ve heard too many rumors not to believe there must be a grain of truth in all the ugly stories.

  Sadly, the success and viability of Léa’s Home depends on the likes of Victor Walsh. Not only for his hefty donations, but in our efforts to gain government funding, the Victors of the world carry a lot of clout. He’s well respected in the medical community and his word, in support of the Home, would go a long way.

  Fortunately, not all hospital bureaucrats are pigs like him and so tomorrow’s event won’t be one big torture fest. Yet for the time being, I have to play the game for the good of the Home.

  “I’m looking forward to it.” His hand rises as if about to touch my arm but he thinks better of it, letting it fall back to his side. “Please save a dance for me.”

  My laughter is unnatural and like broken glass, cutting at my throat on its release. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  The thought of the party reminds me that I forgot to take something to wear when we were at my place. I’ll have to call Willow and ask to borrow a dress. We’re the same size.

  Ready to leave, I prepare to slink away without further chitchat, but no such luck—Victor isn’t done. “Caroline.”

  I cringe, loathing the use of my full name. Only my mother called me that, and she’s my least favorite person. I glance over my shoulder at him and his brow is furrowed, scrutinizing my face.

  Without any warning, his hand glides across my cheek and I pull back, sucking in a breath as something sours in my stomach.

  A growl breaches Kit’s tight lips and the heat of him envelops my side. “Get your hands off her.”

  His order startles the older man as much as it does me, and Victor drops his hand, stepping away from us.

  “Apologies.” Flustered or embarrassed, his bronze cheeks redden. “I meant no harm. I noticed the cuts on your face. What happened? Are you all right?”

  His eyes now narrow on Kit and the accusation hangs between us like the resounding fire of gunshot. Shocking and deafening. None of us speak for a beat or two, maybe more.

  “It’s nothing.” I find my voice, inching closer to my friend. “I just…” I grapple for whether to tell him, as it could mean more questions.

  My hand slips into Kit’s, seeking his comfort, and in addition to that, butterflies take flight in my stomach.

  Victor will hear about what happened eventually. An explosion like that will make the gossip rounds. “There was a fire at the clinic where I work. Fortunately, no one was hurt.”

  “Oh, that’s horrible. I’m glad to hear you’re okay.” He studies my features more carefully. “Are the pol—”

  “It was nice seein
g you.” I drop Kit’s hand, eager to end this conversation, and turn around, my back now to Victor.

  “And you too,” he murmurs.

  I blow out a breath and hustle down the hall. Both of us remain quiet, lost in our own thoughts as we make our way to the car.

  “Let me find Elliot’s address.” I use the map on my phone and enter it. Tomorrow night at the investor reception, it’s going to be more of the same—endless questions about my bruises and cuts. I need to do a better job with makeup because I can’t handle hours of that.

  Kit drives toward the parking lot exit, clutching the steering wheel tightly. “Who was that guy?”

  “He’s the president and CEO of the hospital.”

  “Is he normally that touchy-feely?” Irritation rings in his every word.

  “No. He’s never touched me before.” I shiver with the admission, wondering why the man crossed that unspoken line today. I do look banged up, but we aren’t friends. Even if he was concerned, it gave him no reason to touch me like that.

  “Asshole.” He makes a sharp turn onto the highway, causing me to grab the handle of the door.

  “Hey, forget about him.” I want to ease his frustration. We’re both tense and desperate for answers. Kit shouldn’t be wasting his time on the likes of Victor Walsh.

  “Wish I could.” He switches lanes. “Do you have that telephone number from the labels?”

  “Yes.” I pull the paper from my pocket.

  “Let’s call it.” Suddenly, my stomach twists, not prepared for what to say or what to expect.

  By now, I hoped we’d have found Elliot and we needn’t make this call.

  “What should I say?” I tighten my jaw at the way I sound like a little girl, nervous and uncertain.

  “Put it on speaker and I can do the talking.” His voice is calm and confident and I relax a little.

  While he drives, I dial the number using his phone, which is hooked up to the car’s stereo system. On the first ring, an automated voice kicks in. “We're sorry, you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check your number and try your call again.”