Page 43 of Reckoning

What was I thinking? What was he thinking? And this wasn’t the first time he’d tried this? The man needed antidepressants, not opioids. Was he an addict, or was it something he only took occasionally? I turned to Joshua, who was halfway down the hall. “He said he left a note.”

“I’m looking for it,” he snapped, and I ran after him, all too aware that my hand was still dripping blood behind me.

He slammed a door shut behind him, but I barreled through it a moment later, barely taking the time to observe the room we entered, except to note that the bed was well made. He hadn’t even gone to sleep. “Did you know something was going to happen?”

“I had a bad feeling,” he said grimly.

“When did he do this before?”

He paused his searching to stare at me, as if weighing whether or not tell me the truth. “The night you came here.”

I stared agape as he snatched his suit jacket off a chair, then began searching through the pockets. He cursed as he pulled out an envelope from inside. I shook myself from my shock.

“Let me see.”

“I’m reading it first.” The rasp of paper was the only sound in the room as he opened the unsealed envelope and pulled out the letter. Attempting to keep a straight face, he began to read, but he couldn’t stop his frown from deepening the further he read. When he reached the end, he crumpled it into a ball.

“Hey!” I lunged for the paper, but he held me back as he passed me back into the hallway. “Let me see that!”

“He didn’t want you to.” There was no emotion in his voice. “I assume that wish remains even though he’s still with us.” In the kitchen, he opened drawers at random, all while holding me back with his free hand from snatching the letter. Producing a lighter, he held the flame to the paper before dropping it into the sink. I burst forward one final time, reaching for the faucet, but the man was a wall. He held me back until the letter was too charred to save.

“Fuck you,” I spat, but not even that could elicit a response.

“Let’s go see how he’s doing.”

Joshua raised his hand to knock on the bedroom door, but I seized the handle and barged in to find Meyer sitting up in bed without a shirt and the doctor listening to his chest with a stethoscope. Dr. Yang raised an eyebrow at me, but I interjected before he could speak.

“What was in that letter?” I stalked over to the bed but was stopped with a hand on my shoulder as Joshua held me back. “What the fuck did you tell him that I’m not allowed to know?”

“He’s doing fine, by the way. His heart sounds strong.” Dr. Yang sounded almost bored as he grabbed my hand. “You, on the other hand, need stitches.”

I looked away from Meyer only to find myself ill at the amount of blood in my palm, the open wound that showed far too much of the inner workings of my hand. “Whoa.” I sat on the bed heavily as the doctor moved in front of me. Joshua handed him something from his bag, and I sucked in a breath at the sting of alcohol against my raw skin. There was pressure on my shoulder, and when I turned my head to see Meyer’s face right next to mine, I jumped. “What the hell are you doing?”

“What happened?” He stared at my palm wide-eyed.

“Seriously?”

He blinked a few times. “Oh, yeah. Attempted murder. Sorry. Still drunk.” He fell back onto the pillow.

I yelped at a sharp sting in my hand and looked down to see a needle sticking out of my palm. “To numb it for the stitches,” the doctor explained before handing it off to Joshua and then holding up the needle and thread. “Do you want to watch?”

“God, no.” I squeezed my eyes shut. I felt the pressure on my palm from the needle, then the strange rough pull of the thread through my skin. I swallowed down the bile in my throat. “Why is he still drunk? Shouldn’t he be better now?”

“The naloxone only treats the opioid high, not the alcohol. You’ll have to wait on his liver for that.”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“As long as he doesn’t OD again when the spray wears off. You should keep an eye on his breathing.”

When I looked back at Meyer, his eyes were closed against the pillow. “Is he seriously fucking asleep?”

“He needs rest. Don’t wake him. You can look now.” Staring at my hand, I counted five black slashes across my palm. Dr. Yang spread a cloudy ointment on it, then pressed a bandage on top. “Keep this dry and clean. I’ll take the stitches out in a few days.”

“Thank you,” I muttered, squeezing a fist experimentally.

“Don’t do that!”

Heat rose to my cheeks. “Sorry.”

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