Page 80 of Night Shift

“Just breathe,” he said softly. “I’m here. I promise you, Samantha, everything’s going to be okay. I’ve got you and will keep you safe.”

“Okay,” I whispered, trying to believe him.

Shifting the conversation, he suggested, “Let’s get those stitches out, huh? They’ve got to be bothering you, and it’s time they came out. It won’t take but a minute, and then we’ll chill the rest of the day and maybe binge-watch something on Netflix.”

He took his plate to the sink, and I followed suit.

After placing a soft kiss on the top of my head, he said, “How about you start rinsing off the dishes and putting them in the dishwasher while I go find what I need to take care of that arm?”

“Sure,” I agreed, welcoming anything—even the removal of my stitches—that would help me to take my mind off the Russian mafia and my dad’s potential involvement.

He retrieved a medical kit from a room down the hallway and returned, laying out sterile scissors, antiseptic wipes, tweezers, sterile pads, and tape with practiced ease. “Let’s do this on the island. There’s better light there,” he said, slipping into his role as a doctor.

As I settled onto a barstool, I watched Atticus carefully and again noticed a shift in his demeanor. Each time he had to deal with my arm, he would become this quiet, almost withdrawn version of himself. It was like he was somewhere else, lost in a memory that caused him pain. What tragic secrets was he hiding?

“Atticus,” I said softly as he began removing the stitches, “you don’t have to keep everything bottled up. You can trust me, you know. Whatever it is that makes you react this way to my injury, I want to help.”

He didn’t look up, focusing on the task at hand, but the tension in his shoulders relaxed a fraction. “I know, Sam. Just old memories.”

He paused for a moment, his winter gray eyes searching mine. Then he resumed his work, his fingers steady as they removed the last of the stitches. After cleaning the area with an antiseptic wipe, he applied a fresh bandage and secured it with tape. When he finished, he looked up at me, his expression unreadable.

I remained seated on the stool while he poured us both coffee and added a little cream to mine. He picked up the remote sitting on the counter and turned the TV on. We moved to the sofa, a comfortable silence settling between us. While we sat there, cups in hand, I realized how much I wanted to break through his walls. I hoped someday he would trust me with his past as much as I had come to trust him with my future.

For the dozenth time, I thought back to how he had reacted when he’d seen the cut on my arm after the attack in the hospital parking lot. Why was he struggling with this? I was certain he’d seen this type of thing often and so much worse.

The room was quiet, and it was the kind of silence that wrapped around you, thick and almost tangible. For several minutes I sat and watched him, scrutinizing the lines of his face. Would he open up to me and tell me about the demons that haunted him? Earlier, I thought I’d seen a crack in his armor, but now I wasn’t so sure.

After a long while, he set his cup on the table and stretched his arms out along the back of the sofa.

“Talk to me,” I urged, gently snuggling up inside the crook of his arm. “Tell me why this…why it upsets you so much.” I rubbed a hand over the fresh bandage he’d applied.

Atticus released a slow exhale that seemed to carry the weight of years within it. He looked away and then moved to sit forward, resting his elbows on his knees and dropping his head. “My mother,” he began, and his voice was different now—more open, raw even. “She became an alcoholic, probably before I was born, likely because of my father. He was…a cold, unemotional bastard who always made work his priority—not us, not her. He wasn’t the type to play catch in the backyard, leaving all parental duties to her.”

I remained silent, giving him the space to continue, to share the story that pained him so much to tell.

“I was thirteen… Braxton was ten, Conan just six.” He took another long breath. “I remember that day as if it were yesterday. Every detail is carved into my very soul with a clarity that time has failed to dull. I was just a kid coming home from school, tossing my backpack aside without a care in the world. The house was too quiet, eerily so. I called out for my mother, expecting to hear her call down from upstairs in return, but there was nothing. That silence…it was the first sign that something was horribly wrong.

“After searching the house, I found her in the bathroom. The scene before me unfolded in a series of snapshots that I wish…I wish I could erase from my memory.”

At this point, Atticus struggled to continue but finally said, “Water filled the tub, but it wasn’t clear; it was tainted with blood—a deep, dark red that swirled on the bottom like dark clouds on the verge of a storm, while vivid red rivulets flowed through the clearer water like puffs of smoke. My mother’s body was limp, her skin pale in contrast to her blood. She was nude, exposed, and so very still. Her wrists… God, her wrists were like a nightmare come to life.” He sank his hands into his hair and shook his head as he relived the graphic memory.

“Time seemed to stop, to stretch into infinity as I stared at her, my mind refusing to accept what my eyes were seeing. It was as if I was outside of my body, watching someone else’s horror story unfold. But the cold, hard truth crashed into me, dragging me back to my sickening reality.

“I remember the sheer panic, the primal instinct to save her. Dragging her out of the tub was like trying to move a mountain. She was my mom, but in that moment, she was dead weight. Her body slipped from my grasp as I tried desperately to pull her to safety. Water splashed onto the floor, mixing with her blood. It was everywhere.

“My pants were soaked by the time I managed to get her out, the blood staining the fabric—marking me. I ran to the phone, and my hands were shaking so violently I could barely dial nine-one-one. My voice shook as I begged for help, for someone to come and save my mom.

“The operator’s instructions were a lifeline in the chaos, forcing me to focus—to be in control. I grabbed towels, wrapping them around her wrists, pressing down with all my strength, trying to stem the tide of blood that seemed determined to take her from me. It was all I could do, all that was within my power, and it was so woefully inadequate.

“When the EMTs arrived, they pushed me aside. They were so professional and calm, and unlike me, they knew just what to do. I watched, helpless, as they worked on her, as they loaded her onto the gurney and wheeled her away. I was left standing at the open door.

“I didn’t know if I’d ever see her again. That uncertainty was like a crushing weight that threatened to suffocate me. I was alone, utterly alone, standing on the front porch, my hands still stained with her blood. And when I looked down, when I really saw the evidence of what had just happened, my stomach revolted. I vomited, my body purging the terror and the helplessness that had consumed me.

“I was thankful, in a way, that Braxton and Conan weren’t home.” He swallowed hard, the words barely making it past the lump in his throat. “The last thing I wanted was for them to see…that. After the ambulance took my mother, I was desperate to erase any trace of what had happened. I scrubbed the bathroom until my hands were raw, trying to wash away the horror, and threw away my clothes, not wanting any physical reminder of the day. But then, the dread of having to explain it all to Braxton and Conan loomed over me. I knew our father, with his hard-ass nature, wouldn’t offer the sensitivity they needed. They were just kids, and I…I felt this overwhelming need to protect them, to shield them from the worst of it. It’s funny, looking back… I guess that was the moment I started down the path to becoming a doctor. I just wanted to care for them, to make sure they never felt as helpless and scared as I did when I found her.”

The pain in Atticus’s voice carved a hollow in my chest, and the way his hands clenched as he spoke was heart-wrenching. I rubbed my hand over his back in a silent gesture of support.

“It was awful, the worst thing I’ve ever experienced,” he whispered. “Finding her like that—I can’t fully describe it.”

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