Page 58 of Bad Blood

I hesitate to answer, not knowing what his reaction will be whether I give him a yes or no. “Blakely’s?” I decide on the straightforward approach. There’s no use denying I’m on the verge of obsession.

He nods.

“I looked over it.”

“And?”

I bite my lower lip hard enough to cause a tolerable amount of pain to distract me from oncoming tears. “And it’s worse than I thought.”

He snaps his finger, pointing at me. “Exactly. This is why you should refer him. It’s not too late.”

Too late to what? Refer him? Save him? For me to become too attached to my job? I stiffen at the suggestion. “We already went over this. I can handle it.”

“That’s not my point, Brighton. Dammit.” He rakes his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end. “I’m not trying to be the bad guy here. Don’t you get it? You can’t save everyone.”

“I can try,” I whisper.

Kline rubs at his temples. “What?”

“I said I can try. Liam’s age is a minor factor in this. There’s no reason he shouldn’t get the same care as someone half his age.”

“Except he’s past the point of remission.” He lets out an irritated laugh.

“You don’t know that.” I cock my head to the side, my nails digging into the palms of my hands.

He jerks the charts from my arms, causing most of them to slide across the linoleum, spilling their contents. He glances at the names on the few he kept a hold of before kneeling to rummage through the charts on the floor.

I watch, feeling like a scolded child, and refuse to help him clean up his mess.

“Yes. I. Do.” He stands when he finds Liam’s, shaking the chart in my face.

I yank the chart from his hands, blinking back tears. Yes, his cancer has metastasized into his lungs. And, yes, his remission rate has dropped to below fifteen percent. But, dammit, if I don’t hold out hope.

Fuck you, Kline.

“I’m not gonna stop fighting for him,” I say instead of the words running through my mind. Maybe this makes me a narcissist, or maybe it makes me a thirty-four-year-old woman who knows what it’s like to pull her grieving self out of bed after losing her brother.

“Fight for the ones worth fighting for.”

I pale. “They’re all worth fighting for. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I don’t want to see you hurt.” He takes his glasses off and wipes a hand down his face. The flush in his cheeks is almost as apparent as the thin film of sweat coating his brow. He clears his throat, pulling my attention from his untucked dress shirt and wrinkled pants.

His admission shocks me into silence, and my mouth falls open. I take in the firm set of his jaw. Pity fills his face. And I hate it. I don’t want him or anyone else looking at me that way. His pity makes me feel bad that I have suspicions of him.

“I can handle this.”

“But can they?” he asks, referencing the minimal likelihood that the outcome of Liam’s treatment is favorable.

I shake my head. Dax can’t—it’s the first thing that fills my mind. He wouldn’t be able to. I know this, even if I want to pretend I don’t. I wish my intuition was wrong, but I know it’s not.

“Losing another ES patient with circumstances similar to Grady’s is a heavy burden to bear. Even for you.”

“I need to do this.” I ball my hands into fists, holding my ground. His back-and-forth attitude toward this is confusing. One minute, he wants me to refer Liam. The next, he claims he’s looking out for me. I should be the least of his worries.

“It’s not going to change things. You don’t need to prove anything.” He’s referencing Grady. And how I failed before with Collins. But this time is different. He kneels, picks up the files and papers, and offers them to me.

“It might, for Liam.” I tense and take the charts. Every facet of my nature tells me to turn and walk away. And I almost do. Cheers to me for holding on to my temper and biting my tongue. “You don’t know what I’m capable of.”

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