Page 95 of Bad Blood

The looks on their faces confirm I’ve interrupted.

I get unwelcoming sneers from where they sit in front of Kline’s desk. Hudson slides his chair back and stands, reaching for the books in my arms.

“Here, let me help.” He grabs the wobbly stack, silently asking for my forgiveness with a sideways grin.

“Thank you.” I shake out my arms and give him a brief smile before I direct my gaze to Kline. When our eyes meet, heat rises into my cheeks.

The other man inches to the edge of his seat and watches my interactions.

He clears his throat. Gazes at his partner. Stands.

His greasy comb-over falls into his eyes, and he sweeps it into place, groaning something inaudible under his breath.

“Where are my manners?” Kline steps between me and the detective, taking the books from him and setting them on his desk. “Brighton, you remember Detective Roark, and this is . . .” He trails off, gesturing to the stubby little man in the corner as he sniffles and rubs his eyes.

“It’s Dardson,” the detective inserts with a heavy Brooklyn accent. “Detective Eric Dardson.”

“Yes, Detective Dardson,” Kline confirms, wiping his palms down the sides of his dress pants. He gives both men a tight smile, gazes at the stack of books, and sits behind his desk. “Brighton and I run the oncology floor, partners in crime, if you will.” His lip twists to the side, and he tosses a weary glance in my direction. His play on words doesn’t go unnoticed.

Hudson extends a hand, and I take it. “Nice to see you again.”

“Same,” I say with a smile. A couple of seconds tick by, his firm grip still crushing my fingers as things become awkward. He gives me a conspiratorial grin and drops my hand.

“I think that’s all we needed,” Hudson says, turning his attention to Kline and stuffing his hands in the pockets of his pleated khakis. He leans on the heels of his Oxfords while he nibbles on the inside of his lip, his eyes gliding back to me with a pensive smile. His brows crease, and he clears his throat. “We’ll be in touch.”

Detective Dardson bumps into the chair between us, sending it into the back of my legs, and I teeter forward. I glance over my shoulder, steadying myself with the corner of Kline’s desk, and watch as the detective pulls on the lapels of his brown tweed coat. His round belly protrudes beyond his belt, and he coughs, stuffing a spiral notepad into his breast pocket, eyeing his partner with a critical scowl.

“You know where to find me.” Kline stands behind the desk and motions toward the door.

Hudson dips his chin at Kline and turns his attention to me. “You two have a good night.”

The detective exits, signaling for his partner to follow. When they step into the hall, Detective Dardson stops. He turns and lifts his chin, making eye contact with Kline. “Don’t go too far, doc.”

“Dardson,” Hudson warns, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s late.”

The plump detective wipes his forearm across his brow and leaves Kline’s office. I glance out the doorway and watch as he follows Hudson. Before they turn the corner, Detective Dardson stops and turns to stare at me. He narrows his eyes and shakes his head as he walks backward until I’m out of view.

I whirl around and find Kline with both hands on his desk, hunched over and pale.

“What is going on?”

He massages the back of his neck and drops into his chair. He moves a pile of charts from one corner of his desk to the other, flips through a few papers, and grabs a pen beside his keyboard. His red-rimmed eyes meet mine, and he drags a finger inside his collar, loosening it as he clears his throat.

A frown forms on his lips as confusion wrinkles his brows. “Why are you here?”

I close my eyes and let out an exaggerated breath. When I open them, Kline’s staring into space. I snap my fingers in front of his face. “Blakely’s chart.”

His eyes glaze over, and his face goes blank. He swallows and groans, leaning back in his chair and covering his face with both hands. He pushes back in the chair, rolling it across the linoleum before he stands and walks over to me, stopping in the doorway. His head swivels in one direction and then the next.

“They’re gone,” I say, focusing on his face.

He pinches his brow as he leans against the doorjamb and closes his eyes.

“Are you okay?” I lean into his field of view, unsure why he’s out of sorts, and make sure his eyes meet mine.

“Yeah.” He shoves his fingers under his glasses, rubbing his eyes as he yawns.

“What did they want?”

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