Page 111 of Bad Blood

“All of it. I need to confirm what I found with my notes. Have you found anything else?”

The bookshelf behind the desk has two boxes of my supply stash. I roll to it and grab a blank drive, not wanting to let go of the original.

“No, I haven’t. I have the USB here on my desk.”

“I’ll be up in five.” He hangs up without waiting for a response. His urgency has me concerned that the detectives might have talked to him too. They could have more than one of us trying to figure out what’s going on.

I double-click on the USB icon, and a gray box pops up on the screen with an exclamation inside a yellow triangle.

USB device not recognized.

I eject it, blow into the end, and try again.

The same notification pops onto the screen.

Why didn’t I make sure the files were on it? Why haven’t I checked it before now?

I click my email and go to the one I sent myself of the files. My search of Cases 1-4 brings up nothing. I swear that’s what I named it. I wanted it to seem harmless. And that’s about as matter-of-fact as it comes. I type in Cases. I type in 1. And type in 4.

A white screen pops up every time with the words: No Results Found

I go to the sent folder.

It’s empty.

That can’t be right. I haven’t deleted anything since I started my residency at this hospital years ago. I don’t delete my files, just in case.

I drop my head into my hands and pinch my eyes closed. This can’t be happening. I scour my memories of times when I saw Kline in or around my office. I’ve been extra cautious about locking my door and never leaving anything out.

Does he have a key? A way to get into my office? Maybe a janitor? There’s no way this could have happened unless it was intentional.

Kline is desperate. And people in his situation will stop at nothing. I can picture him scouring my folders, filing cabinet, and desk. Why would he find it, delete it, and return it? Why not just take it? Why would he go through that much trouble to cover his tracks and shift the focus? I do one last search of the date this all started happening: May Ninth.

There is nothing.

Nothing sent to me. Nothing saved.

Nothing.

No, no, no, no!

It’s gone!

There has to be a paper trail of some kind. But I don’t know how to find it. Maybe the IT guy?

I log in to the hospital database and do a file search for Banks. She pops up. I send up a silent thank you and open her file. I hover the mouse over the arrow at the bottom right of the screen and flip through her chart. The original page with the changes is the third from the last.

I stop. Read it. Re-read it. See the information. Note there have been recent changes. Again. Nausea makes my skin sweat as my body heats and I heave, vomit rising through my esophagus and dribbling from my mouth into my cupped hands.

I choke back tears as a fist connects with my door. “Brighton?”

Luca’s voice is both a soothing comfort and a panic-inducing trigger. What am I going to say? What am I going to do?

I swallow my mouthful and wipe my hands and lips before tossing the tissue into the trash.

“Coming.” I gather the files from my desk and shove them into the bottom drawer on my right before making a clean stack of books on the corner. Finding more errant charts is now the only way to ensure Kline’s caught. I have Grady’s file, but is it enough?

I run a hand down the front of my scrubs and readjust the stethoscope and lanyard around my neck. One final breath to act put together, and I paste on a fake smile before swinging the door open. “Luca.”

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