Page 136 of Bad Blood

“I tried, but they didn’t need a radiologist on staff there. Mount Sinai is nothing like the hospital I was at in Jersey. It’s great, don’t get me wrong.” She tugs at the end of her braid. “Just not what I was looking for.”

She continues letting me in on her entire life story, when she’ll get to see her sister’s kids, how she hates going home for holidays, and why she wants to take up running but decided against it since there was the murder at the park.

I almost suggest we run together, but stop, knowing I like solitude. Plus, it’s my only way to relax, and if she talked this much while we were running, it would cause more anxiety than anything else. The more time I spend with Tara, the more tempting it is to add her to the bodies they’ve been finding.

“That’s me, up ahead.” She points to a brownstone a block north of me on the opposite side of the street. “Number five-oh-three.”

I pull to the curb, and she smiles. “Thanks, Dr. Fields. I appreciate it.”

“Don’t let it become a habit,” I joke, but regret it as her face falls. “I’m kidding. Call me Brighton.”

She smiles. “Enjoy your weekend. Say ‘hi’ to the boyfriend.”

I wince as the door slams. I doubt I’ll be talking to Dax tonight—whether or not she thinks he’s my boyfriend—a friendly letter doesn’t always lead to more, even if I want it to.

She struggles with the lock because the lamppost near her has a burned-out bulb, but waves as she enters. I wait until she’s inside before I pull away from the curb.

Am I supposed to comment on the note? Do I shoot Dax a quick text letting him know I got it? Is that too much? Or do I leave it alone? I shove my hand into my pocket, finding the napkin and reassuring myself it’s still there.

He’s lucky he found me. Does this have anything to do with Liam, or is he referring to himself? And the heart. Who leaves a heart? I wouldn’t leave a heart on a napkin. Hell, I’m not brave enough to leave a napkin.

I flip a U in the street, park at the curb in front of my place, and kill the engine. I drop my forehead to the steering wheel and pull the note from my pocket. And re-read it. I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to give Dax the wrong idea, especially after what happened the other night. The last thing I need to do is let things get more confusing than they already are, but I feel like I’m supposed to say something.

Do I say thanks? Yeah, because thanks seems appropriate for this. Come on, B, pull your head out of your ass. I stare down the street, finding Tara’s front door much closer than I realized.

I pull my phone from my purse and type out a text. I’m thankful you found me too. Too forward? That could be taken wrong. I delete it. Thanks for letting me add to the chaos. I read it. Am I adding to the chaos? This is harder than I figured it would be. Why’d he have to go and make this weird? We could have let things work themselves out, but now we have this note—a love note, according to Tara—and not a lot of an explanation.

My chest squeezes tight. I’m one hundred and ten percent positive. Dax meant nothing by the note other than that he is thankful I’m in his life so I can do everything in my power to help Liam. And if Dax and I become friends, it’s a little added incentive. We can just ignore what happened between us the other night.

Why am I so indecisive? Texting a response shouldn’t be this hard. I’m glad to help in any way I can. It’s honest. It’s to the point.

But that kiss.

I shouldn’t have let things get that far. But I don’t regret it. Dax wants to do better by Liam, and I’m not helping his case. But two grown adults, outside of work . . . nope, can’t happen. I need to make sure he understands we are not an option. For now.

I re-read what I typed. It’s the exact opposite of what I want to say. As I go to send the G-rated version of my thoughts, my phone vibrates.

The shock of seeing Dax’s stunned face on my screen makes me freeze. The photo I snapped of him at the park doesn’t do him justice. I can’t believe he’s calling, taking things one more step in the wrong direction. But are we passed that? Is it too late to pretend like nothing happened?

I should answer it. But my brain and fingers aren’t communicating. When I convince myself to slide my finger across the screen, the call goes to voicemail and a shock of relief courses through me. I need to get myself under control before I talk to him.

My phone vibrates, startling me out of my momentary relief.

Dax: Call me when you get a chance

My heart skips a beat. Please don’t vibrate again. Please. I’m aware I’m begging an inanimate object, but I can’t find it in me to stop.

The phone stays silent.

I grab my purse from the floorboard and throw open the truck door. Something about being inside my house feels like a way to escape the inevitability of having to talk to him.

I fumble my keys as the phone vibrates with a call again. Gah, he’s pushy. I swipe my finger across the screen. “Hello.”

“Hey.”

I drop the keys. “Shit.”

“Everything okay?”

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