Page 163 of Bad Blood

Hudson watches as the waitress disappears behind the counter before he continues, “It was the first thing out of his mouth when we brought him in for questioning. He said he’s worried you’re involved in something way over your head and that you’re getting too invested. We asked about where he was last night, but he has an alibi, and we have nothing . . .”

He keeps talking. I want him to stop. He doesn’t.

I continue breathing through the choked feeling in my throat, with every inch of my reality shifting beneath me. If Kline suspects it’s me, there’s no telling what he would do. And I have no excuse for my reaction if he asks.

“. . . Even if he’s suspicious of you, he has nothing. Just a hunch.”

“So?” I ask, making a futile attempt at acting as if everything is okay. “What do you suggest?”

“I don’t want you helping anymore.” He doesn’t hide the concern from his face. “It’s not worth it. You haven’t found anything we didn’t already know and—”

“I need more time.” I swallow the rancid emotion curling in my throat, my voice thick with emotion. But I can’t give him everything I’ve found yet. I shouldn’t hold on to my pride, but I don’t want to look like a fool if I can’t prove what Kline’s up to. And I’m so close.

He considers his next words for longer than I’d like. “I think we may have the wrong guy. We’re backing off. All of us.” He’s including me in that statement. His voice holds a finality that says we’re done talking about it, and he doesn’t give me the option to contest his choice.

I take the folded sheet of names from my back pocket, knowing this is the single piece of evidence that could change things, and there’s no going back once I decide to hand it over. I slide it across the table toward him, convinced this is what he’s been waiting for.

He takes the well-worn paper, staring at me with an intensity that makes my blood run faster in my veins. He reads the list. “Fuck”—he runs a hand down his face—“is this what I think it is?”

There’s a new tension in the air. His concern isn’t unfounded, and we both know it. I don’t know what I was thinking, taking the paper instead of leaving it in Kline’s desk, but I’ve already dug my grave where this whole thing is concerned. I should have taken a photo—I know this now—but I wasn’t thinking in the excitement of the moment.

When I saw the list, I knew what it was before I confirmed it with the patient’s files. But Kline’s leaving too much evidence strewn about. It’s not like him to be sloppy, and I can’t help but think there’s something odd about me finding it.

Was it planted? Did he assume I’d find it?

The information in their charts is definitely enough to pin this on Kline, without a doubt, so why would he leave it where anyone could find it? Because he didn’t think I was still looking—it’s the only plausible explanation.

But now he knows. He has to. And he has to suspect me.

“Where did you get this?” Hudson’s eyes continue to scan the sheet, confusion creasing his brow.

“His desk.”

“This doesn’t have to mean anything. Are you sure you aren’t trying to make more out of this than there is?”

“Those are additional patient names confirming Kline committed insurance fraud, ones that are not a part of the malpractice lawsuit yet. These”—I reach across the table, running my finger down the list of names in my handwriting on the right—“are the names of the victims—Carrie, Jessie, Tara—they all worked on one or more of these cases with Kline. Except for this one.” I stop with my finger on the last name, the one right above my own. “And me.”

“Nell Harper.”

“She’s a cardiologist.”

“Don’t tell me—he’s been dating her?” His mouth pulls into a sterile smile as he slides the list back to me. “The three hospital murders were all victims of gunshot wounds. I don’t see the victim from the bridge on your list. Something else for us to confirm she’s not connected.”

I fold it before stuffing it in my back pocket.

“This complicates things.” There’s a new intensity behind his eyes, as if he knows what I’m thinking.

“You still want me to stop digging?” My carefully constructed answer lingers between us.

He runs a hand over his face. “Do you know what this means?”

“I still need to talk to Phillip.” And I need a confession from Kline.

We sit in silence for a few seconds, the waitress’s timing perfect as she slides our breakfast plates in front of us with a smile. “Can I get you anything else?”

“We’re good, thank you,” Hudson says, deep in thought, as he hacks through his eggs with his fork and butter knife like he’s a butcher slicing through meat.

“Can I get strawberry jelly, please?”

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