Page 47 of Bad Blood

I narrow my gaze and close the computer screen before sliding it onto the cushion beside me.

“Everything’s under control,” he says.

“Aren’t you worried?”

He stops passing the soccer ball between his feet and clenches his jaw. “Would you drop it already? Things are going according to plan.”

“What plan?”

Does he know something I don’t?

He juggles the ball from one foot to the other and sighs. “The plan.”

Rumor has it the quickest way to make someone go unconscious is strangulation, and I have to fight the urge and ignore my annoyance at how Liam’s handling everything. And it’s taking all my willpower. He’s none-the-wiser and rolls the soccer ball to his other foot, his attention back on the TV.

“Has something changed?”

“No.” He grins at me, remote in hand, as he munches on a carrot. “I already told you. Coach said I can return to soccer when I get released in a couple of months. My classes will wait, even if it adds an extra semester. I’m not worrying about it.”

“A couple of months is a stretch.” It worries me that, above everything else, soccer is at the top of Liam’s priorities. Having his finals out of the way for the semester is one thing, but if he can’t return to college in the fall, it’ll throw off his entire plan for the doctorate program.

“Quit Googling shit. You’re stressing me out.” He pops a carrot into his mouth and points to the muted TV. He props his foot on the ball, pausing the nonstop rolling.

“What if it’s metastasized?”

“CT read is on Monday. Maybe they’re waiting to give me the bad news in person.” He rubs his hands together and gives me a wicked grin.

I wipe a hand across my face and drop my head against the back of the cushion. “Stop being cynical about everything. Why don’t you care about what they find?”

“I care, but not as much as you. It’s not like we can change anything. There are only two options.” He holds up his fingers, ticking them off. “It’s either worse than we thought or way better. I’m sure it’s nothing we can’t handle.”

His phone vibrates, and he lights up as he scoots to the edge of his seat. “Crissy wants to know if we’re still on for tomorrow night. What should I tell her?”

“Whatever.” I wave his question away. “I’m good with whatever.”

A grin spreads across his face faster than his fingers fly across his phone screen. “Sweet. She sent the address.”

He scoots to the edge of the recliner, grabbing the remote from the coffee table. Two lines form between his brows. His mouth falls open, and the volume of the TV increases.

“After confirming the murder victim was a physician at Mount Sinai West . . .”

My eyes fly to the screen. What did he say?

“Are you seeing this?” Liam grabs his ball and tucks it under his arm. “That’s my hospital.”

I appreciate that his focus is on the fact that whatever is going on is at the hospital where he’s getting treatment and not on the murder. “What if the victim is your doctor?”

“Oh, shit.” His face pales, and the volume of the TV goes up another notch.

The male news reporter continues his spiel, never breaking eye contact with the screen. “. . . The woman who found the victim is one of the physicians named in the recent malpractice litigation . . .”

“I told you.” Liam jumps up from his chair, pointing at the TV, and bounces from foot to foot. “I bet it’s her.”

I drop against the cushion. “That makes no sense. Dr. Fields could be the victim for all we know.”

“Or she’s the one who found the victim.”

“And what if she is?”

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