Page 6 of Bad Blood

How could he do this to me?

No warning. No protection. Nothing.

Luca had to know before the phone call last night. And why didn’t he warn me about this? I take my time stepping out of my truck and brace myself for the trek to the glass doors and the safety they’ll provide.

As I approach, a group of reporters descends on me like vultures, shouting questions in my wake. I make my way through the bottleneck and onto the landing. The frenzy of probing eyes and flashing cameras follow me to the front of the hospital. My irritation builds as I climb each step to the entrance, trying to keep my head down and my mouth shut.

“Are you aware of the malpractice litigation against Mount Sinai West?” one reporter prods, thrusting a mic in my face.

Malpractice. The word hangs in the air, heavy and ominous. What a stupid question. Of course, I know about the litigation. My thoughts spin. I hustle past them, hoping my evasiveness will be enough to get them off my back.

More microphones get shoved in my face, accusations and questions firing off like bullets as I elbow through them.

“. . . is the hospital going to cover up this case like it has all the others . . . ?”

“. . . no confirmation of how many victims are named in the lawsuit. Do you have more information . . . ?”

“. . . Is there concern about no longer being considered a nationally renowned cancer treatment institution . . . ?”

My attempt to not react is wearing thin. The need to give them a piece of my mind and get them off my back gnaws at me with each step I take. But I keep myself in check. The last thing I need is for them to twist something I say when I’m not thinking straight.

I hurry up the last steps, the chaos at my heels, a relentless chorus of questions humming in the air. I can’t wrap my head around the accusations rolling off their tongues.

“This isn’t the first malpractice lawsuit this year. Has a pattern been noted?” spouts off another. The claim freezes me to the spot. If I engage, there’s no telling where things could go.

With a few more steps, I can put all this behind me. The security guard standing next to the sliding glass doors is all the assurance I need.

“No comment,” I snap. I cover my face with an arm, ducking away from the reporters as I try to keep a hold of my laptop and the files in my hand. If another reporter shoves a mic at me, I won’t be held liable for my actions.

I drop my gaze and concentrate on each step as I close in on the doors.

Most of the crowd remains on the landing outside the entrance as I rush inside the first set of doors, but I’m not lucky enough to avoid them all.

“Chris Jenks, Fox 5 New York.” Of course he’s the one who has the gall to continue after me. “Can you give us any information regarding the victims?”

I stop and turn, step away from the final threshold, and pin him with a scowl. Who does he think he is?

My next frustrated step away from Jenks is the only invitation he needs to continue. “Is that a yes?” He follows me, ushering his cameraman ahead of him.

I bite my tongue and make eye contact with the guard.

“Do you care to share your thoughts on the malpractice lawsuit?” A veneer of politeness wrapped in optimism spreads across his face as he forces the mic closer, following me stride for stride toward the elevators.

“No comment.”

The security guard stops Mr. Jenks and his cameraman with a stern look and a single hand on his belt. “This is private property. You can’t go past here.”

I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Hey!” the guard shouts.

I jolt, looking over my shoulder at the sound of hurried footsteps.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” I steel my spine and rush past the front desk, the elevator a few steps away.

Jenks calls out another asinine question.

Kline’s not going to hear the end of this. I can’t believe he’d trap me in this sort of situation. I jump into the elevator, punching the button to close the doors.

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