Page 86 of Bad Blood

Luca shakes his head. “That, I don’t know.”

“Exactly. I’m going to get to the bottom of this. I need to know why. And I’m close.”

But I need more proof. A motive.

And I want to be the one to find the hammer to secure the final nail into his coffin.

24

Case in Point

Brighton

Thursday, June 1 st

12:19 p.m.

I forgot how disgusting hospital cafeteria food is. You’d figure after working here for years, I’d know better, but the long day and my lack of sleep have me staring at a half-eaten, soggy salad and a cup of fruit that tastes like it expired last week. I gag down another bite and push the remnants of my meal to the other side of the table.

I drop my head back to stare at the ceiling. I can’t believe I’m such an idiot. First, Carrie, and now Jessie. I slide my phone across the table, sick of watching Jenks’s broadcast of the identity of the latest victim. What a way to have my suspicions confirmed. I palm my breast pocket, double-checking to see if the USB drive is still there from earlier. Carrying it on me is the only way I get any peace of mind.

The conversation I had with Kline after our meeting replays in my head as I pinch my eyes closed. He couldn’t have caught me at a worse time, not to mention I’m horrible at lying. If blubbering through why I was going back over the malpractice files didn’t cause his suspicions, I can only imagine my questioning him did. I’ve never shown an interest in his life outside of the hospital before and asking about whether or not he ever dated Jessie had to be a dead giveaway I was digging.

How did I miss that Carrie and Jessie both worked on separate cases that are involved in the malpractice? Their signatures were on different tests in the files too, and somehow, I overlooked them. Until I knew what I was looking for. If Kline is targeting women he’s dated, and those women are all linked to the malpractice through different patients, there’s a chance I can figure out who’s next. There’s only a handful of doctors he’s been dating who coincide with the malpractice. But that doesn’t explain a motive.

Maybe I’m overthinking this. There’s nothing directly tying Kline to the murders, just the victims. Is that enough? Is he trying to get to anyone involved with the malpractice before they can give their statements?

My attempt to rein in my thoughts is pointless. If I’m not sifting through possible motives, I’m analyzing the probability that I’ve missed something else, like I did with Carrie and Jessie’s connection to the malpractice.

I know I can do this. I know there’s something tying Kline to the murders and the malpractice. I just need to figure it out. To Kline, I’ve never been a threat, but he doesn’t know that I’m tired of rolling over and accepting whatever he throws at me. Proving myself to him doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is that I get to the bottom of this—that I figure it out, no matter the cost.

A rush of power and purpose courses through me at my decision. It’s a bit intoxicating knowing that I have information no one else does, that I’m on the inside. And I might be the only one who can fix this.

But am I too late? Why can’t I find anything else? And why does it feel like Kline is always one step ahead of me? Luca wants me to hand over what I have, but I’m not ready. Plus, I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for. If I don’t get more, I won’t be able to clear my name. And that will be the end of everything.

A shadow falls over my eyelids, and my stomach clenches. I pause, waiting for it to disappear. When it doesn’t, I take a deep breath and open my eyes, startled at the closeness of a face. I sit up quickly, nearly knocking into him.

“Kline?”

“I never thought I’d find you down here.” His eyes search past me, and he squints, his arms wrapped behind him. “How are you holding up?”

I frown, questioning him with my eyes. Does he mean with work? Carrie and Jessie? My cases? He doesn’t elaborate.

“I’m fine, why?”

“You seem a little off.”

I glance toward my uneaten meal, trying to signify that I came to the cafeteria with a purpose, but he doesn’t get my meaning and takes the direction of my gaze as an invitation.

“You gonna finish that?” He slides into the seat across from me and sets his elbows on the table. He loosens the top few buttons of his gray dress shirt and rolls up his sleeves as he brushes a hand over his hair, mussing it as he gives me a toothy grin.

“It’s all yours.” I shake my head, curious about his intentions. I push the salad closer toward him.

“You sure? I’m starving.” He grabs the fork without hesitation and stabs a mouthful of Caesar-covered lettuce and chicken.

I grimace at his lack of awareness as I slouch into the seat. I’m not in the mood for chit-chat. I curl my arms across my chest and frown as my brows knit together. I try to force my face into neutral, but it gives me away before I can correct it.

“Are you mad?” he asks.

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