Page 96 of Bad Blood

“They had some questions”—he pauses, waiting longer than is acceptable before he continues with his train of thought—“about the doctors who work—worked—here.”

“Carrie and Jessie?” My brain scrambles to keep up.

He drops his gaze to his shoes. “They had questions about Carrie . . .” His voice trails off, and he leaves the doorway to glance into the hall again.

“Why did they want to talk to you?” The memory of his reluctance to give them information resurfaces, and I try not to overthink it.

“Technicalities.”

“But you have nothing to do with it.” It’s not a question. I need him to confirm what I want to be true.

But he doesn’t.

His face hardens, and he frowns, brushing a hand through his messy hair.

He stares at me. And I don’t know how to keep my emotions from spreading across my face like wildfire. I swallow the lump in my throat and step away from him.

“Of course not.” The words tumble from his mouth two seconds too late. The corner of his mouth perks up, but the tremor in his voice deceives him. He shakes his head, trying to clear the fog. “They have no leads.”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and nudges past me, leaning against his desk.

“But why you? Why now? It’s been weeks.”

“I figured they had questions about the malpractice litigation, but it was something else.” He muffles a yawn with the back of his hand and takes a seat as he grabs his phone from the desk. He offers it to me, and I make my way to the chair, sitting before I take the phone from his hand. The title across the top of the video reads:

Manhunt in Mysterious Murders

And low-and-behold, there’s Christopher Jenks’ name again, right below it, with the date and time. He has impeccable timing. I open the video and listen as he stares into the camera.

“This afternoon, reporting investigators H. Roark and P. Dardson were dispatched to the site of the body discovered at The Pond in Central Park. Investigators are not releasing the victim’s name, but she is a known physician at Mount Sinai West, five blocks west of where the body was found.”

Could he be any more obvious about selling us out? He has to add this to all the flak from the malpractice.

“The chief medical examiner sat for a press release stating, ‘It has not been ruled out that the incident at the park is related to the murder at Mount Sinai West. The findings at the scenes are consistent with the possibility of one suspect. At this point, we cannot rule out a homicide.’”

There’s something in the way he gives the information. It’s more of a gloating that he knows it and only wants to share certain parts. The cocky grin needs wiped off his face.

“All evidence was turned over to the FBI, and they are asking for assistance in the case. If you have any information, please contact them at the number below . . .”

I stop listening and hand Kline his phone back.

Two murders. Two women. Both doctors.

And they’re questioning Kline.

“I don’t think they have anything better to do,” he says, tearing my attention from the phone.

“But why do they want to talk to you?”

He waves off my question with wild arm motions, ripping his phone from my hand. “I couldn’t care less. This whole murder thing is taking the heat off the malpractice suit. It’s unfortunate, but I hate to ignore good timing. If they ask you anything, you know to direct them to me, right? You want Blakely’s chart?”

I tighten my hands into fists at my sides. I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

Hasn’t he listened to a word I’ve said?

He continues to stare as he waits for an answer.

“Yes, you have it?”

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