Page 11 of Velvet Deception

Diego S?

S. Diego?

I had no way of guessing. It didn’t seem likely that I’d have any way of knowing after asking him, either, because he seemed out of it.

Through the messy waves of my hair that wouldn’t behave, I eyed him sleeping on the couch. His wide, hard chest rose and fell with each cycle of respiration, so I knew he was breathing well. Once I’d gotten him in here, I’d checked his vitals the best I could. With the tools I had from my nursing program, like my stethoscope and blood pressure cuff, I could attest that he seemed stable. His blood pressure, pulse, oxygen count, and reflexes were fine. His lungs and abdomen sounded clear, too.

My experience with treating patients with concussions was another matter altogether. I hadn’t. Ever. I’d never been assigned anyone with a traumatic head injury like this, not to the point they’d blacked out and remained in and out of consciousness.

Worry assailed me.

Should I have taken him to the hospital?

What if he’s suffering from more than what I can handle here?

Will I be complicit in his death?

Wouldn’t it be better to have his head scanned?

It seemed far too late to stress about what I should or should not have done. He was here now, and if I were to backtrack and deliver him to the hospital I’d found him outside of, unconscious, I would risk far too many questions and earn way too much attention for my actions.

If his brain is bleeding, I can’t help him.

If he has further damage that requires surgery, he’s out of luck.

The slight hope that I clung to was that someone would be looking for him, and I would hear about that through the grapevine. Señora Vasquez was a notorious gossip. She’d leak out a rumor about a doctor gone missing. Even though I avoided setting foot on the hospital grounds, I followed its latest news online and on social media when I had enough money to pay for the internet access. Otherwise, I would have to get on my phone at the clinic and piggyback on their Wi-Fi to investigate.

Diego, or whatever his name was, was a doctor. Someone would be seeking him out and noticing him missing. Even if he was only here in Colombia for a short duration, perhaps as a researcher who’d come for a couple of months, someone would be able to tell he wasn’t where he should be expected.

Once someone inquired about him, I would be able to direct him to better care.

Just so long as it’s not the Cartel looking for him to finish him.

I had no business even getting involved, especially like this. I was no lone heroine, saving lives and thwarting the Cartel’s agenda of violence. I was, however, someone who couldn’t walk away from someone in pain or danger.

“Mama?”

I jerked a little, blinking quickly as I lifted my face toward my son. Ramon sat on the other side of the room, peering at me with far too much worry etched on his sweet face than any six-year-old should ever show.

“Hmm?”

“It looks like you’re falling asleep sitting up.”

I almost smiled. It sure wouldn’t be the first time. Life as a single mother was tough and tiring. Life as a full-time clinic nurse with a habit of working through mandatory overtime hours was tougher yet. But this unpredictable environment we lived in, where the Cartels could sweep through, change the law astheysaw fit, and leave whatever carnage they wanted to dispose of in their wake, it was an exhausting way to live.

“It’s been a long day.”

He nodded. “And a long night with all the fireworks.”

“I’m glad Señora Vasquez could take you to that square for them.”

“Yeah. It was great!” His happy face slid into a slow frown.

The December celebrations would’ve been fun, but what he found when he came home wasn’t. Señora Vasquez returned with Juan and Ramon right after I had successfully moved the man inside the house. As soon as I was done checking his vitals, I hustled to clean up all the blood that had been left in my car, even the drops that had fallen on the cracked sidewalk up to the building.

I’d never brought a man into our home. I’d never brought anyone—period. Walking in and seeing a beaten and unconscious man on the couch would’ve thrown him off. ToRamon’s credit, he was calm and unafraid, trusting me to know what I was doing.

Truthfully, I had no clue what I was doing. I had no idea what I was thinking when I saw the doctor and decided to save him. In hindsight, I realized I hadn’t thought it through at all. I’d operated on instinct, this natural need to nurture and help.

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