Page 3 of Texting Dr. Stalker

Panting, wincing, gasping with agony and fear and memories, I struggled.

“You’re safe. He’s not here.” Dr North kept me kindly but firmly pressed against my pillow. “Stop moving, please. Otherwise, you’ll hurt yourself even more.”

The nurse went to my other side and gently laid her hand on my arm. “You’re okay. It’s a shock waking up in a new place, I know. But Dr North is right. You’re safe here. Just take a deep breath for us. That’s it.”

I swallowed and immediately wished I hadn’t.

I’d never felt such fire. Such swollen, molten agony.

My fingers flew to my throat, sure I’d find my neck doubled in size.

The nurse, Hayley, went to stop me, but Dr North gave her a soft smile. “I have it from here. You’re free to attend to your other patients.”

Hayley nodded, her eyes lingering on him. “Are you sure? She seems a little disoriented.”

“I’m sure.”

Hayley pursed her lips and stepped back. “I won’t be far if you need me.” She strode away in her crisp uniform and squeaky sneakers. Dr Alexander North didn’t move until she’d gone out of earshot.

His rich red hair straddled the colour spectrums of richest fire and darkest brown, all while his suntanned skin hinted he’d enjoyed the hot summer we’d been having on his days off. His black-framed glasses couldn’t hide the tiredness on his face or the dangerous amount of intelligence in his vibrant green eyes.

I’d never seen him in mint-green scrubs before. Whenever we saw each other—on the days we ran into each other, thanks to being neighbours—it was either a courteous wave as we grabbed our mail in mismatched sleepwear or a passing smile as we got into our respective cars to go about our day.

He’d always been friendly but reserved. Kind but standoffish. I supposed that was what happened when our two grandmothers (who’d been best friends since they were fourteen) had bought houses side by side in the fifties to raise their families, expecting their children and grandchildren to act like family.

It hadn’t gone quite to plan.

Once he was sure we were alone, he let his professionalism slip a little. His eyes narrowed as they scanned me from head to toe.

I resisted the urge to squirm in the overly starched white sheets of my hospital bed. Memories of Milton accusing me of having an affair with him repeated over and over again.

“You’ve been banging him. I know you have. Well, you won’t be able to anymore, will you?”

Flinching, I shut those thoughts down and forced myself to focus.

I wanted to ask where Milton was. How I ended up here. What on earth happened. But with no voice and barely any energy, all I could do was tremble in bed and blink at the man who was the reason—unknowingly—that I’d almost died.

His face went dark. “Melody would’ve stabbed that man with her favourite filleting knife if she knew what he did to you.”

My mouth fell open.

He’d never shown that sort of passion before—never hinted violence stalked beneath his usual standoffish façade.

I cringed deeper against my pillows.

I’d never been a wallflower, but after what Milton had done and why he did it…it shook the very foundations of my world.

Not noticing my wariness of him, he eyed up the bandage on my left arm. The virginal white wrapping did its best to hide the fingernail gouges Milton had left on me as he threw me into the living room.

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you right-handed?”

I frowned but nodded.

I didn’t want to talk to him. I didn’t want to talk, period. I wanted to pass out and forget that any of this had ever happened.

Slipping a small white notepad from his scrub’s breast pocket, he unclipped one of the pens poking upright and placed both beside my right hand. “Do you know how you ended up here? Do you know who you are? Who I am? Do you have any memory of what happened?”

My heart skipped at the hardness in his voice.

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