Page 142 of The Wrong Heart

My breath catches when her voice carries over to me, and I straighten in the chair, turning my head to meet her wide acorn eyes.

Bree.

Dr. Whitley.

The Grim Reaper.

Flashbacks of that day claim me for a striking, painful moment, rendering me speechless. I’m flooded with memories of her words, her remorseful embrace, the way her curls tickled my temple as I collapsed into her arms, and even the smell of her sweet, powdery perfume—a paradox to the pungency of death, hovering heavy in the air.

Garnering my strength, I lift up from the seat, still shaking. Bree’s dark eyebrows furrow into a perplexed frown as she studies me, while donning hospital scrubs and a giant corkscrew bun.

“How could you?” My words are a jaded whisper, laced with venom. I’m not prepared for this confrontation, not in the least. Nothing was planned. I simply started driving, somehow finding my way into the hospital parking lot. “How could you do this to me?”

Bree’s frown deepens, her head swaying side to side. “I… I’m sorry, but I’m not following. What is this about?”

“It’s about your brother. It’s about the heart he doesn’t have.”

A charged beat passes, and then her brown eyes flash with awareness. She swallows. “Let’s discuss this in my office. Please, come with me.”

I follow blindly, wordlessly. Everything around me is a blur as we make our way to the opposite end of the hospital, and she ushers me inside a cheery, sunlit room. Bright and happy. The antithesis to the turmoil funneling through me.

When she closes the door, Bree pauses, fingers lingering on the doorknob as she collects her thoughts. Lips pursed together and eyes glazed with apology, she spins around to face me. “It’s… you? You’re the one he’s been falling for?”

I refuse to acknowledge the way my pulse revs at her words. “I’m the one he’s been lying to, yes.”

“Melody, please… have a seat.” Bree signals me to a chair, but my arms cross with defiance. She nods through a sigh, pacing in front of me as she processes this development. “My God, I never thought…” Her words dissipate, and her shoulders sag. “You have to understand, this wasn’t a set-up or a wicked plot to hurt you. I had no idea it would go this far.”

“You asked your brother to pose as the recipient of my dead husband’s heart,” I exclaim, my emotions climbing. “That is not okay. Why would you do that? I trusted you… I never once thought you’d mislead me.”

Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears. “My heart ached for you,” she replies softly. “I felt your pain. My compassion makes me a good doctor, but it’s also a curse sometimes. The line between professionalism and humanity becomes blurred.”

The month following Charlie’s death filters through my memories, blindsiding me. My eyes squeeze shut as I recall the way I’d fallen at Dr. Whitley’s feet, a weeping mess on my knees, and begged her for a phone number, an e-mail address,anything.

I was desperate for a way back to Charlie, and I would take anything I could get.

“Please,please,” I pleaded, broken down and hysterical. “Give me something. I promise I’ll respect his privacy and keep everything anonymous. I swear it. He’s all I have left of him.”

Dr. Whitley refused at first. “The recipient has requested anonymity. That information is confidential—I could be stripped of my medical license, Mrs. March.”

No, no, no.

I remained on my knees, rooted to the hospital floor, much like the night of his death when I’d collapsed in the hallway. Dr. Whitley had picked up the scattered remains of my purse, placing them back inside with gentle care, and then she’d held me while the horrified shudders spiraled through me, until I’d struggled for air and required an oxygen mask.

I felt the hyperventilative state closing in again.

“I want to help you,” she said delicately. “If there was something I could do, I would. I’m so sorry.”

But my pain eventually broke her. I rose to my feet with puffy eyes and red cheeks, utterly dismantled, and as our gazes locked and held for a few potent heartbeats, I saw her resolve weaken. I felt her acquiesce.

Glancing away, Dr. Whitley released a hard, conflicted breath. “I’ll see what I can do.”

It took me two more months to finally find the courage to e-mail him.

[email protected]

Parker Denison.

Bree’s words puncture through my thick wall of resentment, causing me to soften. I know I put her in a difficult position, but I didn’t care at the time—nothing mattered in that moment. Nothing mattered when theone thingthat mattered most was ripped from my hands. “Why him?” I breathe out, tightening my arms around myself. “Why not you? If you had no intention of giving me the real recipient, why not pretend to be him yourself?”

---