Page 43 of Depraved Truths

“He likes them young, too. You would’ve been perfect. With your luscious brown hair and pretty blue eyes.”

Oh, God.Bile rises in my throat. I inch away, horrified. “You’re a sick bastard.”

“It didn’t have to be this way, Allie girl. You just had to be a nosy bitch. Again. You did this to yourself.”

It’s now or never. I spring to my feet, lunging for my phone, but just as I reach it, he grabs me and shoves me hard into the counter. Sharp, searing pain fills my abdomen, and I cry out. He knocks the phone from my hand, sending it crashing to the tile floor.

Before I can crumple to the ground, he jerks me up and slams my head into the marble countertop. Stars explode in my vision, the sharp pain flooding my skull. I’m not getting out of this alive.

Just as he tilts my head back to strike again, I hear someone shouting and pounding on the door.

Dalton lets go of me, and I crumple to the floor. The sound of a door opening and closing is interrupted by the deafening crash of the front door exploding inward. A frantic, urgent voice calls my name as everything around me dissolves into thick, suffocating blackness.

Chapter 30

It’s been three weeks since I told Eli everything, and we’ve slipped into an easy rhythm. We haven’t spent a single night apart. Some nights we stay at his house, where I help him paint and watch him tile his bathroom. Other nights, after a long shift in the emergency room, he has supper ready for me when I get home.

Admittedly, being held in his arms every night has kept my nightmares at bay. But I’m not sure I can change the person I’ve become.

I feel a little guilty that I haven’t spent as much time with Allie lately. The douchebag Dalton actually proposed to her after she told him about the baby, and as much as I want to be happy for her, it’s hard to hide my disapproval. She assures me he hasn’t laid a hand on her again. Maybe I should do a drop-in to be sure she isn’t lying to me, but I feel like she’s being honest. Allie sounds genuinely happy about the pregnancy and engagement. She literally squealed into the phone when I admitted Eli and I are a couple. I suppose I’ll do my best to suck it up—maybe invite her and the douche over for dinner.

And try not to call him a douchebag to his face. No promises there.

Since that night I killed Ronald, I haven’t been actively hunting, but they still find me sometimes.

I’m in the middle of a hectic shift. About thirty minutes ago, we got the call: Lake Falls Penitentiary is bringing in an inmate who sustained injuries after an altercation with another inmate. This man made the news a decade ago after being convicted for the rape of six students at the University of Alabama. It appears serial rapists are shunned, even by the most ruthless criminals.Who knew?

The shrill sound of the ambulance siren slices through the silence, and I head instinctively toward the ambulance bay.

“Fifty-one-year-old male, burns from a gas fire to seventy percent of his body. IV line is in, fluids running. Blood pressure ninety over sixty, heart rate one hundred and fifteen, oxygen sats ninety percent and dropping,” the paramedic fires off in rapid succession. We push him into trauma room two, and the nurses get to work stabilizing the inmate. I rattle off orders for labs as I intubate him while the respiratory therapist bags him. The protocol is to stabilize him and transfer him to a burn unit as soon as possible. Within minutes, he’s connected to the ventilator, a machine taking over the work of his lungs, allowing them to rest.

“Grab some gauze, soak it in normal saline, cover the burned areas, and give one milligram of morphine stat,” I call out.

Grabbing the chart, I document the orders I’ve just given and glance at the man. The major areas of the burn are his face, neck, trunk, and upper extremities. The skin is broken, peeling in several places. And yet, it’s hard to feel any empathy for him. The burnscould take months to heal, and he’ll suffer excruciating pain, likely requiring multiple skin grafts and leaving horrific scarring. It’s nothing less than what he deserves. But what if he survives all of that? Or what if the prison lets him out because they don’t want to pay his extensive medical bills? I’ve seen it happen before. While unlikely, given the nature of his crimes, the possibility still exists.

I look up at the IV bag, fluids dripping rapidly into his right arm. Fluids keeping him alive. A man who doesn’t deserve to take another breath.

The nurses move in and out of the room, completing the orders I’ve given.

Pulling myself out of my thoughts, I head to the nurses’ station.

“Dr. Sparks, the patient in room seven has critical labs,” Lucy says and hands me the chart.

“Mr. Winston’s potassium levels are dangerously low. Start an IV drip of potassium to be administered slowly over four hours,” I instruct, then add, “Be sure the patient stays on cardiac monitoring during the infusion.”

Lucy nods, and a few minutes later, she draws up the potassium and adds it to the fluid bag. She places a label on it and sets it on her cart, beside a fluid bag of normal saline. Just as she’s about to head down the hall, alarms blare.

“Code Blue, room ten.” Lucy and John, a physician’s assistant, run down the hall with a few other staff members. Since there are only two of us manning the emergency department today, I need to stay available for any other crises.

Seizing the opportunity, I glance around cautiously, ensuring I’m alone before walking to the cart holding the IV fluids. Quickly, I remove the potassium label and place it on the saline bag.

The beauty of the emergency department is that the staff help each other during crises. Moments later, a tall blonde nurse—whose name I’ve forgotten—grabs the potassium bag and heads into room two. I follow, ostensibly monitoring the patient’s status, watching as she swaps the empty saline bag with the fresh one, the fluid running wide open. Because of the severity of his burns, he isn’t on cardiac monitoring, and the alarms that would normally blare in the event of a heart arrhythmia will stay silent. Struggling to keep my expression blank, I exit the room and head down the sterile hallway to check on the next patient. It shouldn’t be long now.

At the end of my shift, I head to the doctors’ lounge to grab my things, my day of saving and taking lives over. The euphoric feeling still lingers, even though it’s been nearly four hours since my patient’s demise. He was found without a pulse, and resuscitation attempts were fruitless. Severe burn victims sometimes die unexpectedly. It was a stark scene: no tears, no family—just a sheet covering his burned face.

John walks over, touches my shoulder, and asks gently, “Tess, are you okay? It’s hard when we can’t save someone.”

I roll my eyes, then face him with a forced, desolate expression.

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