Page 18 of Wistful Whispers
Despite myself, I feel the shift in the air.
Caldwell is the enemy I trained for.
I know how to disarm arrogance, crush ego, win with blood on my heels.
Seamus McGloughlin?
He’s not a fight.
He’s a distraction who might cost me everything if I’m not careful.
six
Seamus
Two Weeks Later
Thehospitalcafeteriaswellswith voices, trays clattering, forks scraping, and low music bleeding through the overhead speakers.
It’s always packed at this hour. Residents inhale food before rounds. Nurses in scrubs lean in, laughing. Surgeons cluster at their usual tables, locked in case talk and quiet power plays.
I hover near the entrance, scanning for Bryce.
He asked me to meet him for lunch.
Unusual.
We’ve always been transactional—master, student.
Silence never surprised me before. Bryce isn’t the debrief type. Decades in neurosurgery trained him to cut, decide, move on.
Now he wants to talk. Obviously, considering I’m mostly in the research lab this year, I knew immediately what this was about.
It’s taken him long enough.
In my years of training with him, he’s never been a bedside-manner guy. Or someone who second-guesses himself. I figured after thirty years of risky procedures, he’s learned to compartmentalize his emotions when things take a turn.
I’m different. There’s no way for me to pretend her tiny body isn’t still lying in a hospital bed while her parents wait for a miracle. I’d love to comfort them. Try to explain. With a potential lawsuit pending, though, I can’t.
It sucks.
Once they’ve gone home for the evening, though, I find comfort sitting by Miranda’s side where I apologize for not being able to save her. Ask for forgiveness.
Cry.
If I manage to complete my residency, I’m going to be different than Bryce.
Until yesterday when he asked to meet up, I’d started to wonder if he even remembered her name. I guess a lawsuit is a good reminder.
Fuck, I’m not looking forward to this. Exhaling sharply, I shift my weight to the other foot. I hope he’s on time. Connor managed to find another lawyer, so I’m scheduled to go into her office in a couple hours.
A familiar voice rings out over the crowd, distracting me from my thoughts. “Well, well, well. Look who it is.”
I barely have time to turn before Abby, one of the night-shift trauma nurses I worked with as an R1, materializes beside me. She looks me up and down and her full lips curve into a knowing smile.
She tilts her head, auburn waves cascading over her shoulder. “It’s been a while.”
“Hey, Abby.” I nod, keeping my expression neutral. Polite.
