Page 32 of Wistful Whispers
Even if this isn’t an operating room, I can rely on my usual instincts, can’t I?
Sarah tilts her head slightly. “Seamus, did you hear me?”
“Yes,” I answer simply, steeling my inner turmoil for the fight ahead.
She doesn’t look convinced. “Good. One last thing—do not let her bait you.”
“I think I can handle one lawyer.” I try to sound confident, resisting the urge to let out the humorless laugh threatening to escape.
She juts her chin out. “I like your confidence—don’t get cocky. You’ve never been in a room with Marcella Delgado.”
I glance back across the table at Marcella, who’s now seated in between her co-conspirators, arranging her papers into neat, methodical stacks. Clearly, she’s done this a thousand times before.
Bryce’s words echo in my head:She’ll eat you alive if you let her.
Fuck me. I believe it.
I’m not going down without a fight.
When Marcella looks up from her papers, her hazel eyes—flecked with gold—lock on to mine, and for a split second, I forget how to breathe. How to think. How to do anything but fall into them.
Luckily she looks down at her notes and eases me into a false sense of security with a softball. “I’d like to begin. Could you please state your full name for the record?”
“Seamus Patrick McGloughlin.” I lean back and clasp my hands on the table in front of me, hoping to convey my ease.
She doesn’t even look up. “Your title?”
“Doctor. I’m nearly halfway into my fourth-year residency.” I avoid Sarah’s sharp glance when I ignore her instructions and say too much.
Marcella flicks her eyes to me. “You were present during Miranda Black’s surgery?”
“Yes.” I nod, resisting the urge to embellish.
There’s a pause. Marcella scribbles something on her legal pad. When I say nothing, she strikes. “Let’s talk about the day in question.”
“Sure.” I struggle not to clench my jaw. “I’m ready.”
“Dr. McGloughlin,” she points to her notepad with a dark-red-tipped nail, “I’d like to understand your particular role in Miranda’s surgery.”
I sit up straighter and work hard to keep my expression neutral. “I was assisting Dr. Caldwell.”
“Okay.” She nods like she expected my answer and scribbles something across the page. “What was the nature of her surgery?”
“We were removing six brain tumors using MRI-guided laser interstitial thermal therapy.”
Her eyebrow lifts slightly. “Laser therapy? How are you qualified to assist in such a procedure?”
“I’ve been extensively trained in LITT and have assisted in over a dozen similar cases.” I decide to look right at her, no matter what she asks.
She makes a note, her manicured fingers firm around the pen. Her pouty lips purse slightly as she writes. I shouldn’t be noticing the way her mouth moves. Or the way her golden skin glows under the harsh lights.
Oh, I do.
I hate myself for it.
Sure, this isn’t the first time I’ve been under pressure. Itisthe first time I’ve been this distracted in a life-or-death situation—mine.
I shift slightly in my chair.
