Page 5 of Wolfgang

Fatigue made Eric stupid. “You haven’t updated them already?”

“I have,” she answered fiercely, clearly irritated with the question. “They want to talk to thedoctor. That’s you.”

Fuck, Eric hated this part. The very reason he preferred his night shift rotations, even if they fucked up his sleep schedule something mighty. Fewer family members, fewer uncomfortable updates, fewer tearful conversations about realistic expectations.

It was always fine, in the end. If he walked into a room wearing his white coat, everybody acted like he was God. But that was…worse, somehow. It always made him feel like a fraud. Like one day he was going to slip up and say what was always lurking underneath:I don’t care. I don’t fucking care. I don’t want to talk to you; I don’t want to reassure you. I just want to do my job well, and fingers crossed your family member doesn’t die. I know I should care more, but I don’t.

Or that one day, they’d just…see it. He wouldn’t even have to say anything at all. They’d just see he wasn’t any good, not really. Not on the inside. They’d ask for another doctor, someone like….King. A man who was golden without even trying—who was surly just as often as he was charming, but no one ever seemed to mind.

Eric was never surly with anyone. He covered up his failings with an open gregariousness he always hoped would keep people happy and off his case. He always had a smile or a joke ready. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes people just seemed to hate him anyway.

But the reckoning didn’t come today. Today the family members listened respectfully and thanked him profusely, one of them even grabbing his hand to shake it, grateful tears in their eyes.

He didn’t take a full, proper breath until he was back in the dictation room, going over patient charts alone.Thispart he liked okay. Running through the labs and vital signs, figuring out what was out of whack with his patients and why.

It wasn’t like he was a bad doctor. Not really. He knew that much.

He was just maybe a bad person.

When he got home, more exhausted than he had any right to be, tempted to sleep away his next three days off, there was another rose on his doorstep.

Eric looked over his shoulder, at the street behind him, just as he’d done the first time. At this point, he was beginning to think it was a prank.

But it didn’t really matter, did it?

He picked up the flower and took it in with him. He found a small, clear glass in the kitchen and filled it with water. He placed the rose inside. He put the whole thing on his bedside table.

Because he could pretend, just this once. Pretend there was someone out there, wanting to make him feel special. He could pretend he had a person out there, just for him.

What could be the harm in that?

two

Wolfe

Despitewhatrecent,impulsivedecisions could possibly lead some people to believe, Wolfe was someone who knew the importance of planning, of preparation, of setting the scene.

And what scene was more important than one’s future home?

“And here we have the fourth and final bedroom. The closet in here is somewhat limited compared to the primary bedroom, but certainly nothing to sneeze at either.”

Wolfe walked well ahead of the clacking heels of the voluptuous real estate agent, sizing up the old Victorian on display at his own pace.

It was furnished horrendously, the current owners clearly trying their best to force a modern look on a house that was simply begging for an old-fashioned touch. Wolfe truly didn’t understand the current fascination with the Scandinavian aesthetic, this exaltation of the bland and the stiff. If one’s furniture was going to be uncomfortable, it might as welllooksumptuous.

Still, the bones of the house were solid. Four bedrooms upstairs, with a downstairs office, a sun-soaked sitting room, as well as a dimly lit space that could be repurposed into a proper library. It was adorned with plenty of lovely wooden built-ins and hosted an ample backyard backing up to forest service lands and hiking trails.

And hiking trails meant, of course, plenty of sturdy hikers who could be compelled inside for dinner.

It was, he had to admit, perfect.

And available immediately. Or it would be, after the right compulsion.

Wolfe turned on his heel, obliging the real estate agent to halt in her tracks. “May I have another look at the en suite?” he asked, tilting his head in a way that suggested he’d like to do so alone.

Young Miss Wilson took the hint. “Of course. I’ll be right downstairs.” She had the self-satisfied look of someone who could scent a sale, but Wolfe couldn’t begrudge her the smugness. Not when he was so pleased with what she’d found for him.

He watched her descend the stairs and then meandered down the hall to the largest bedroom. The walk-in closet was indeed impressive, room enough to fit his own ample wardrobe and leave room for another’s. The bed frame the current owners had chosen would have to go, of course. And he’d need to call painters in as soon as possible.

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