Page 65 of Under Southern Stars
“Stayed toeavesdrop, you mean. And then bolted like roaches when I wrapped it up.”
He shrugs noncommittally. “Who can really say?”
I sigh. Great. Just what I need: to be on administration’s radarandthe talk of the ER. “That’s fine. Let them talk. I meant every word.”
“I know you did.” Nate hesitates. “By the way, I checked on Tasha. She’s actually doing really well in triage.”
That surprises me. “Really?”
He nods. “She’s got good instincts when she bothers to use them. Caught an elderly sepsis presentation that was masquerading as ‘just feeling weak.’ Tagged it ESI 2 when most would have probably scored it a 3.”
I glance over at Tasha, who’s efficiently working through assessments with more focus than I’ve ever seen from her. “Huh.”
“Maybe we should let her flex there more often,” Nate suggests. “Under supervision, of course. But she could learn.”
For a moment, I see something in his expression—a flicker of…not just professional interest. Interesting.
“We’ll see,” I say noncommittally. “One medical save doesn’t erase a year of attitude.”
“No,” he agrees. “But everyone deserves a chance to grow.” His eyes drift toward Tasha again, lingering a moment too long to be purely professional.
“Nathan Crawford,” I say, keeping my voice light. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that almost sounded like optimism.”
He looks startled, then a small smile forms. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.” I gather my charts. “Back to the trenches.”
Nate nods, already moving toward his next patient. His reliability is comforting—a constant in the chaos of the ER. I make a mental note to remember this moment: Nate, defending Tasha. Seeing potential where others see only problems.
Maybe Karen was inadvertently useful after all. Not that I’d ever admit it.
I take another sip of Jack’s coffee, drawing strength from the caffeine and the thoughtfulness behind it. Seven days until New Zealand. Seven days until we’re far away from efficiency experts and metrics.
Seven days suddenly feels like forever.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
JACK
I am deep into a game of Civilization, trying to guide my fledgling empire towards a cultural victory, a welcome distraction from the low hum of anxiety about the upcoming New Zealand trip. I’ve even named my two most prosperous cities ‘Sophia’s Landing’ and ‘Fort Madison’—a sentimental move I’d never admit to Rodriguez, but it makes me smile every time their banners pop up on screen. It’s my go-to for relaxation these days; I’ve learned my lesson with Football Manager and those bloody rugby mods. I start a game at nine one night and the next thing I know, my alarm is going off for my six a.m. shift. Never again. Civ is safer. Usually.
Just as I am about to research Pottery in ‘Sophia’s Landing,’ my laptop pings—an encrypted file transfer from Dad’s associate, Rawiri. He is ex-NZ Special Air Service, has spent time in Afghanistan, and now handles the less, ahh…savory aspects of McKenzie family security and information gathering. A good bloke, quiet, efficient. I’ve asked Dad to just do a light sweep on Troy Bentley after Sophia’s stress over those tax forms, just to see if there is anything she should be aware of, anything that might cause her more grief down the line.
I am expecting maybe some undeclared income, a few bad investments—the usual for a self-proclaimed “finance bro” who seems to live off his new girlfriend’s money. But as I click the fileopen, a knot tightens in my gut. Rawiri is not one for fluff; if he sends something, it is usually significant.
“Too bloody easy,” reads Rawiri’s note. “No special access needed. All publicly available, unfortunately.”
The first few documents are what I’d half-expected: some murky crypto transactions, a string of failed online ventures, nothing overtly illegal that jumps out, but definitely a pattern of financial instability and perhaps some creative accounting. Enough to make me understand why Sophia is always so tense when Troy brings up money.
Then I hit the social media deep dive.
It is not hard to find, not really. Troy, under a thinly veiled pseudonym—“AlphaTRex”—is clearly trying to build himself into some kind of online influencer. His profile picture is a gym selfie, all aggressive posture and sneer. The bio reads: “Unapologetic Male. Financial Dominance. Traditional Values. Escaping the Matrix.”
My stomach turns. I’ve heard Sophia mention Troy had gone down some dark rabbit holes both before and after the divorce, something about the “manosphere.” This looks like he’d not only gone down the hole but has set up shop and is trying to sell tickets.
I start clicking through his posts, his linked podcast clips, the videos. It’s a cesspit. Standard “redpill” rhetoric at first—men are victims, women are manipulative, feminism is cancer. Vile, but depressingly common in certain corners of the internet.
Then it gets worse.
