Page 69 of Torched Spades
I don’t stop to question what I’m doing as I reach across my desk and drag his file toward me. Flipping it open, I once again pour through page after page of false ramblings and patient profiling.
Thirty-five-year-old former firefighter on probation for setting fire to a restaurant in Scranton, Pennsylvania. Since no one was hurt, Malone’s exemplary record was used to reduce the charges, sentencing him to fines rather than jail time.
I’ve read every word multiple times, but something is bothering me. Something I haven’t been able to put my finger on for six weeks.
Biting my thumbnail, I stare at the blinking cursor on the computer screen. Then lowering my hand, I hover my fingers over the keyboard again.
Fuck it.I’ve already broken so many ethical and professional codes, one more won’t matter. My reputation is already ruined.
However, it’s not fear of what I’ll lose that holds me back as much as fear of what I’ll find. Part of me wants to shut the laptop and walk away; to filter the good and the bad out of the day and tuck away what’s left. It’s a vicious circle I’ve spun in for years.
However, I’ve already let one man mold me. I refuse to let another one break me. So, leaning forward, I type each letter, gritting my teeth at each tap of my nails against the keyboard.
Johnny Malone.
Multiple results pop up, but none link to the man I’m looking for. I clear the search and type in variations of his name along with the birthdate in his file, even his current address and social security number.
Nothing.
It’s like he doesn’t even exist.
When a quick search on the Scranton fire yields nothing, I try to access the police report, but there’s a lock on the file. Even after half an hour of digging, all I end up with is Johnny’s name and date of arrest.
Shoving the laptop across the desk, I slump back into my chair. Why the hell did I do this? Not only did breaking the rules land me right back where I started, but now I’m even more confused.
I shove my thumbnail into my mouth, grinding out my frustration. The last thing I want is for Jack to be right, but the pieces aren’t fitting. This time, it’s not just my gut twisting. My heart is being crushed under unanswered questions and crossed lines. Even though the thought of never seeing him again feels like a thousand knives stabbing me at once, after what happened between Johnny and me today, I have no choice but to refer him out.
However, my mind can’t let go of how his demands shifted so quickly. One minute he was telling me our deal has expired, and we were finished, and the next it was like he’d verbally collared me. Only it had nothing to do with sex. A man like Johnny could have any woman with a snap of his fingers.
This reversal felt darker.
My gaze strays to the file, where one name catches my eye.Owen Holmes.Grabbing a Post-it-Note from my desk drawer, I scribble down his contact information.
Maybe it’s time Johnny’s probation officer and I have a long-overdue chat.
Returning to my laptop, I quickly type up a letter of referral and print out two copies. Luckily, I keep a change of gym clothes in my desk, not that I’ve ever used them.
Shedding my ruined suit, I tug on the spandex leggings and lime green T-shirt, then slip into a barely used pair of sneakers. Shoving what’s left of my business suit in my briefcase, I stride confidently toward the door, averting my eyes as I pass the two stains hanging on my wall. “Not today,” I mutter. “He won’t force me behind another piece of glass.”
Meredith glances up as I enter the lobby and approach the reception desk. “Dr. Brennan…”
“Send this to Johnny Malone,” I instruct, handing her a copy of the referral as I continue my path toward the exit. I’m less than a foot away when I pause and toss a brittle smile over my shoulder. “And make sure he has to sign for it.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
BECCA
Owen Holmes sits motionless behindhis desk, his steely gaze bouncing from the paper in his hands, to me, then back again. “What the hell is this?”
I’m standing in front of his desk, staring down at him with a blank expression. From my vantage point, I can see the mussed, dirty blond layers twisted near the back of his head. It looks so permanently disheveled I imagine tonight isn’t the first late night he’s spent in his office shoving his fingers through his hair.
Johnny tends to have that effect on people.
“Exactly what it looks like, a referral letter,” I say, keeping my tone flat. “Effective today, Johnny Malone is no longer my patient.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid the answer to that question falls under the doctor/patient confidentiality clause. You understand.”
