Page 21 of Icy Heart, Empty Chest
“How do you do with locks?” He jiggled the handle but it wouldn’t budge.
I pulled a set of picks out of my backpack.
“Wait. Wait!” he hissed.
“What?”
“Do you hear someone?”
“No…?” I waited for a few more seconds. “I don’t hear anything.”
“I think I do, get down!”
With the strength of a linebacker, he tackled me down and pulled me against the wall.
I had to resist screaming, for a few reasons. First of which being, ow! Second being him being so jittery.
He had me in a vice grip. I didn’t mind being held against him but he had to control his nerves.
I waited a full minute, looking down at my watch. And back at him. I shook my head.
“Dude. Turn off cop brain. It’s not helping you.” I pried his fingers off my rib cage and got up. I dusted off my uniform with a glower. I forgot how strong he was.
“Sorry.”
Not sure I believed him.
I gave him a side eye as I came over to the cabinets. “Didn’t they teach you how to pick locks in the academy?”
“You suck at safes, I suck at locks. Chop-chop, smart ass.” My, someone felt sassy now.
I gave a little snort. Hate to break it to him but I’d been fiddling with locks for years. I twirled the picks in my fingers for show but nothing really budged the stone look on his face.
I had it open soon, but to disappointment. “Nothing. Office?”
We turned and headed for the office. The door swung open easily. I threw out my arm before he could move.
“Do you get the impression that this guy is that scatterbrained? Or do you think someone else has been in here?”
“Why didn’t I bring my gun…” he muttered, rolling his eyes. I glared at him again. I didn’t think he was understanding my thought process.
“’Cause guns are tied to places and fingerprints and departments. And it defeats the purpose.”
“You don’t ever bring anything to protect yourself on these things? Are you trying to take a dirt nap?” he hissed. I felt some heat drive up my neck.
“Look, if I can’t talk myself out of the scenario, then I’ll get out. No job is worth my blood,” I answered, scanning around.
“I can’t see anything obvious. Should be good.”
He lowered my outstretched arm and stepped in, thoroughly starting to check. I cocked my head at the contents on the desk.
There were five very thick case files. I perched on the side of the desk and grabbed the top one, flipping past the demographics page to the transfer summary.
“Laila is a four-year-old female who presented to the hospital with nausea, vomiting and first-time seizure… Work up included CT scans, which were indicative of large glioblastoma, not amenable to resection per surgical oncology. Consider consulting Palliative for symptom management.”
I skimmed down further, which was talking about treatment options, putting in a port and median survival rate. My eyes widened.
“Under a year survival rate. Gods.” I tossed the file back and went behind the desk. “I can see why he’d want your heart. If all of his patients are like this, that’s…depressing.”
