Page 39 of The Night Shift
The woman, clearly taken aback, takes a step back and bolts out the bar like she’s seen a ghost. Once she's out of sight, I turn back to Camille. “Going soft, you say?”
Camille rolls her eyes. “Whatever. I still think that you should dosomethingabout it.” The something being Theo Carter.
I sit back down. “Maybe I can knock him out and stab him in the leg a little bit?” I’m not kidding. I never ever kid about stabbing people in the leg. But Cami laughs, nonetheless.
“That could work,” she says. I sense a bit of irritation in her voice. “Or you could begin with telling me why you hate him so much so that I can help you come up with a better and more satisfying plan.”
“There’s no reason.”
“Come on, Holly. We’ve been friends for three years. Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not lying.” It really is nothing. He’s been an annoying pain in my ass ever since I started working at EGH. I’ve asked him to stop pissing me off multiple times, and he hasn’t. Does it really have to be more complicated than that?
“We don’t keep secrets from each other. I thought I made that clear long ago.”
“There’s nothing to tell, Cami. And even if there was, you don’t need to know the story to be on my side.”
Cami meets my gaze with a hint of seriousness on her face. Two whole seconds pass and she speaks again, “Of course, Hol. I’m always on your side. Don’t ever doubt that.”
I give her a soft smile, and she mirrors it right back.
A heaviness spreads across my stomach and my mind goes back to the break-in. Cami is right. It reallydoesn't makeany sense. Even if it was Theo who broke into my apartment last night, why the fuck would he steal my clothes? Dirty,bloodyclothes. Those clothes are evidence. Is that what this is about? Revenge? I’ve always been extremely careful about covering my tracks after each kill. But it’s possible that someone knows. Did I accidentally murder Theo’s dad or something? Or maybe a long-lost brother? Hmm. Maybe it’s not him. If revenge is the motive, then it could be anyone else. Someone related to one of my victims? That’s a long list to comb through. Who could it be? An angry ex-girlfriend? A family member? The thought wraps itself around my brain, ensconcing it in a bubble where nothing but my pounding heart and racing pulse exists.
I take a sip of my coffee. It’s cold now. My coffee is cold, some fucking asshole is trying to mess with me, and I don’t know why. The second I find out, heads are going to roll.
I draw in a short breath, looking around as if the person who sent me all these texts is standing right behind me. I want to yelland scream. I want to throw something at someone. Instead, I take out my phone and stare at the very first text again.
UNKNOWN: Roses are red, violets are blue, aren’t you glad I found you…
What the fuck does this message even mean? Is it some sort of threat? Am I supposed to respond? What would I even say?Love the stupid poem, motherfucker. Mind telling me who you are?
I’m not used to being backed into a corner like this. It stresses me out. I don’t do well under stress. In the OR? Yes. Trauma is an intense specialty and there’s no room for a stressed-out surgeon at the operating table. But in real life? Not so much. In real life, when I’m stressed or pissed off, I take my scalpel and do bad things. Of course, I don’tfeelbad. Nor do I feel any remorse. Why should I? It’s not like there’s a shortage of scum to kill. Ineedto do this. It’s the only way to preserve my sanity.
“It’s that white one, right?”
I look up and find Camille staring at me. “What?”
“The top you lost. It’s white in color? With something written on the front?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh.” She mulls over my words. “I’ve seen you wear that top before.”
“What? That’s not possible. That top isn’t —”
“Yours. I know. But I swear I’ve seen you wear that top before. A few months ago.”
When I don’t say anything for a couple of seconds, trying to jog my memory, Cami gives me another weak smile, one full of silent understanding and goes back to restocking the garnishes.
“Maybe, I’m wrong,” she says. “Forget I said anything. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that some asshole broke into your home, due to which you’ll be staying with me for theforeseeable future. Or at least till we figure out who this crazy psycho stalker person is.”
“That solves nothing.”
“It will keep you safe and in front of my eyes. As far as I’m concerned, that solves everything.”
“Camille!” a voice yells. Her attention snaps to her right, towards the server with an empty tray and a pissed-off look on his face. “Can I get the drinks for table seven?”
“Yeah, just a second.”
