Page 60 of The Last Love Song
“You don’tknowthat.” Too frustrated to sit still, he sprang off the bed and stalked around the small space. He grimaced. The walls were painted a bright blue, which was probably supposed to be calming, but it seemed too damn cheery. “For all we know, sex caused it. What if?—”
A sharp rap sounded at the closed door a split second before it swung wide.
A woman in a white lab coat entered. She had frizzy dark curls and sharp features, but her smile seemed genuine and—bonus—she wasn’t distracted by sports on a handheld device. She carried a clipboard under her arm.
“I’m Dr. Ruiz, the rheumatologist your admitting doctor sent for.” Setting down the clipboard, she checked the notes on the IV bag. “Ms. Finley, I’ve reviewed your X-rays and blood work, along with your past history. Do you mind if I look over your joints? You don’t need to get up. I’d just take a peek at your arms and hands.”
Heather’s eyes strayed toward Zach before she answered.
Dr. Ruiz followed her gaze.
“Unless you prefer privacy?” the doctor asked.
Zach held his breath, wondering if Heather would ask him to step out.
He should at least offer. But he wanted to hear what this doctor had to say. Heather would only keep it secret. So frankly, unless she made him leave, he planned to sit tight. He leaned against one wall, averting his eyes but listening just the same.
Heather must have given her approval because he heard the rustle of the blanket and the quick directives from Dr. Ruiz, including a request that Heather try to make a fist or exert pressure on the other woman’s hands.
“Okay. That’s fine.” Dr. Ruiz stepped back and leaned against a built-in counter. “I’m going to disagree with Dr. Watts that your condition is unrelated to the rheumatic disease. I think the episode you experienced tonight is the direct result of the RA.”
“The arthritis?” Zach asked before remembering he wasn’t going to say anything.
“Yes.” The doctor folded her arms across her lab coat and crossed her clog-covered feet. “Although the condition is poorly named since the arthritis is a symptom of the larger autoimmune disease. I tell you this, Ms. Finley, because you are a new patient and your chart shows you haven’t begun aggressive treatment yet. The nonsteroidal anti-inflammatory drugs you’re taking won’t prevent flare-ups like this. You needsomething stronger, and most likely a range of medications to address multiple facets of the disease.”
Zach thought of ten more questions he wanted to ask, including, what exactly had causedthisflare-up? But he kept them to himself and waited for Heather to speak. When she didn’t say anything, he looked up. Found her watching him.
“Zach, would you mind very much if?—”
He didn’t stick around to hear the rest. He could tell by her worried expression she wanted him gone so she could speak to the doctor privately, after all. Of course he understood.
She cared about him. But he was beginning to realize she didn’t care about him as much as he cared about her. And that hurt.
“Text me if you need anything.” With a nod, he pushed through the door and strode out of the room, his shoulders as tense as Heather’s had been when he’d carried her out of his house hours ago.
Stalking past Lorena’s desk, he was tempted to tell the nurse she’d been right—he didn’t belong back there where he wasn’t needed. Sure as hell wasn’t wanted. He clenched his fists, hating that he couldn’t call her brothers, at least. Her sister Erin might be on her honeymoon, but Zach knew Scott’s wife, Bethany, and Mack’s fiancée, Nina, would want to be with Heather through this.
But what pissed him off more than being shut out—of the irrefutable evidence that she didn’t want him any more involved in her life than he’d already become—was knowing that she denied herself support, help and the necessary treatment. From his reading about the disease, he knew that the drugs Dr. Ruiz mentioned weren’t strong enough to slow down the effects of RA. Heather must know that, too. How could she put the needs of everyone else in front of hers? To the point that she would let her joints deteriorate so much she’d ended up in the hospital?
Too angry to separate that frustration from his old resentment at the way his teenage sister had concealed her depression, Zach dropped into an uncomfortable waiting room chair and fumed.
Pulling out his phone, he scrolled through his messages, including some new ones from Sam about the investigation. A reminder that he still needed the Finley family’s permission to review the former mayor’s personal computers. There was also an email from his sister and a reminder in his calendar to follow up on the interview with Megan Bryer.
He’d planned on calling the teen’s father and alerting the guy to watch for signs of trouble in Megan’s life. For example, did she avoid answering the phone or regularly clear her browser history? Had she been dodging former friends or social gatherings with peers? Things he knew now were red flags for people who were stalked or bullied online.
The signs he’d missed in Ellie. Zach had figured that as long as he and Sam kept her physically safe, she’d be okay. He’d been too young, too stupid and too caught up in his own fury at his father to notice that—emotionally—his sister had fallen apart after being attacked by her stalker.
So Heather wanted to keep Megan’s secrets? Zach was going to call bullshit on that one. Heather had the right to hide her own health problems, but she didn’t have the right to hide her student’s. Zach would call Dan Bryer today.
But first, he planned to dig deeper online to see if he could find any evidence of bullying. If it existed on the internet, it was a matter of public record anyhow, so Zach wasn’t worried about breaking confidences or protecting privacy.
Searching on his laptop would be easier, but since he had time and too much frustrated energy now, he used his phone to hit a few social media sites that were popular with the kids. At first, he found nothing. One social media site after the next cameup clean for mentions of Megan—at least the negative that he’d been worried about.
Then it occurred to him to check archived pages—a feat that was trickier with social media pages when you didn’t know fixed URLs. But there were plenty of tools to view deleted web pages. He started running a few of them, setting new archive searches in motion on various browser pages so he could search multiple platforms at once.
When he got a hit, he clicked it.
And scrambled to turn the screen off his phone before anyone in the waiting room saw what was on the page.
