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Chapter 9

Of course he is speaking with my patient for forever. I have never seen a physician spend more than 5 minutes with a patient. Normally they are rushing in, rushing out, and rushing onto the next patient. Of course the one time I need a doctor to hurry he takes an eternity.

The waiting is torture. I fidget, on the verge of pacing, unable to hide my anxiety. I am not sure if I am more terrified of being alone with him, or what he is going to say. He wouldn’t kill me at work, right?

By the time he finally emerges and approaches me at the nurse’s station, I am almost… relieved. Because anything is better than sitting around waiting and wondering if you just spent your last day on earth at work.

“Is it okay if I steal Cambree for a few minutes?” His question is directed at the woman who is training me, which irks me a little. She agrees, and he finally deigns to turn towards me.

“Come with me, then, Ms. Johannsen.” He says it with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, gesturing in the direction he wants me to walk.

I stand, steeling myself, and follow him. I make sure I keep as big of a distance as I can manage without being weird, and stay slightly behind him so that he can’t surprise me. He leads me out of the unit, and I recognize the way to his upstairs office, where I last spoke with him. We walk in tense, uncomfortable silence, until we reach his office door. He opens it, gesturing me inside.

“No, thank you. I’ll go second,” I tell him flatly, not wanting to have my back to him for even a moment. I don’t think he is going to try anything, but I really can’t know for sure. Understanding lights his eyes, and an emotion I can’t quite identify flickers over his face. It almost looks like… hurt? It passes quickly, and he steps in ahead of me, walking across the room and rounding the desk, as if he knows that distance will help me be more at ease– and it does. Once we have more space between us, I walk a few steps into the room, making sure I stay between him and my exit, and look at him expectantly.

He is quiet for a long moment while he examines me with another odd expression on his face. I am about to ask him what this is about, when he finally takes a deep breath and begins speaking.

“First of all, I owe you an apology,” he begins. “I am so, so, incredibly sorry that I hurt you. I have never hurt an innocent person before, and I am horrified by my actions.” I hear the truth in his voice, and I don’t know what to say. Thankfully, he doesn’t wait for me to respond before continuing.

“I am sure you have guessed by now that we have located Clarisse. We have also done some additional research to confirm that you are who you say who you are. We were not able to find a single connection between you and her, and there is no doubt left that you are innocent in all of this.” He hesitates then, guilt written all over his face. Rather than looking me in the eye, his focus is on my throat, which is shockingly nearly healed. The bruises that he left there have faded so much faster than I would have expected, and what is left I have expertly covered with makeup. Still, he stares at my still-tender flesh as though he can see every mark, and it pains him.

When he speaks again, his voice is rough, and nearly a whisper. “I really am sorry. Truly.”

“Thank you for apologizing. I appreciate that.” My answer is noncommittal, but it’s honestly the best that I can do under the circumstances. What he did to me really isn’t forgivable, though I can understand how it happened, the confusion that led to it. Sadly, I learned the hard way that forgiving someone when they hurt you just shows them you’ll stick around if they do it again. He gives me a small nod, as if he understands my inner turmoil, and accepts that he hasn’t earned my forgiveness.

He clears his throat, and then continues, “There is another matter I would like to speak to you about.” I tilt my head to the side, waiting for him to continue.

“Do you remember how I told you that the police here answer to me?” I nod. As if I could forget.

“Well they reached out to me today. Apparently they got a hit on a BOLO for a vehicle. And the vehicle belongs to you.” My ears start ringing, and my heart speeds, beating so hard it hurts. He continues, “It threw up some red flags, since there isn’t a crime attached to this particular vehicle. It wasn’t stolen, or used for a kidnapping or burglary. They found it odd and decided to run it by me. They are waiting to hear back from me on whether they should report that it has been found.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. No, no, no, no, no. I should have known he would do something like this. Breathe, Bree. Breathe.

But my traitorous body doesn’t get the message, and no matter how hard I try, I cannot get my lungs to fill with air. My breaths come in short, quick gasps, and tears blur my vision. My knees tremble, and I stagger to the nearest chair and throw myself into it before my legs give out. I fold myself in half, dropping my head between my knees as the icy hot panic floods my body, and muddles my mind. I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe.

I feel myself gently lifted upright into a sitting position, and I look up into Reed’s eyes. He is cradling my face between his hands, and the entirety of his focus is on me. His expression is slightly concerned, but his eyes have a sharp, frantic edge to them. In a quiet, soothing voice, he repeats my name.

“Cambree. Cambree. Look at me. Match your breaths to mine, okay? We are going to do this together. Breath in.” He inhales. “And out.” He releases his breath. I don’t know if I am safe with this man, but I will certainly be less safe if I keep hyperventilating and pass out. So I focus on his eyes, on his breathing, and put all of my energy into matching my breaths to his. After what feels like hours–but is probably only minutes–I am finally getting full breaths of air. As soon as I catch my breath enough to speak, I pull away from him. His hands slide away from my face, and he takes several steps back from me, as if he, too, is just realizing how close we were to one another.

“Please.” My voice is pitiful and pleading, barely above a whisper, but I don’t care. “Please, don’t tell him where I am. Please.”

“Tell who, Cambree?”

But I don’t want to tell the man in front of me my depressing relationship history. I don’t want to tell him about how I was so in love that I didn’t recognize when that love turned toxic. I don’t want to tell him how I was so convinced that I was the problem that I stayed far longer than I should have. I don’t want to tell him that I was nearly killed by the person that I loved with every part of me. He doesn’t deserve that dark part of me.

So I simply say, “You owe me this much. Please.”

He is quiet for a long moment, a muscle feathering in his jaw the only sign that he is bothered by my response.

“Very well. Consider it handled. Your presence here will be kept quiet.”

A huge breath of relief escapes me, and I slump back in my chair.

“Thank you,” I tell him, filling the words with sincerity.

He opens his mouth as if he wants to say something else, but closes it and gives his head a small shake.

“Of course. It is the least I can do, after everything.”

Though it’s the last thing I expected, it seems that this town with sketchy police controlled by a gorgeous, psychopathic, something-like-mafia man might have just become the safest place for me.

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