Karen Kirst - Intensive Care Crisis

Rolling the chair back, he stood and stalked to the apartment’s compact kitchen and perused the fridge’s meager contents. His appetite hadn’t returned, and he wasn’t interested in the assorted yogurts or chicken salad of indeterminable dates.

The doorbell chimed. Probably one of his buddies coming to cheer him up. That seemed to be the goal these days—distract Julian from the accident, remind him that he shouldn’t feel guilty. His frustration building, he swung the door open and promptly forgot the words he’d been formulating.

“You.” He stared at the fresh-faced brunette in his doorway. “You were at the hospital. You were my nurse.”

She wiped her palms on the outside of her blue scrubs. “I’m Audrey Harris. I’m—”

“Gunny’s daughter.”

Julian used the door to support his weight, confusion setting in. Hers was the face dominating his memories. In fact, the expression of deep disquiet she wore now matched what he remembered of her. But was it real? Because it wasn’t uncommon for him to see her around the complex. He’d been introduced to her while in a hospital bed, the first time he’d been admitted. His superior, Gunnery Sergeant Trent Harris, was infinitely proud of his only child. Protective, too. While Harris had been happy to introduce her to one of his marines, there was no question he expected Julian to keep his distance.

“You remember me?” Edging closer to the door frame to let a young mom with a baby on her hip pass, Audrey’s big blue eyes clouded. “I didn’t think you would.”

He noted how expressive her eyes were, how clear and unguarded. In fact, her entire face was a billboard advertisement for her feelings. Currently, worry creased her forehead and weighted her full, pink lips into a frown.

“Did Gunny send you?”

“No. I came to your hospital room thinking you might like a break from cafeteria food.” She lifted a brown paper bag. “I didn’t know you’d been discharged this afternoon.”

“What is that?”

“Soup. Two kinds, since I don’t know your preferences.”

“You brought me soup.”

Why would she do that? He was technically a stranger. Unless... Was her conscience bothering her? Was she the reason he’d coded?

“Your choice of chicken noodle or vegetable beef.”

He didn’t feel like company, but his mom had preached the importance of good manners. Besides, he might be able to pry some answers from Audrey Harris.

“Why don’t you come inside?”

As she stepped past him, her sweet scent struck him as both exotic and familiar, not quite citrusy yet not floral, either. He couldn’t place it and ceased trying. The pleasure he used to find in sorting out details and mulling over conundrums eluded him now.

The nurse stopped beside his desk. She was tall and svelte. He’d seen her jogging in the park and participating in their complex’s organized sports.

Her wide gaze soaked in the leather furniture, big-screen television, lava lamp and hermit crab tank. She zeroed in on the map of his home state framed above the couch.

“You’re from Hawaii?”

He closed the door and stifled a sigh. He’d struggled to make small talk with friends recently, much less strangers. “Born in New York. My father’s Chinese. Mom’s American. We moved to Oahu when I was eight.”

“Must’ve been wonderful to grow up in paradise.”

“It has its perks.” There were downsides, too, like any other place. Expensive rent. Traffic jams.

She studied the surfboard propped in the corner.

“You surf?” he asked, not really interested.

“I never learned. I preferred to play beach volleyball.”

“There are plenty of people willing to teach you.” At the sudden question in her eyes, he added, “For a fee. Ask the local shops.”

“Maybe,” she said, noncommittal.

Julian crossed to her. She had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. Her thick waves were restrained by an elastic band. He had the inane thought that he’d never seen her hair down and wondered how long it was.

She thrust the sack at him. “I, um, hope you like at least one of them.”

He accepted the offering, set it on the counter and leaned against a bar stool. “Mahalo.”

“How’s your pain level?” She gestured to the gauze encasing his arm and wrist. “Are you taking the prescribed antibiotics?”

“It’s tolerable. And yes, Nurse Harris, I’m following orders. You could say I’ve grown accustomed to that.”

“Right.” Her gaze swept the length of him, taking in his marine-issued green T-shirt, black pants and socks. This wasn’t a flirtatious or interested inspection. Audrey Harris was worried about him. Or worried about her job?

“You were there when I went into cardiac arrest, weren’t you?”

Startled by the abrupt question, she sagged against his desk, her hip perilously close to the puzzle he’d been laboring over for weeks.

“What happened in the recovery room, Audrey?” he asked. “Why is it that, more than thirty-six hours after I was supposed to have had a routine procedure and discharge, I still don’t have answers?”

“I can’t say,” she whispered.

He resisted the urge to use his physical stature to intimidate her. His goal wasn’t to frighten her. “Did you make a mistake?” He kept his tone casual. “Did you give me the wrong medicine?”

There. A telltale flicker of guilt. “No.”

Unable to contain his impatience, he straightened and took a single step toward her. “I almost died thanks to hospital error. I deserve to know the truth.”

“It wasn’t hospital error,” she blurted, popping up from the desk.

“Oh?”

“Someone masquerading as hospital staff entered recovery and administered a lethal dose of epinephrine.”

“What?”

“We don’t know his identity. The police weren’t able to get fingerprints off the syringe. They’re combing through security footage, but there are many areas of the building that aren’t covered.” Her dark brows snapped together. “I’m sorry, Julian.”

Vague memories of a man wearing a surgical mask emerged. He hadn’t spoken, but the intent in his eyes had unsettled Julian. He’d worn latex gloves and had a short ponytail.

“I saw him.”

“You did? What does he look like? If you can give a description—”

“His face was obscured. The curtain was drawn and the light behind my bed turned off.”

“I turned it off so you could rest,” she admitted, biting her lip.

He paced to the window. There wasn’t much activity in the parking lot below or the public park bordering their Jacksonville complex. This was the dinner hour, when people would be sharing meals with their families. He ignored the pang of loneliness. What right did he have to feel lonely? His team members, his brothers—Paulson, Akins, Rossello and Cook—didn’t have the luxury.

“I don’t have enemies.” His adversaries inhabited foreign soil. They didn’t know him by name. They only knew his organization—United States Marine Corps Force Reconnaissance. “This can’t be connected to me.”

“I should go. I’ve already said too much.”

Her shoulders were hunched and her mouth pinched. She was hiding something. Blocking her exit, he said, “Where were you when the intruder got to me?”

The color drained from her face. “I had another patient. She was ill. I stepped out to get her a cup of ice.” Her lashes swept down. “When I returned, I saw the curtain drawn. I saw his outline. I tried to stop him and would’ve gone after him, but you’d gone into V-tach. I had to begin CPR at once—”

“You saved my life?” Julian attempted to picture her springing into heroine mode. She hadn’t caused his brush with death. She’d kept him from succumbing to it.