Sandra Orchard - Critical Condition

Tara glanced at her watch and inwardly cringed at how late it was. “Okay, thank you. I’ll be right there.”

When Tara returned her attention to Zach, a dimple dented his cheek. “I see what you mean,” he said. Then, all hint of humor faded as he added, “Stay alert. We’ll talk later.”

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. Every bed on the ward was full, and every other patient had some urgent crisis demanding her attention. She was grateful for the distraction, but still found herself struggling to focus on her work, because busy as she was, she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that had her looking over her shoulder every few minutes.

She was three bites into her lunch when the front office paged her. On her way there, she passed through the lobby, where Dr. Whittaker was showing a group of well-heeled prospects the inscribed marble donor wall on which their generosity would be forever immortalized.

Tara had to chuckle. He went on and on about the groundbreaking research they’d be supporting, but everyone knew it was his irresistible charisma that pulled in the donations.

A newly inscribed block at the end of the wall caught Tara’s attention, and she skidded to a stop. Mr. and Mrs. Parker, platinum donors?

They hadn’t had that kind of money. Mr. Parker had often lamented about the extra jobs he had to take to afford his wife’s natural supplements, and how he hated that work kept him from being with her more.

A hand clamped her upper arm, jolting her from her thoughts.

“Miss Peterson?” Dr. Whittaker smiled down at her with his perfect white teeth. “For a moment, you looked like you might faint.”

His gaze strayed to the Parker inscription, his forehead creasing.

Zach’s words—stay alert—pulsed in her ears as Whittaker shifted, blocking her from the view of the potential donors he was courting. “No, I’m fine. I...” She peeked around him at their audience and raised her voice for their benefit. “I was admiring how generous people have been.”

Dr. Whittaker beamed and shifted again, no doubt hoping her accolades would inspire further generosity.

She tapped her finger on the Parkers’ name to gauge his reaction. “This couple, for example. They must’ve bequeathed their entire estate to this project.”

“Yes, the late Mr. and Mrs. Parker were extremely charitable.” His lips jitterbugged from a smile to a frown before finally settling into a grim line. Although obviously pleased by the coup, he knew enough not to show his pleasure, considering the couple had to die for the hospital to get the money.

Tara stiffened. Motive.

He certainly had means and opportunity. Who would ever suspect Dr. Wonderful of being the grim reaper?

Tara’s gaze shot to his. He still held her by the arm. And his grip was tightening.

Zach strode toward them like a gleaming knight. He tapped the doctor’s shoulder. “Excuse me, Dr. Whittaker?”

Whittaker’s grip loosened. “Yes?”

Zach thrust out his hand, leaving Whittaker no choice but to release her and extend his own hand.

Tara mouthed a thank-you and then scurried away without a backward glance. What was she thinking, goading Whittaker like that?

That’s the trouble—she didn’t think. Mom always warned her she was too impulsive. Had Whittaker read her suspicions in her expression? Or was he just trying to stop her babbling before someone made the connection between the names on the wall and the recent deaths?

Either way, if Dr. Wonderful sensed she didn’t buy into the persona he was peddling, she was in trouble.

Her stomach roiled at the thought. She dealt quickly with the front office’s questions, and then returned to the lunchroom. But she was so rattled that her stomach grew queasier by the second. She covered the macaroni salad she’d barely touched and returned the container to the staff fridge.

She tried to focus on paperwork to take her mind off her suspicions of Whittaker. Surely Zach would come by to ask about the run-in. She’d never had such a bad case of nerves. The detective’s warnings must’ve spooked her more than she’d realized. The mix of concern and determination she’d seen in his eyes as he’d drawn up behind Whittaker flittered through her thoughts. That...and how Zach’s shirt had strained across his broad chest when he’d reached up and tapped Whittaker’s shoulder.

Maybe suspicions weren’t the only things leaving her a little rattled.

Unable to attend to the paperwork, Tara waited for Alice to go on her break. Then she slipped into the back room where the medicines were kept. For days she’d been meaning to inventory the medicine locker to see if she could figure out what drug might’ve been used to kill the Parkers. Trouble was, Mr. and Mrs. Parker’s divergent symptoms suggested two different drugs, and none of the standard culprits had shown up in the coroner’s tox screen. Motive alone wouldn’t be enough reason for Zach to arrest Whittaker. They had to figure out how he did it. If, in fact, he had done it.

“Peterson.”

Tara jumped at Whittaker’s gruff summons and fumbled the bottle of oxycodone she was holding.

He snagged the bottle before it hit the floor, squinted at the label, then at her. “Your wrist still bothering you?”

“No,” she huffed, appalled by the insinuation that she’d sneak a pain pill. She hadn’t even filled the Tylenol 3 prescription the E.R. doc had given her the night of the incident. “I’m inventorying the medicine locker.”

His foot kicked the doorstop. The door closed with a thud.

Suddenly the room felt far too small, and she wished Alice were still here.

“Alice tells me you were late dispensing meds this morning.”

Scratch Alice. Tara wished Zach were here. She backed up a step only to have the handle of a spare bedside table press into her back. “Yes, sir.”

Whittaker raised an eyebrow. “No excuse?”

“It wouldn’t change the fact.”

“Hmm.” His stern expression relaxed. “Yes, some things are better kept to ourselves.” He rolled the narcotics bottle between his fingers. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Um, I suppose.”

“Good.” He plopped the bottle back on the shelf. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

“Excuse me?” Her voice pitched higher. But the instant the question escaped her lips, she bit her tongue. Would she never learn?

He’d probably been seconds away from walking out of the room and now...he was standing there gritting his teeth. The table handle dug deeper into her back.

“The Parkers’ deaths were an unfortunate occurrence that Memorial happened to benefit from.” Whittaker’s slow, measured words sucked the air from her lungs, one agonizing molecule at a time. “The less attention drawn to that fact, the better. We wouldn’t want people to get the wrong ideas. Would we?” He yanked open the door and stalked out.

This time Tara couldn’t ignore her upset stomach. She grabbed a bedpan and heaved.

Alice’s head poked in the door. “I thought I heard someone in here. Oh, you don’t look so good.” She helped Tara to a chair in the nurses’ station. “What is it? The flu?”

“I don’t know. It—” Cramps seized Tara’s stomach. She doubled over, moaning.

“I’ll get you something to calm the nausea.” Alice exchanged the bedpan with a clean one and rushed off. A few minutes later, she returned with a syringe. “Dr. Whittaker said I could give you an injection so it’ll work faster.”

“No, I don’t think—” Another wave hit, and this time Tara ran for the sink.

“Trust me. It’ll help.” Alice swabbed Tara’s arm and administered the injection before Tara could object again. “Now, why don’t you lie down in the locker room to give the medicine time to work? I’ll cover for you.”