“I’m not insinuating anything. I’m very bluntly asking you if you gave Sullivan penicillin to delay his transfer.”
“Unbelievable,” I mutter under my breath. “Detective Foster, I take offense that I not only have to do the doctors’ job in this backward hospital, but now yours, too. How many people do you think want to see Grayson dead? Family of the victims, police officials…like yourself—”
“He was already being sentenced to death,” he interrupts.
“He wasn’t being sentenced yesterday,” I counter. “When the trial appeared to be going in his favor.” I raise my eyebrows.
He huffs a breath. “Don’t head back to Maine so quickly, doctor. I may need to question you again.”
I throw my hands up. “You’ve got it. Now, can I please see my patient?”
“Absolutely not. Sullivan is under strict guard. Officials and medical personnel only.”
He escorts me to the waiting room. I find the chair I’ve claimed as mine for the past eight hours. A strained tiredness presses behind my eyes, and I close them for a moment.
It took too long to transfer Grayson to an ambulance. The hospital only being five miles from the courthouse, it shouldn’t have exceeded fifteen minutes to get him into care. Those fifteen minutes cost Grayson his consciousness.
An anxious voice whispers from that dark corner of my mind, mocking me. You wanted this. I did—I wanted Grayson’s death. I wanted the threat eliminated. My perseverance is stronger than my feelings for him.
I blink the dryness from my eyes. I couldn’t will a tear forth if I tried.
Most psychologists are able to diagnose and treat their patients because they care. They have this well of empathy they pull from to give of themselves and help those the world would otherwise shun.
I cannot relate.
I don’t empathize with my patients; I commiserate with them.
Grayson and I share a connection…we’re bound together by some dark force…and yet I know we’re different. I’m better than him. I’m better because I’m stronger and I deserve to be the one to go on and to continue to help people. And for that to happen, he must be the one to fail.
So yes, I wanted his death. But not like this. I wanted the justice system to kill him. I wanted to be justified and free of blame. I hate feeling this hollow pang in my chest, and I want it to stop.
“Dr. Noble.”
My eyes snap open. The ER doctor stands before me. “Yes?”
“Can I have a moment to talk with you?” he asks.
I grab my purse. “Of course, Dr. Roseland.”
Grayson’s medical file still has yet to be transferred. Had the staff wasted time with tests, I’m not sure Grayson would be alive. I threw my lofty title around to make sure Dr. Roseland knew what to test for immediately.
I’m led toward the emergency wing where Grayson is being monitored. “Don’t worry. I’ve gotten you clearance.” The doctor looks my way. “A
doctor should be able to see her patient.”
“Thank you.”
“He’s awake,” he says. “I’m sure once I’ve cleared him for questioning, you won’t have another chance to speak with him. He’s been asking to see you since he woke up.”
My brow furrows. “Dr. Roseland, you’re taking a great chance by allowing me access. I don’t think Detective Foster will appreciate your efforts.”
He waves a hand dismissively. “Foster is a hot-head. You just let me worry about him.”
I offer him a smile. Sounds like the ER doctor has regular dealings with the detective. “Well, I appreciate this. Sullivan is a…unique patient.”
He nods. “I noticed that. His brain scans were impressive. It’s a shame that someone with so much potential resorted to… Well, it’s a shame.”
I lower my head as we pass the two officers guarding the hallway. “Do we know how he received the antibiotic?” I ask.