Sara followed the nurse’s gaze and saw the small hill of round, yellow pills. Goddammit. How was this happening behind her back? How had she not seen signs of hoarding, and of his mental state deteriorating to this point? She turned back, stared at the once-handsome young man curled into himself like a child on the plastic chair.
Stockpiling sedatives was the road to intentional overdose. Anger, fear, and untamed guilt swam like piranha in her blood. She wanted to shake him, force him to look at her, but she had to be careful how she dealt with Gray in front of staff. As psychiatrists went, she was one of the more hands-on docs, but that didn’t mean she could get all weepy and emotional with a patient without attracting attention.
“When you found him,” Sara asked Jill, a practiced calm in her voice, “was he taking anything from the stash?”
The nurse shook her head. “Just adding to it. He was on the floor beside the bed stuffing the pills inside. I think he used a fork to jab a hole in the mattress.”
Sara stood, pulled out her stethoscope and placed the diaphragm on Gray’s back, listening to his heart and lungs. When she was satisfied by what she heard, she eased the buds from her ears. “Jill,” she said. “Get rid of the meds, but make sure he takes his regular dosage. And I mean watch and check, okay?”
“Of course, Dr. Donohue.” Jill raised her dark brows. “Do you want him back in bed for the night?”
Sara winced. The question was a valid one in a situation like this, but the phrase “back in bed” was code for “Do you want him strapped down?” and there was nothing she wanted less in that moment. “No, he’s fine where he is. But I’m going to get a new mattress in here, and in the meantime I want you to check the room for anything else, anything that might be a problem, then look in on him every ten minutes and call me if there’s any change.”
Jill nodded. “Sure thing, Dr. Donohue.”
When the nurse left the room, Sara went to stand in front of the window, in Gray’s line of vision. She hoped he’d lift his gaze to hers for just a moment so she could connect with him. But when he did, the weight of his unhappiness read so loud and obvious in his steely gray eyes that Sara could barely keep her emotions in check. Her breath trembled as she leaned toward him, and she hated herself for it. “Just give me a little more time,” she whispered.
His jaw twitched; then his mouth settled into a frown, and after a moment, he turned away and shut his eyes.
Sara didn’t say another word, just turned and left the room. She headed straight for her office, to the tiny bathroom that was all her own. When she got there, she shut the door and turned on the cold water. What was she supposed to do? What did he expect her to do? Let him go? Let him die? Just give him the tools to kill himself and walk away? He was fucking kidding himself if he thought she was going to do that.
Tears burned in her throat and she hauled back and smashed her fist against the bathroom door. Pain shot through her wrist, then up her forearm. It felt good for a moment—her anger was alive, and the sudden release of emotional pain felt almost druglike in its quickness. Was this the release-high some of her juvie patients got off on? she wondered before the pain suddenly jumped and intensified. Sucking air through her teeth, she stuck her throbbing hand under the faucet and let the frigid water numb her skin. She glanced at the door, made sure she hadn’t left an imprint.
All she needed was more time. There would come a day, one day soon, if she could get her ass in gear, that she would get it right, and Gray would finally be released from the memories that haunted him. And hell, you’d be released from them too, wouldn’t you?
The loud knock on her office door startled her, but pulled her back to reality. She quickly dried her hand, left the bathroom, and called, “Come in,” as she walked over to her desk and dropped into the black leather chair behind it. She eyed the four half-empty takeout cups scattered around the top of her messy desk, and ached for a hot cup of coffee.
Dr. Peter Albert walked into the room with an expression of a man who was long on criticisms but short on patience.
Sara didn’t wait for the middle-aged ward chief to ball her out. One second after he sat in the chair opposite her, she shook her head and said, “Amazing. It’s close to midnight, staff’s changing over, and yet the Dr. Albert spy contingent rolls on.”
The man smiled dryly. “I would hope so. Who knows when or if I’d have heard about it from you.”
He was right, but Sara didn’t say it. She didn’t have to. Pete had known her for four years now, and he’d come to expect certain things. Her honesty and loyalty were his when it came to every patient but one.
She shrugged, tried to sound casual. “There’s nothing to worry about here. He’s fine. Nothing drastic went down.”
Pete didn’t buy it. “Only because a nurse caught him before it did.”
“It’s my fault. The sessions this week have been particularly brutal. He’s been bombarded by flashbacks of the fire—”
“Get serious. That pile of Klonopin was more than a week in the making.”
Sara sat up and grabbed one of the half-empty cups of coffee on her desk. “We’re getting so close, Pete. I can feel it. Isn’t that why you brought me on? To find the switch? Turn off traumatic memory for good?”
“Yes, that’s why I hired you, and why the donors continue to throw money at the Neuro Psych department—it’s also why I allow you to have Gray here.” Tense lines formed around his mouth. “But if anyone finds out—”
“No one’s going to find out,” Sara assured him, taking a sip of coffee. Ugh. Cold. She drank it anyway.
“If Gray regains his ability to speak—”
“He wouldn’t tell anyone. He wouldn’t want me to lose my job.”
Pete’s brow lifted. “Even if you were the one preventing him from permanently checking out?”
His words stopped her cold, because in truth, the possibly was a valid one.
Pete was quiet, his gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth and remained there a second too long before he said softly, “Listen, Sara. I’ve got to protect myself and this hospital.”
“I understand that.”
“Good, because I’ve decided to change Gray’s current situation.”
“What does that mean?” A prick of fear moved through her.
“I’m having him moved to lockdown.”
“Hell no!” She slammed down her cup. “No, Pete. I won’t keep him in a cell, strapped to a bed, no group therapy. He’s already a prisoner.”
“You’re not thinking clearly. You’re making choices based on emotion, not what’s right for Gray. I think maybe you should consider putting him under the care of another doctor—”
Sara was adamant. “Not going to happen.”
“Sara—”
“If you make that change without my say-so, you can consider it my resignation.” Sara leaned toward him, her tone deadly serious. “And all of my research—every study on PTSD, every unpublished finding I have on memory pain in military vets, every question, every curiosity, every idea I have will go with me.”
Worry etched Pete’s expression, and something beyond a professional loss. She knew he liked her, more than a boss should. And if she were anyone else, someone with a past that was free of tragedy and a future that offered clear possibilities, she might have given him a chance. After all, he was a decent guy, nice to look at. But she had nothing to offer anyone, not now—not yet.
Sara stood, grabbed the stack of files from her desk. “I have to go. I have patients.”
Pete stood as well. “If the truth gets out, I’m going to have to deny all knowledge. It’s your career that’ll be destroyed.”
Sara nodded. “Understood.” Poor Pete, she mused. He was a good man, just not a brave one.
Sara walked out of her office and didn’t stop until one of the nurses called to her from the nurse’s station. “Dr. Donohue?”
“Yes?”