Barnesdale glared at Luke.
“Like you said, Henry, we should each stick to our own jobs.” Luke turned and walked out of the room.
Luke was halfway back to his office when Megan sidled up to him in the corridor.
“Do you have a moment?” she asked.
“This isn’t a good time, Megan.” He slowed his pace but kept walking. “If you’re wondering about Josue Chaca, I don’t know anything yet. The autopsy’s tomorrow.”
“It’s not about that.” She gave his elbow a gentle tug.
It was the first time in almost three months that she’d touched him in a familiar way, and the gesture stopped him in mid-stride.
Megan came right to the point. “About Kate,” she said. “I didn’t say anything earlier because there were others in the doctors’ room and it just didn’t seem like the right time. But…well, I wanted you to know how sorry I am about what happened.”
Her eyes flittered away from his.
She rarely held his gaze anymore. He still wasn’t accustomed to her reticence, the searing reminders that he’d lost her affection.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’m fine, but thanks for your concern.”
A nurse stepped past them. They both followed her with their eyes.
When they were alone again, Megan lifted her shoulders an inch and said, “Well, that’s all I wanted to say.”
She started to walk away.
“I heard she was still alive when they brought her in,” Luke said.
Megan turned back. “We did everything we could to—”
“I know. I didn’t mean it that way,” he said. “What I’m wondering is — was she conscious, did she say anything?”
Megan shook her head. “One of the bullets shattered her skull, went straight through. She wasn’t moving.”
“The people who carried her into the E.R. — did any of them mention whether they’d seen it happen? Did anyone see the killer?”
Her expression suddenly changed, her eyes seeming to search his.
Finally, she answered, “No.”
Luke’s gaze fell and he nodded at the floor. “Okay.” A moment later he turned to leave.
Before he took a step, she said, “Let the police take care of this, Luke. Don’t do anything stupid.”
When he looked back, a bright red flush was crawling up the side of her neck like a rash.
They both knew that her admonition was three months too late. He had already revealed a capacity for colossal stupidity that had cost him her trust — and her love.
“Megan, I’m just asking about what happened. That’s all.”
“The sad thing is, I don’t know whether to believe you. The last time you asked me questions like this—”
“Megan, there were a lot of things I could’ve handled better.” He dipped his chin to hide a swallow. “Let’s just leave it at that.”
Wanting to say more, and knowing that he wouldn’t, left him drifting in a desolate sadness.
13
“So anyway, that’s my theory,” Chewy said.
Megan pretended to listen to the intern’s prattle as they left the E.R. together. They lived in the same apartment complex a few blocks from the hospital, and Chewy’s nonstop chatter seemed an acceptable price to pay for an escort service at midnight.
“What theory is that?” Megan asked.
They walked down the corridor and entered the hospital’s foyer. Everyone entering or leaving the hospital passed through the enormous two-story entry that was built during the Great Depression. It was part of the original hospital and had survived the endless renovations, saved from the wrecking ball by preservation groups that fought to protect the aging structure and its tiled cathedral ceiling, nymph-like gargoyles, and stained-glass windows.
Chewy rolled a slice of pizza he’d scavenged in the E.R. and put the last three inches into his mouth. “What’m I — talking to myself here?” he mumbled. “My theory about McKenna, that’s what. I think he must be gay.”
“Chewy, that’s the dumbest—”
“No, hear me out. The guy’s a babe magnet, right?”
“I’m not interested in—”
“But he doesn’t do anything about it. Oh, sure, he dates women — girl-next-door types, ya know, like you. But when’s the last time you saw him put the moves on some hottie in the E.R.? I mean, like, never.” He spread his arms like an umpire. “Oh man, if I was him…”
“I think you just spotted the flaw in your logic.”
As they neared the exit and passed a gallery of physician portraits, Megan’s eyes went to the painted likeness of Dr. Kaczynski, a prominent geneticist who had died five years earlier. The shape of the man’s head regularly drew stares from passersby, and the hospital staff had irreverently labeled the portrait “Mr. Potato Head.” Something about it always drew her gaze.
When they stepped through the exit doors, a gust of cold air hit her in the face. Megan pulled up the lapel of her white coat and hugged herself with both arms.
It didn’t help. The thin lab coat was useless against the biting cold. Chilled air found its way up her sleeves, down her back, and into every buttonhole.
“I’ve been thinking about this since last night, when McKenna clocked Mount Vesuvius. I think all that kung fu stuff is just his way of compensating.” Chewy bobbed his head, as though pleased with his reasoning. “He’s awfully neat, too — I mean, for a regular guy. Ever notice the way he’s always straightening things up in the doctors’ room?”
They stopped at a crosswalk and waited for a stream of cars to pass.
She could sense Chewy’s stare and braved a glance in his direction.
“The short hair,” he said. “That’s a good look for you.”
The last time her hair was this short, she was eight years old. She remembered sitting on her bedroom floor and looking into the mirror that was mounted on her closet door, inspecting the damage. Her father had just cut her hair, apparently struck by a sudden urge to display his latent hairstyling skills. The result was a disaster that earned him a what-were-you-thinking rebuke from her mother. She’d give anything to have him cut her hair one more time.
Chewy turned and looked up toward a low-pitched thwacking sound. A helicopter was landing on the hospital’s helipad.
Megan used the moment to shut out his chatter and summon the image of her father’s face. The detail was gone, the vividness of his features faded. Her dad, a Boston firefighter like his father before him, had been a strong and rugged-looking man. Too strong to die in a fire. She had tried to explain that to her mother the night he didn’t come home from the firehouse. She had tried to convince her mother that the men sitting in their living room were wrong.
Just as Chewy’s feet started moving again, so did his mouth. “…so I’m guessing the world will end when some humungous asteroid hits us…”
Twelve years later, during her last year in medical school, fate served up another harsh lesson, when it became clear that her mother was losing a three-year battle with breast cancer. Her mom died just ten days later from a fulminant infection, months sooner than anyone had expected, and an hour before Megan reached her bedside.
The Callahans made a habit of leaving the world too early, and without a good-bye.
With no siblings to share her grief, Megan had begun her residency feeling very much alone in the world. Even a work schedule that knew no weekends or holidays hadn’t filled the void. The people missing from her life found their way into her thoughts with the regularity of a tidal pattern, if only to remind her that they were no longer there.
Chewy continued his conversation with the night air. “…and a lot of asteroids hang out between Mars and Jupiter. Don’t ask me why they’re not, say, floating around Pluto, but…”