The Monster (Boston Belles #3) - L.J. Shen Page 0,78

the clinic in Dr. Doyle’s arms.

When it was time to close shop, Dr. Doyle—a tall, sixty-something man who bore an uncanny similarity to Pierce Brosnan—patted my shoulder.

“You know, Aisling, you’re a brilliant young doctor. You should find a residency and start next year. Tell your future employer you took a gap year to spend some time with your family or to do some traveling. This clinic is no place for someone as promising as you.”

“I like working here.” I closed Mrs. Martinez’s file after making vague notes. I couldn’t write anything too specific out of fear this place would be found. I tucked the document in the filing cabinet. “We’ve already been through this, Greg. You know why I’m doing this. This is my calling.”

“And I appreciate your life experience has brought you here. I can’t help but feel guilty, too…” he leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest “…such medical talent shouldn’t be wasted in some underground, illegal clinic. You are a Harvard graduate, Fitzpatrick. Top of the crop.”

“How long have you felt this way?” I frowned at him, clearing up the table.

“Long enough,” he grumbled.

I swallowed uncomfortably. I hated change, and if I didn’t work here, that would be one heck of a change.

“Please don’t shackle yourself in unearned guilt. You are much too pragmatic for that.” I stood up, patting his cheek with a smile on my way to the bathroom before going home. From my periphery, Dr. Doyle glanced at his wristwatch. I closed the door behind me in the bathroom.

“We’ll talk about it some other time,” he determined.

“Fine, but if you think you’re getting rid of me so easily, you have another thing coming, Greg,” I spoke in a singsong. “Close the place up?”

I needed to go check on my mother. As per usual, she gave me the silent treatment after what happened this morning and refused to take my calls.

“Actually, I have to run. A patient just paged me. Mind locking up before you leave?” he called out to me.

“Not at all!” I answered from the restroom. “Go ahead. It’s been a moon and a half since I closed shop.”

Five minutes later, I found myself scrubbing medical equipment clean and locking up cabinets.

I heard a knock on the clinic’s door.

Who on earth …?

For obvious reasons, we didn’t allow walk-ins.

Frowning, I walked over to the door and looked through the peephole.

Merde.

I quickly smoothed my scrubs over my body, rearranging my long ponytail.

Still, I didn’t open the door. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t move.

Go away. Please. You are too much and not enough all at the same time.

“Too late, Nix. I know you’re in there. Your car is parked directly in front of the doorway.”

Double merde. I had no one but myself to blame for my lack of discretion.

Still, I didn’t move. I watched through the peephole as Sam braced one arm over the doorframe, sneering down at the floor like they were sharing a secret.

“We can do this the nice way or the not-so-nice way. But you should know, my not-so-nice ways include smashing doors down, rummaging through places, and doing very dangerous fucking things.”

“Go to hell.”

“Can’t. Satan has a restraining order against me. Now open the damn door.”

“I hate you,” I groaned, plastering my forehead to the door, closing my eyes.

“No, you don’t.”

“I should.”

“No fucking shit, Sherlock. Open up.”

Reluctantly, I did as I was told, stepping aside. There was no point blocking his way with all one hundred and twenty pounds of me.

We stared at each other, the threshold between us like an ocean neither of us was willing to cross. My heart beat wildly.

He did it again. He came to see me. Sought me out.

“You kill people,” he said softly.

I gasped, stumbling backward. He stepped forward, walking into the clinic, not bothering to close the door behind him.

“I finally figured it out. Even though it was in front of me all this time, in plain sight. You kill people. That’s what you do. Mercy killing. Euthanasia.”

My back bumped against the opposite wall, and I squeezed my eyes shut childishly. Maybe if I pretended he wasn’t there, he’d disappear. But no. His voice hovered around me, thickening the air, making it too hot to breathe.

“That’s why you limit yourself to very few patients. That’s why it’s an underground operation. That’s why you keep all the drugs you have in here. That’s why you treat them at their homes. It all makes sense. You’re not here to cure people, you’re here to