Bad blood, p.1
Bad Blood, page 1
Bad Blood
Alisha Tanner
Copyright © 2024 by Alisha Tanner
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
The story you’re about to read is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
E-Book ISBN: 979-8-32751-497-3
Paperback ISBN: 979-8-89504-551-0
Hardcover ISBN: 979-8-89504-253-3
Cover Design: Dawid Gardias @best.selling.covers
Editing: Heather Hudec (Simply Spellbound Edits)
Developmental Editing: Crystal Riches
Contents
Trigger Warnings
Dedication
Prologue
1. Emotional Kaleidoscope
2. No Harm, No Foul
3. Distraction Tactics
4. Churn and Burn
5. Betrayal and Blame
6. No Proof Necessary
7. Punctuality and Promises
8. First Impressions
9. A Day in the Life
10. One Foot in Front of the Other
11. Sound Effects
12. The Pest
13. Chaos Ensues
14. Bronacular
15. False Pretenses
16. When It Rains
17. Tunnel Vision
18. Check-Ins
19. The Death of Me
20. Plausible Deniability
21. Judgment Call
22. Every Little Detail
23. Dead to Rights
24. Case in Point
25. Enemy at the Gates
26. Wrong Place, Wrong Time
27. Drag Me Under
28. Tail Between My Legs
29. Consolation Prize
30. What Are the Chances?
31. Damage Control
32. In Over My Head
33. Take the Blame
34. Mine to Make
35. Duty Is Calling
36. Wise Words
37. Letting Go
38. Just the Tip
39. Dead End
40. Gone Again
41. Echoes of Silence
42. Clarity in Chaos
43. If Only
44. Call the Doctor
45. Bright Idea
46. A Faulty Plan
47. The Perfect Excuse
48. One Wrong Move
49. Play the Game
50. The Vow
51. Better Left Unsaid
52. All in Vain
53. Clash of Titans
54. Pipe Dreams
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Trigger Warnings
Please note that the book you are about to read has instances of murder, stalking, a serial killer, family loss, cancer, Ewing Sarcoma, substance abuse, strong language, and sex used as a coping mechanism. Please proceed with this in mind. Your mental health matters.
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This book is dedicated to anyone who doubts their story.
Hold on to your dream, even if it seems like the chance to pursue it is lost.
Be Brave. Be Bold. Share it.
Prologue
Wednesday, May 11 th
11:51 p.m.
Blood. There’s so much blood.
On my hands.
In my hair.
Vacant eyes. Mouth agape. A moment frozen in time.
Panic surges through me. The scent of copper and bleach permeates the air, offering a temporary escape as my mind tries to process the scene before me. I press trembling fingers on her neck in a desperate search for a pulse.
It’s weak.
Time screeches to a halt, each second an eternity as my mind spirals. My thoughts fragment. I should call for help. The room around me blurs as I try to pull myself back into the present—to the limp form in my lap.
But it’s no use.
There has to be something I can do.
As the minutes slip away, I feel myself sinking deep into the quicksand of my mind, paralyzed by what lies in front of me. My hands are shaking. My breaths coming in short, shallow gasps. My thoughts drift again, yanking me back to the past.
I remember the last time I tried to save someone, the last time I failed. The memory plays out vividly in my mind—the gurney, the tears, the haunting feeling of helplessness. I swore I would never feel that vulnerable again.
But here I am, another life slipping through my fingers.
My vision blurs as tears well up, and I force myself to blink them away. I can’t let this happen. I have to be present, stay focused.
“Hello! Somebody? Anybody!” The elevator chimes, and I stare at it, praying the doors will hurry and open. Something hits my left thigh, and I glance over; the woman’s arm has fallen, and there is nothing putting pressure on her wound.
Her fucking gunshot wound.
I close my eyes and hope she’s lost consciousness, but when I hold two fingers to the side of her throat, I can’t find a pulse. I press my hands against her wound, but the blood stops pumping from between my fingers, and I start chest compressions. I haven’t seen this much blood since med school.
“No, no, no. Fuuuck.” My words ring in my ears as I lean back, trying to haul myself out from under her weight. I press my fingers to her throat again. Still nothing.
What if the person on the elevator is coming for her, to make sure their job is done? I slip again on the pooling blood, my hands barely catching me before my face is within an inch of the linoleum. I stand slowly. And back away from the body, watching as the doors glide open.
I freeze.
But no one exits.
And I run.
1
Emotional Kaleidoscope
Brighton
Monday, May 8 th
9:38 p.m.
Two days earlier
Bad things always happen on Mondays.
And today is no exception.
I stare at the fridge, the bare shelves glaring back at me, taunting me—except for the half gallon of untouched milk in the door that expired yesterday. I count back the days trying to figure out the last time I went to the store and surrender to my self-inflicted predicament.
The milk smells fine, no clumps. I slide it across the counter and survey the well-stocked, never-touched overhead cabinets before I grab a white china bowl from the highest shelf, looking for any excuse to use the dishes saved for special occasions. The day being over is good enough for me.
I want the devil to hate me. Maybe then he’d stop dragging me through hell. I chose this form of torture, but sometimes, I think I made the choice in error. Saving lives is what I do, but on the days when the universe doesn’t get the memo and one of my patients loses their battle, those are the days I could do without.
I set a teakettle on the stove in anticipation of curling up with a mug of chamomile before my nightly run.
My cheerios spill over the edge of the bowl as I pour the milk, the idea of the expiration date looming in my mind.
I can’t do it.
There’s no convincing my brain that it’s still palatable, even if it’s only one day.
Screw the tea. Tonight calls for some rosé.
I’m not paying attention as I grab a wineglass from the cabinet, my mind too occupied with the call I got from Dr. Gibbons earlier today. He has a special referral. And I owe him for helping me with a patient a few years back. If this will make us even, I’m all in.
Special cases and I don’t mix well. I agreed to do it before I had all the details, and now I wish I hadn’t. The last time I saw a patient with my brother’s diagnosis, things didn’t go as planned. Too many choices led to poor judgment calls on my part and an ever-looming threat to my career.
I can’t go there. Not tonight. My thoughts and everything that goes along with them get stored in the compartment in my brain where I keep all my overwhelming emotions. And I move on.
I pull out a chair, dropping into it as I prop my leg against the table’s edge, and my phone starts to ring.
My purse topples off the chair as I rifle through it. Shit. There’s hardly anything in here, why can’t I find my damn phone? I upend the contents, watching them spill across the table onto the tile floor.
The ringing stops as I crouch, scooping up the ChapStick and a travel-sized bottle of Advil. I set them on the table and crawl across the floor to grab my stethoscope, a couple of pens, and my badge.
I hit redial without listening to the voicemail. There can’t be a good reason for the hospital admin to call me at this time of night. The phone starts to ring on the other end.
It only rings once. “This is Luca.”
“Hey, sorry I missed you.”
“Thanks for returning my call. I hope it’s not too late. Do you have a minute?”
I roll my eyes and shake my head. It’s not like I’d call him back if I were busy. And it’s not like I’m busy. Ever.
No life outside of work—check.
Consumed by thoughts of my patients—check.
Dreading my latest referral—check.
“Of course.” I slide my laptop in front of
“Have you seen the news?” His question and the idea that my assumption is wrong surprises me.
“No, not tonight. I just got in. Haven’t had the chance.” The laptop powers up, and I beg the universe to ensure this has nothing to do with one of my patients. If it’s not about a patient but significant enough to be on the news . . .
“It’s probably better you hear it from me first, anyway.”
I shift my weight, lean on my elbows, and force a wary chuckle. “That doesn’t sound good.”
He clears his throat, takes a second, then says, “We’ve been hit with a malpractice litigation.”
Holy shit.
My breath stalls in my chest. “Another one?”
If he’s calling me, it could mean one of two things: a) it has something to do with our department, or b) it has something to do with me.
I choose to believe it has to do with the former and shove away the idea of the latter. I’ve been at the top of my game lately. No mishaps. Nothing out of the ordinary.
There hasn’t been a single instance where my quality of patient care could be called into question. Not since the last time I was hit with a wrongful death lawsuit.
Collins’ case was an anomaly that led to his death because of my need to push bounds with a new and experimental treatment. But I learned my lesson. I was finally putting it behind me. And now this.
The thought of the new Ewing’s Sarcoma patient from Dr. Gibbons flies to the front of my mind. The one with special circumstances. The one I’m not supposed to keep because of hospital referral protocol. The protocol was put into place to protect us from mistakes, such as the one I made with Collins.
The kettle whistles from the stove behind me, and I startle, an unexpected coldness settling in my core. “When you say we, you mean the oncology department, right?”
“I’m not going to sugarcoat it. This doesn’t look good.”
“Luca?” I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth to calm my racing heart. It’s of no use. The fact that he doesn’t confirm my question has me jumping to the worst conclusion. I turn the stovetop off and move the kettle off the burner.
“Yes?”
“What’s it over this time?”
“There’s a meeting at eight-thirty tomorrow morning.”
“I have a patient at nine.” One I’m reticent to see, but a patient, nonetheless.
“It will be quick. The lawyer wants to talk to you.”
This can’t be good. The last time I had to talk to the hospital lawyer, things didn’t go well for him. My case got dropped, and he got in trouble. I’m sure he holds a grudge.
“Me?” My thoughts race through anything I could have missed. Anything I could have done wrong. There’s nothing. I’ve dotted all my I’s and crossed all my T’s. I’m thorough, if nothing else. There has to be an explanation for this.
And it has nothing to do with me.
“We’re following protocol. The lawyer will talk to Kline as well. It’s nothing out of the ordinary. They have some questions.”
My stomach churns. Of course Kline would be involved. He takes every opportunity to remind me of how he handled the fallout of Collins’ case and how he did it all for me. But he made that choice, and as a result, everything between us changed.
“What did he do now?” Any time anything has to do with Kline, it’s a problem.
I can’t count how many times I’ve had to deal with his shit, and this new malpractice doesn’t mean I have to put up with any more of it.
It’s not like going through eight years of school, four years of residency, and three years of grunt work was an easy feat to get to where I am today. I’m not going to sit by and get my ass handed to me on a platter because of someone else’s mistake. I’ve fought for my position tooth and nail, and I won’t let Kline rip it out from under me. His behavior could cost me all my hard work.
Luca humphs. “It’s a lot to go over on the phone, and it would be easier to discuss in person.”
“I’m available now.” I grab my lab coat from the back of the chair next to me and drape it over my shoulders as I stand and grab a mug from the shelf next to the stove.
“The specifics haven’t been announced. But this time”—Luca swallows, pausing for a few uncomfortable seconds—“you’re named in the lawsuit.” He clears his throat before he continues. “And there was a death.”
The mug slips from my grasp and shatters when it meets the floor, shards of ceramic sailing in every direction. “What?”
“We’ve had suspicions for a few months. This recent wrongful death lawsuit has us looking into other cases.”
I stop listening to him, lost in my thoughts. Did he say I’m named in the lawsuit? “Wait, back up. A few months? What do I have to do with this?”
“I wasn’t supposed to give you any information besides the time for the meeting, but I felt you deserved to know.”
I hop onto the counter, avoiding the debris from the mug splintered across the floor. “That I’m named in the lawsuit too?”
“Yes. I tried to assure them you weren’t involved, but the evidence . . .”
I know what he’s talking about. The exact moment. My stomach lurches, and I want to curl into a ball. I zone out, the ringing in my ears making it hard to hear Luca.
“There are two now . . .”
I can’t imagine the extent of what Kline has done. Death? I remember being called out of surgery for an emergency once or twice, but I still can’t recall the specifics of the patients. I’m not Kline’s babysitter and can’t go into every surgery with him. This is partly my fault. I should have listened to my gut.
He’s held my mistake over me for years, and I’ve let it slide. If whatever game he’s playing has anything to do with that—I’m done for. He promised to keep his mouth shut, but for how long? He’s noticed I’ve been sticking up for myself, and he doesn’t like it.
“Do you have any questions?”
“Did you say two?”
“Yes, we have evidence. There’s another instance where a questionable outcome did not result in death. We’ve had enough to build a case against him for a while now.”
And they didn’t take action. A death was the result of their negligence, yet I’m the one named in the lawsuit.
The room starts to spin. I lean back against the wall, pulling my knees to my chest. This can’t be happening.
“Brighton? You there? Hello?”
“You have to give me more information.” I clear my throat. “I can’t go into the meeting blind.” Not thinking, I hop off the counter, and a stab of pain shoots through my right foot. I hop to the left, and the phone clatters across the floor as I fall to my hands and knees.
Luca’s voice is muffled against the floor. He continues to speak, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. I brush my hand along the tile, push the mug pieces out of the way, and crawl to the phone.
“Luca, wait.”
“. . . on surgeries. We also have the anesthesiologist and nurse anesthetist coming in tomorrow. We want to make sure anyone present during the specific surgeries has given their statement.”
“Back up. I didn’t hear you.” I lean against the cabinet at the base of the sink, pulling my foot up to see the damage and bite down as I yank the sliver from my heel.
“The cases you’re named in were surgeries where you assisted Kline. One in March and the other three weeks ago.”
“Names?” I shrug off my lab coat, wrap it around my foot, and swallow the bile rising in my throat. I already know who he’s talking about, but I need confirmation.
“I’m not supposed to—”
“Who?” I’ve worked alongside Kline on many patients’ cases because of the oncology floor’s group approach to treatment. There are the two recent cases I worked with him, both at his insistence, but I can’t remember anything out of the ordinary. And certainly nothing that resulted in a death.
“Brighton—”
“You called me. Tell me their names. I deserve to know what he’s . . .” I shake my head, unable to finish the sentence, as I prop the phone between my shoulder and ear.
He sniffs and clears his throat. “Banks and Nelson. That’s all I can say.”
“I know their cases.”
He hangs up before all the words are out of my mouth.
