Ranger Defender. Angi Morgan

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      The doctor had said journals were important. Dr. Roberts had a journal and had written about her as a patient, had written about them all. Abby had taken care of her in the best way she could. Not a perfect way, though. Abby hadn’t found that yet.

      Dr. Roberts had been right about that particular problem. Abby needed to find it soon. The day was getting close when she’d need to move and start over in another city at another hospital.

      “I am not crazy. Dr. Roberts told me I wasn’t. I can believe her,” she whispered.

      Abby needed another pencil. She’d scratched out her last journal sentence so hard, she’d broken the tip. She looked around, but there wasn’t another near her to continue. She rolled the chair closer to the small window facing the front of the building.

      It was two hours past time to go home. Catching her normal train wouldn’t be possible. She was familiar with the alternative, taking a cab, but that wasn’t possible either. And she was hungry.

      Her subconscious suggestions with Rashad Parker had been so successful that he hadn’t waited. He’d gone to the cafeteria, secured a knife and stabbed two people, then slit his throat. Now the hospital was on lockdown.

      If she’d known it would work so well, she would have followed him. Now she had been ordered to stay in her office until the hospital was cleared, until the police were certain no one else was at risk.

      It was four minutes past dinner.

      She moved away from the distracting police lights and arranged the patient binders by date. Then numeric order. She checked the contents to verify that she’d organized them correctly. She’d already finished transcribing the dictation. She listened again. There were no corrections to be made.

      She couldn’t allow herself to panic just because her schedule was off. She needed to journal more. That would calm the rising nervousness.

      A knock on the outer door relieved the moment of panic. She tucked her journal into her handbag with the microtapes she’d used on the sleep-study patients today. She practiced the concerned look she should have in the glass of the only picture hanging on the wall.

      The knock persisted. She grabbed her handbag and twisted the lock.

      “Come in.” She stepped away from the door and waited for the person on the other side to open it.

      “Ms. Norman?” The man wasn’t dressed like a policeman. He wore a suit and tie.

      “Yes. May I go now?”

      “Sorry, it’s taken a while to clear the offices on each floor. We understand that you had a Rashad Parker here today.”

      “Yes. He’s one of the sleep-study patients. Is he okay? Did something happen?”

      “You seem concerned. Was he acting strangely? Make any threats toward anyone?”

      “No, of course not.” She added a breathiness that indicated worry. She’d studied an emotional thesaurus and practiced at eight o’clock each evening for half an hour. Even so, unable to pursue her normal routine was making her a bit anxious. “May I leave now? I’ve missed my train and the second train, too.”

      “I apologize. I forgot to introduce myself. Detective Arnold. Here’s my card. I’ll have one of the officers escort you out of the building. Mind if I have a look around?”

      “I do. I’m not the doctor or the technician. I just set things up for them. There are patient files in here and records. I believe you’ll need a court order to proceed with the hospital.” She gripped the knob and pulled the door closed behind her. “Which officer will see me safely outside?”

      “Burnsy. Will you take Ms. Norman out?”

      An officer in full uniform with an automatic weapon took her to the stairs. “Sorry, ma’am, but the elevators are off-limits.”

      “I prefer the stairs.”

      On the ground floor, she waited and allowed the officer to open the door—having to remind him that it was the polite thing to do for a lady. She slipped on her surgical gloves and mask for the ride home. She might be forced to take public transportation, but she would not succumb to the germs. She had important work to finish.

      Finally out of the building, she took a deep, satisfying breath. There were so many things to add to her study journal. She wished illustrations were possible but her drawings were elementary. She’d never be able to include the images she had in her mind of Dr. Roberts as she died. A shame she hadn’t taken actual pictures.

      The walk through the sprinkling rain to Lancaster Road let her observe the television reporters, the police and the bystanders. The streets were empty except for those types of vehicles. She sat on her bench next to the Veterans Affairs building at the corner of Avenue of Flags and Liberty Loop, taking a moment to reevaluate.

      How would she get to her apartment? Not by sitting here. The light rail train home arrived every fifteen minutes. Police blocked the street and rail entrance but as people came down, they showed their hospital badges and were let by. That’s all she had to tell them. She needed by to get home. She had seven more minutes to get on the platform.

      A man spoke to both the officers who monitored the road. He showed them a badge. She could hear him offer to help with the situation. But more startled to hear him asking specific questions about Rashid Parker.

      “This guy was on my radar and I want to ask the detective in charge to keep me informed. You can understand that, guys, right?”

      Abby quickly took out her phone and snapped a picture of the officer. She tried to zoom in on the license plate of the truck he’d gotten out of, but the dimming light and mist made it impossible.

      Why is he asking about Rashid?

      “Walk past,” she whispered behind her mask. “You’ve missed the train home. You have five minutes and twenty seconds before the next one scheduled. You can control the obsessive-compulsive disorder. You control you. You are not a compulsion.” She channeled the last words, repeating them again and again until her feet moved.

      Before she allowed herself to think, she showed the police officers her hospital identification. She was even able to pull down the mask so they could verify. She walked through to the next corner, passing the truck, pretending to be absorbed in her phone, but taking pictures of the truck and its occupant.

      The woman inside looked familiar. Someone in the study? No. Maybe one of their relatives? She’d look it up when she returned home. She had a file on everyone participating in her study. Knowing everything about them was crucial, including anyone who might care for them and be an outside influence.

      But why was a relative at the hospital? And why was she with a police officer? The dark-haired woman was the wrong race to be waiting on news of Rashid.

      Her research would give her answers. Reminding herself that today had been excellent, with excellent results. The murder-suicide was the fastest response she’d ever accomplished.

      If Abby experienced joy, there would be elation when writing the details of this event. Such a success.

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