Intensive Care Crisis. Karen Kirst

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      Her gaze glued to the monitor, she willed his heart to respond.

      It didn’t.

      She resumed CPR, putting her all into it. “Come on, Sergeant,” she urged. “Fight.”

      “My turn,” the nurse told her when Audrey would’ve continued.

      Julian’s body received another jolt of electrical current. Time seemed to stretch into eternity as Audrey waited for his rhythm to settle.

      Dr. Menendez’s voice cut through her preoccupation, ordering her to administer amiodarone.

      She didn’t immediately move. Her attention bounced between Julian’s face and the monitor. Come on. Please—

      His heart rate slowed. “Yes, that’s it,” Audrey murmured.

      “Harris,” the doctor snapped.

      Audrey leaped toward the crash cart and the medications stored there. By the time the team got him stabilized and left, she was shaking. She lingered by his bedside, reassured by his restored color and the rise and fall of his chest.

      Chasity walked over, her eyes troubled. Although needed in pre-op, Veronica had ordered she return until Julian left the recovery area. “He’s going to be moved upstairs.”

      “I expected as much.”

      Because of his cardiac arrest, they would want to keep him under observation for a couple of days. Audrey wouldn’t be able to watch over him. Maybe it was better to keep her distance, anyway. Maybe he’d be safe as long as he stayed far away from her.

      She turned, and her sneaker nudged something. She crouched and, peeking beneath the bed, found a syringe. It wasn’t hers. She’d discarded the one she’d used in the sharps container.

      “Chasity, get Veronica.”

      “What’s wrong?”

      Pulling a single glove from the box on the counter, she used it to gingerly pick up the syringe. “Tell her we need the police.” At her friend’s confused look, she said, “Tell her I’ve found evidence the intruder left behind.”

      With this in their possession, they could identify the substance he’d injected into Julian and dust for fingerprints that could end this crime spree before anyone else got hurt.

      * * *

      Julian had had enough of hospitals. He was supposed to have gone in and gotten out in a matter of hours. Because of the incident that had nearly killed him, he’d been forced to stay longer than originally planned. Answers had proven elusive, thanks to tight-lipped administrators. He knew they were closing ranks in case he decided to pursue legal action.

      At least he was home, finally, with his own bed and his own television and utter privacy.

      Fitting another puzzle piece in place, he flexed the fingers of his injured hand and ground his teeth together. Two days after his procedure, the pain was dull and throbbing. Sinking against the soft leather chair, he stared at the calendar pinned to the corkboard above his desk. The serene beach photograph of Oahu’s Lanikai Beach didn’t distract him from the red lines slashing out every February day he’d missed work. Eight days gone. The entire month of January had been a wash.

      Rolling the chair back, he stood and stalked to the apartment’s compact kitchen and perused the fridge’s meager contents. His appetite hadn’t returned, and he wasn’t interested in the assorted yogurts or chicken salad of indeterminable dates.

      The doorbell chimed. Probably one of his buddies coming to cheer him up. That seemed to be the goal these days—distract Julian from the accident, remind him that he shouldn’t feel guilty. His frustration building, he swung the door open and promptly forgot the words he’d been formulating.

      “You.” He stared at the fresh-faced brunette in his doorway. “You were at the hospital. You were my nurse.”

      She wiped her palms on the outside of her blue scrubs. “I’m Audrey Harris. I’m—”

      “Gunny’s daughter.”

      Julian used the door to support his weight, confusion setting in. Hers was the face dominating his memories. In fact, the expression of deep disquiet she wore now matched what he remembered of her. But was it real? Because it wasn’t uncommon for him to see her around the complex. He’d been introduced to her while in a hospital bed, the first time he’d been admitted. His superior, Gunnery Sergeant Trent Harris, was infinitely proud of his only child. Protective, too. While Harris had been happy to introduce her to one of his marines, there was no question he expected Julian to keep his distance.

      “You remember me?” Edging closer to the door frame to let a young mom with a baby on her hip pass, Audrey’s big blue eyes clouded. “I didn’t think you would.”

      He noted how expressive her eyes were, how clear and unguarded. In fact, her entire face was a billboard advertisement for her feelings. Currently, worry creased her forehead and weighted her full, pink lips into a frown.

      “Did Gunny send you?”

      “No. I came to your hospital room thinking you might like a break from cafeteria food.” She lifted a brown paper bag. “I didn’t know you’d been discharged this afternoon.”

      “What is that?”

      “Soup. Two kinds, since I don’t know your preferences.”

      “You brought me soup.”

      Why would she do that? He was technically a stranger. Unless... Was her conscience bothering her? Was she the reason he’d coded?

      “Your choice of chicken noodle or vegetable beef.”

      He didn’t feel like company, but his mom had preached the importance of good manners. Besides, he might be able to pry some answers from Audrey Harris.

      “Why don’t you come inside?”

      As she stepped past him, her sweet scent struck him as both exotic and familiar, not quite citrusy yet not floral, either. He couldn’t place it and ceased trying. The pleasure he used to find in sorting out details and mulling over conundrums eluded him now.

      The nurse stopped beside his desk. She was tall and svelte. He’d seen her jogging in the park and participating in their complex’s organized sports.

      Her wide gaze soaked in the leather furniture, big-screen television, lava lamp and hermit crab tank. She zeroed in on the map of his home state framed above the couch.

      “You’re from Hawaii?”

      He closed the door and stifled a sigh. He’d struggled to make small talk with friends recently, much less strangers. “Born in New York. My father’s Chinese. Mom’s American. We moved to Oahu when I was eight.”

      “Must’ve been wonderful to grow up in paradise.”

      “It has its perks.” There were downsides, too, like any other place. Expensive rent. Traffic jams.

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