After That Night: A Will Trent Thriller

Prologue

Sara Linton held the phone to her ear as she watched an intern assess a patient with an open gash on the back of his right arm. The newly minted Dr. Eldin Franklin was not having his best day. He was two hours into his emergency department shift and he’d already had his life threatened by a drug-altered MMA fighter and performed a rectal exam on a homeless woman that had gone very, very wrong.

Can you believe he said that to me? Tessa’s outrage crackled through the phone, but Sara knew her sister didn’t require encouragement to complain about her new husband.

Instead, she kept her eye on Eldin, wincing as he pulled Lidocaine into a syringe like he was Jonas Salk testing the first polio vaccine. He was paying more attention to the vial than he was to his patient.

I mean, Tessa continued. He’s unbelievable.

Sara made conciliatory noises as she switched the phone to her other ear. She found her tablet and pulled up the chart for Eldin’s patient. The gash was a secondary concern. The triage nurse had noted the thirty-one-year-old man was tachycardic with a temperature of 101, and experiencing severe, acute agitation, confusion, and insomnia.

She looked up from her tablet. The patient kept scratching his chest and neck as if something was crawling on his skin. His left foot was shaking so hard that the bed shook along with it. To say that the man was in full-on alcohol withdrawal was to say that the sun was going to rise in the east.

Eldin was picking up on none of the signs—which was not completely unexpected. Medical school was by design a system that didn’t prepare you for the real world. You spent your first year learning how the systems of the body work. Year two was devoted to understanding how those systems could go wrong. By year three, you were allowed to see patients, but only under strict and often needlessly sadistic supervision. Your fourth year brought about the matching system, which was like the worst beauty pageant ever, where you waited to see if your residency was going to be served at a prestigious, major institution or the equivalent of a veterinary clinic in rural East Jesus.

Eldin had managed to match at Grady Memorial Hospital, Atlanta’s only public hospital and one of the busiest Level I trauma centers in the country. He was called an intern because he was still in the first year of his residency. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop him from believing that he had seen it all. Sara could tell his brain had already checked out as he leaned over the patient’s arm and began numbing the area. Eldin was likely thinking about dinner or a girl he was going to call or maybe compounding the interest on his many student loans, which roughly equaled the cost of a house.

Sara caught the head nurse’s eye. Johna was watching Eldin, too, but like every nurse ever, she was going to let the baby doctor learn the hard way. It didn’t take long.

The patient pitched forward and opened his mouth.

Eldin! Sara called, but she was too late.

Vomit blasted like a fireman’s hose down the back of Eldin’s shirt.

He staggered, experiencing a moment of shock before starting to dry heave.

Sara stayed in her chair behind the nurses’ station as the patient fell back against the bed, a momentary sense of relief washing over his face. Johna pulled Eldin to the side and began to lecture him as if he were a toddler. His mortified expression was familiar. Sara had interned at Grady. She had been on the receiving end of similar lectures. No one warned you in medical school that this was how you learned how to be a real doctor—humiliation and vomit.

Sara? Tessa said. Are you even listening to me?

Yes. Sorry. Sara tried to turn her focus back to her sister. What were you saying?

I was saying how hard is it for him to see the fucking trash can is full? Tessa barely paused for a breath. "I work all day, too, but I’m the one who has to come home and clean the house and fold the laundry and cook dinner and take out the trash?"

Sara kept her mouth shut. None of Tessa’s complaints were new or unpredictable. Lemuel Ward was one of the most self-involved assholes Sara had ever met, which was saying a lot considering she had spent her adult life working in medicine.

"It’s like I got secretly signed up for The Handmaid’s Tale."

Was that from the show or the book? Sara worked to keep the bite out of her tone. I don’t remember a taking-out-the-trash scene.

You can’t tell me that’s not how it started.

Dr. Linton? Kiki, one of the porters, rapped her fingers on the counter. Curtain three is being brought back up from X-ray.

Sara mouthed a thank-you as she checked her tablet for the films. The patient from curtain three was a thirty-nine-year-old schizophrenic who had signed himself in as Deacon Sledgehammer and presented with a golf-ball-sized welt on his neck, a temperature of 102 and uncontrollable chills. He’d freely admitted to a nearly lifelong heroin addiction. Subsequent to the veins in his legs, arms, feet, chest and belly collapsing, he’d resorted to injecting subcutaneously, or what was called skin-popping. Then he’d started injecting directly into his jugular and carotid arteries. X-rays confirmed what Sara had suspected, but she took no pleasure in being right.

My time is just as valuable as his, Tessa said. It’s fucking ridiculous.

Sara agreed, but she said nothing as she walked through the emergency department. Usually, this time of night they were covered up in gunshot wounds, stabbings, car accidents, overdoses and a fair share of heart attacks. Maybe it was the rain or the Braves playing Tampa Bay, but the department was blissfully calm. Most of the beds were empty, the whirs and beeps of machines punctuating occasional conversation. Sara was technically the attending pediatrician, but she’d offered to cover for another doctor so that he could attend his daughter’s science fair. Eight hours into a twelve-hour shift, the worst thing that Sara had seen was Eldin getting splattered.

And to be honest, that had been kind of hilarious.

Obviously, Mom was no help, Tessa continued. All she said was, ‘A bad marriage is still a marriage.’ What does that even mean?

Sara ignored the question as she punched the button to open the doors. Tessie, you’ve been married for six months. If you’re not happy with him now—

I didn’t say I’m not happy, Tessa insisted, though every word out of her mouth indicated otherwise. I’m just frustrated.

Welcome to marriage. Sara walked toward the bank of elevators. You’ll spend ten minutes arguing that you already told him something instead of just telling him again.

That’s your advice?

I’ve been really careful not to offer any, Sara pointed out. Look, this sounds like a shitty thing to say, but you either find a way to work it out or you don’t.

You found a way to work it out with Jeffrey.

Reflexively, Sara pressed her hand to her heart, but time had eased the sharp pain that usually accompanied any reminder of her widowhood. Are you forgetting I divorced him?

Are you forgetting I was there when it happened? Tessa paused for a quick breath. You worked it out. You married him again. You were happy.

I was, Sara agreed, but Tessa’s problem wasn’t an affair or even an overflowing trash can. It was being married to a man who did not respect her. I’m not holding out on you. There’s not a universal solution. Every relationship is different.

Sure, but—

Tessa’s voice fell away as the elevator doors slid open. The distant beeps and whirs of machinery faded. Sara felt an electric current in the air.

Special Agent Will Trent was standing at the back of the elevator. He was looking down at his phone, which allowed Sara the luxury of silently drinking him in. Tall and lean. Broad shoulders. Will’s charcoal three-piece suit couldn’t hide his runner’s body. His sandy-blond hair was wet from the rain. A scar zig-zagged into his left eyebrow. Another scar traced up from his mouth. Sara let her mind ponder the exquisite question of what the scar would feel like if it was pressed against her own lips.

Will looked up. He smiled at Sara.

She smiled back.

Hello? Tessa said. Did you hear what—

Sara ended the call and tucked the phone into her pocket.

As Will stepped off the elevator, she silently cataloged all the ways she could’ve made more of an effort to look presentable for this chance meeting, starting with not twisting her long hair into a granny bun on the top of her head and ending with doing a better job of wiping off the ketchup that had dribbled down the front of her scrubs at dinner.

Will’s eyes zeroed in on the stain. Looks like you’ve got some—

Blood, Sara said. It’s blood.

Sure it’s not ketchup?

She shook her head. I’m a doctor, so . . .

And I’m a detective, so . . .

They were both grinning by the time Sara noticed that Faith Mitchell, Will’s partner, had not only been on the elevator with him but was standing two feet away.

Faith gave a heavy sigh before telling Will, I’ll go start the thing with the thing.

Will’s hands went into his pockets as Faith walked toward the patient rooms. He glanced at the floor, then back at Sara, then down the hallway. The silence dragged out to an uncomfortable level, which was Will’s particular gift. He was incredibly awkward. It didn’t help matters that Sara found herself uncharacteristically tongue-tied around him.

She made herself speak. It’s been a while.

Two months.

Sara was ridiculously delighted that he knew how much time had passed. She waited for him to say more, but of course he didn’t.

She asked, What brings you here? Are you working on a case?

Yes. He seemed relieved to be on familiar ground. Guy chopped off his neighbor’s fingers over a lawnmower dispute. Cops rolled up. He jumped into his car and drove straight into a telephone pole.

A real criminal mastermind.

There was something about his sudden burst of laughter that made Sara’s heart do a weird flip. She tried to keep him talking. That sounds like an Atlanta police problem, not a case for the Georgia Bureau of Investigation.

The finger-chopper works for a drug dealer we’ve been trying to take down. We’re hoping we can persuade him to talk.

"You can chop down his sentence in return for his testimony."

There was no thrill of his laughter this time. The joke fell so flat that it could’ve been a piece of sandpaper.

Will shrugged. That’s the plan.

Sara felt a blush working its way up her neck. She desperately tried to find safer ground. I was waiting for a patient to come up from X-ray. I don’t usually hang around elevators.

He nodded, but that was all he offered before the awkwardness roared back in. He rubbed his jaw with his fingers, worrying the faint scar that ran along his sharp jawline and down into the collar of his shirt. The glint of his wedding ring flashed like a warning light. Will noticed her noticing the ring. His hand went back into his pocket.

Anyway. Sara had to end this before her cheeks burst into flames. I’m sure Faith is waiting for you. It’s good seeing you again, Agent Trent.

Dr. Linton. Will gave her a slight nod before walking away.

To keep herself from staring longingly after him, Sara took out her phone and texted an apology to her sister for hanging up so abruptly.

Two months.

Will knew how to get in touch with her, but he hadn’t gotten in touch.

Then again, Sara knew how to get in touch with Will, but she hadn’t either.

She silently went back over their brief exchange, skipping the chop joke so that her face didn’t start glowing red again. She couldn’t tell if Will was flirting or if he was being polite or if she was being stupid and desperation had set in. What she did know was that Will Trent was married to a former Atlanta police detective with a reputation for being a raging bitch and a regular habit of disappearing for long stretches of time. And that despite this, he was still wearing his wedding ring.

As Sara’s mother would say, A bad marriage is still a marriage.

Fortunately, the elevator doors opened before Sara could spiral any farther down that rabbit hole.

Hey, doc. Deacon Sledgehammer was slumped in his wheelchair, but he made an effort to straighten up for Sara’s benefit. He was wearing a hospital gown and black wool socks. The left side of his neck looked painfully red and swollen. Round scars dotted his arms, legs and forehead from years of skin-popping. Didja find out what’s wrong with me?

I did. Sara took over from the orderly, pushing Deacon down the hall, fighting the urge to turn back toward Will like Lot’s wife. You’ve got twelve needles broken off in your neck. Several of them have abscessed. That’s why your neck is swollen and you’re having such a hard time swallowing. You’ve got a very serious infection.

Damn. Deacon let out a raspy breath. That sounds like it could kill me.

It could. Sara wasn’t going to lie to him. You’re going to need surgery to remove the needles, then you’ll need to stay here at least a week for IV antibiotics. Your withdrawal will have to be managed, but none of it’s going to be easy.

Shit, he mumbled. Will you come visit me?

Absolutely. I’m off tomorrow, but I’m here all day Sunday. Sara scanned her badge to open the doors. She finally allowed herself to look back at Will. He was at the far end of the hall. She watched until he turned the corner.

He gave me his socks.

Sara turned back to Deacon.

Last week when I was over by the capitol. Deacon pointed down to the pair of thick socks he was wearing. It was cold as hell. Dude took off his socks and gave ’em to me.

Sara’s heart did the weird little flip again. That was kind.

Fuckin’ cop probably bugged ’em. Deacon pressed his finger to his lips to shush her. Be careful what you say.

Understood. Sara wasn’t going to argue with a schizophrenic suffering from a life-threatening infection. The fact that she had auburn hair and was left-handed had already led to a lengthy discussion.

She angled the chair toward curtain three, then helped transfer Deacon into bed. His arms were skeletal, almost like kindling. He was malnourished. Grime and dirt were clumped into his hair. He was missing several teeth. He was nearly forty, but he looked sixty and moved like he was eighty. She wasn’t sure he would make it through another winter. Either the heroin or the elements or another raging infection would get him.

I know what you’re thinking. Deacon leaned back in the bed with an old man’s groan. You wanna call my family.

Do you want me to call your family?

No. And don’t be callin’ no social services neither. Deacon scratched his arm, his fingernails digging into a round scar. Listen, I’m a piece of shit, okay?

That hasn’t been my experience.

Yeah, well, you got me on a good day. His voice caught on the last word. It was sinking in that he might not see tomorrow. My mental health being what it is, and my addiction. I mean fuck, I love dope, but I don’t make it easy for people.