Critical Condition. Sandra Orchard

goading Whittaker like that?

      That’s the trouble—she didn’t think. Mom always warned her she was too impulsive. Had Whittaker read her suspicions in her expression? Or was he just trying to stop her babbling before someone made the connection between the names on the wall and the recent deaths?

      Either way, if Dr. Wonderful sensed she didn’t buy into the persona he was peddling, she was in trouble.

      Her stomach roiled at the thought. She dealt quickly with the front office’s questions, and then returned to the lunchroom. But she was so rattled that her stomach grew queasier by the second. She covered the macaroni salad she’d barely touched and returned the container to the staff fridge.

      She tried to focus on paperwork to take her mind off her suspicions of Whittaker. Surely Zach would come by to ask about the run-in. She’d never had such a bad case of nerves. The detective’s warnings must’ve spooked her more than she’d realized. The mix of concern and determination she’d seen in his eyes as he’d drawn up behind Whittaker flittered through her thoughts. That...and how Zach’s shirt had strained across his broad chest when he’d reached up and tapped Whittaker’s shoulder.

      Maybe suspicions weren’t the only things leaving her a little rattled.

      Unable to attend to the paperwork, Tara waited for Alice to go on her break. Then she slipped into the back room where the medicines were kept. For days she’d been meaning to inventory the medicine locker to see if she could figure out what drug might’ve been used to kill the Parkers. Trouble was, Mr. and Mrs. Parker’s divergent symptoms suggested two different drugs, and none of the standard culprits had shown up in the coroner’s tox screen. Motive alone wouldn’t be enough reason for Zach to arrest Whittaker. They had to figure out how he did it. If, in fact, he had done it.

      “Peterson.”

      Tara jumped at Whittaker’s gruff summons and fumbled the bottle of oxycodone she was holding.

      He snagged the bottle before it hit the floor, squinted at the label, then at her. “Your wrist still bothering you?”

      “No,” she huffed, appalled by the insinuation that she’d sneak a pain pill. She hadn’t even filled the Tylenol 3 prescription the E.R. doc had given her the night of the incident. “I’m inventorying the medicine locker.”

      His foot kicked the doorstop. The door closed with a thud.

      Suddenly the room felt far too small, and she wished Alice were still here.

      “Alice tells me you were late dispensing meds this morning.”

      Scratch Alice. Tara wished Zach were here. She backed up a step only to have the handle of a spare bedside table press into her back. “Yes, sir.”

      Whittaker raised an eyebrow. “No excuse?”

      “It wouldn’t change the fact.”

      “Hmm.” His stern expression relaxed. “Yes, some things are better kept to ourselves.” He rolled the narcotics bottle between his fingers. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

      “Um, I suppose.”

      “Good.” He plopped the bottle back on the shelf. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

      “Excuse me?” Her voice pitched higher. But the instant the question escaped her lips, she bit her tongue. Would she never learn?

      He’d probably been seconds away from walking out of the room and now...he was standing there gritting his teeth. The table handle dug deeper into her back.

      “The Parkers’ deaths were an unfortunate occurrence that Memorial happened to benefit from.” Whittaker’s slow, measured words sucked the air from her lungs, one agonizing molecule at a time. “The less attention drawn to that fact, the better. We wouldn’t want people to get the wrong ideas. Would we?” He yanked open the door and stalked out.

      This time Tara couldn’t ignore her upset stomach. She grabbed a bedpan and heaved.

      Alice’s head poked in the door. “I thought I heard someone in here. Oh, you don’t look so good.” She helped Tara to a chair in the nurses’ station. “What is it? The flu?”

      “I don’t know. It—” Cramps seized Tara’s stomach. She doubled over, moaning.

      “I’ll get you something to calm the nausea.” Alice exchanged the bedpan with a clean one and rushed off. A few minutes later, she returned with a syringe. “Dr. Whittaker said I could give you an injection so it’ll work faster.”

      “No, I don’t think—” Another wave hit, and this time Tara ran for the sink.

      “Trust me. It’ll help.” Alice swabbed Tara’s arm and administered the injection before Tara could object again. “Now, why don’t you lie down in the locker room to give the medicine time to work? I’ll cover for you.”

      * * *

      The panic Zach had seen in Tara’s eyes had gripped his emotions and wouldn’t let go. He yanked the pass card from the computer hub he’d been testing and headed for the nurses’ station. After witnessing the hold Whittaker had had on Tara’s arm, he’d thought the hospital’s Golden Boy might be their man, but after talking with him, Zach wasn’t so sure. He needed to hear Tara’s version of what had gone down in the lobby at lunchtime.

      The nurses’ station was vacant. He walked up and down the halls, glancing in patients’ rooms, but found no sign of her. Anxiety mounting, he checked the staff lounge.

      Alice Bradshaw glanced up. “Looking for someone?” she asked in that gratingly precise tone of hers.

      “Yes, the head nurse.”

      “That would be me.”

      Alarm bells went off in Zach’s head. “You? I thought Miss Peterson—”

      “She went home sick. I’m covering for her. Can I help you with something?”

      “It can wait. Thanks.” He went back to the computer he’d been testing, but a niggling uneasiness made concentrating impossible. Only yesterday, Tara had outright refused to take time off. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed her number.

      After five rings, voice mail kicked in.

      He clicked End without leaving a message. If she felt sick, she’d probably gone straight to bed. He wandered past Whittaker’s office, and at the sight of him frowning at the computer monitor, breathed a relieved sigh.

      Zach shook his head. What was he thinking? That Whittaker would hunt her down with some threatening reprimand?

      If she felt scared, she would’ve come to him. Even so, the acid burning his stomach showed no sign of abating. He borrowed the phone book from the nurses’ station to look up her address. But there were three columns of Petersons, and not one had a first initial T. He called Rick.

      “What’s up?”

      “I need Tara’s address. Something weird went down at lunchtime, and she left early. I need to make sure she’s okay.”

      Rick rattled off the address. “Do you think she’s in danger?”

      “I wouldn’t be asking for the address otherwise, would I?” Zach snapped. “I’ll be in touch.”

      He clamped down his riled emotions and hurried out to the hospital parking lot. Lord, please let me be overreacting.

      Consulting the map he’d picked up in the hospital gift shop, he wound through three unmarked subdivisions before finding Pine Street. He pinpointed Tara’s house and slowed to a crawl. The driveway was empty.

      He double-checked the house number against the one Rick had given him. Same. His pulse spiked. All afternoon, concern had nagged him. Clearly, he should’ve paid more attention.

      He tried her cell phone again.

      “Hello?”