(Duncan POV)
My first shift at Westbrook started at eleven o'clock on a Monday night.
The facility looked different after dark. The floodlights made everything gray and cold. The walls seemed taller. The windows seemed smaller. I walked through the steel doors, each one clicking shut behind me, and wondered if I had made a mistake.
A supervisor named Carol met me in the hallway. She was older, with gray hair and tired eyes. She handed me a set of keys and a clipboard.
"You'll be on the third floor," she said. "Women's wing. Most of them are asleep by now. Do your rounds, check their vitals, report anything unusual."
"Anything else?"
She looked at me over her glasses. "Don't get attached. They come and go. Some of them don't leave the way they came in."
She walked away before I could ask what that meant.
---
The third floor was quiet. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The floor was linoleum, scuffed and yellowed. Doors lined both sides of the hallway, each with a small window at eye level. Behind some of them, I heard breathing. Behind others, silence.
I checked the chart at the nurses' station. Room 312. Campbell, Amelia. Twenty-eight. Admitted pending investigation for murder.
I knew her name. I had looked it up before I came.
I walked down the hallway, counting doors. 308. 310. 312.
I stopped.
The window was dark. I could not see inside. I raised my hand to knock, then lowered it. She was probably asleep. I should let her rest.
But I had not come all this way to stand in the hallway.
I knocked twice. Soft.
No answer.
I turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open.
---
The room was small and cold. A bed. A sink. A toilet. A window with bars. The walls were white. The floor was linoleum. It smelled like bleach and something else. Something stale.
She sat on the bed, her back against the wall, her knees pulled to her chest. The gray facility shirt hung loose on her frame. Her dark curls were messy, tangled. Her eyes were red.
She looked up when I walked in.
"Who are you?" she asked. Her voice was hoarse. She had been crying.
"I'm Duncan," I said. "I'm your night nurse."
She studied my face. "I haven't seen you before."
"I just started tonight."
I walked to the bedside table and set down a small cup of water. Then I unfolded the blanket I had brought from the supply closet and draped it over her legs.
"You looked cold," I said.
She stared at the blanket. Then at me. "Why do you care?"
"It's my job."
"No." She shook her head. "The others don't care. They give me pills and leave. They don't bring blankets."
I pulled the wooden chair from the corner and sat down. Not too close. Not too far.
"Maybe I'm different," I said.
She watched me for a long moment. Her eyes were tired, but they missed nothing.
"Have we met before?" she asked.
My heart skipped. She did not remember. Of course she did not remember. It had been three years. She had been focused on a dying man. I had been standing in a doorway.
"No," I said. "I don't think so."
She nodded slowly. She did not believe me. I could see it in her face. But she did not push.
"Why are you staring at me?" she asked.
"Because you're not like the others."
"What do you mean?"
"I've been a nurse for twelve years. I've worked in a lot of places. I've seen patients who are lost, and I've seen patients who are afraid. You're afraid. That's different."
She looked down at her hands. "I am afraid."
"Of what?"
"Of everything." She pressed her palm against her stomach. A small gesture. Protective. "I don't know who to trust."
"That's smart," I said. "Trust no one in this place. Not until you know they're worth trusting."
She looked up at me. "And you? Are you worth trusting?"
I met her eyes. "I'd like to be."
She was quiet for a long time. Then she said, "I'm pregnant."
I already knew. I had read her chart. But hearing her say it made it real.
"Does the father know?" I asked.
She looked away. "No. I didn't get a chance to tell him."
"Do you want him to know?"
She shook her head. "I don't know what I want anymore."
I stood up. The chair scraped against the floor.
"Get some rest," I said. "Tomorrow will be long."
She looked at me. "Why are you being kind to me? You don't even know me."
I hesitated. I could tell her the truth. About the ER. About the homeless man. About my brother.
Not yet. It was too soon.
"Let's just say I have a feeling about you," I said.
I walked to the door. I paused with my hand on the frame.
"Duncan," she called.
I turned.
"Thank you. For the blanket. For the water. For not treating me like I'm crazy."
"You're not crazy, Miss Campbell. You're scared. There's a difference."
I stepped into the hallway.
And froze.
Linda stood at the end of the corridor, her arms crossed, her eyes fixed on me. She had been watching. I did not know for how long.
She did not speak. She did not move. She just stared.
I closed the door behind me and walked toward the nurses' station. My heart pounded. My hands were steady.
I did not know Linda yet. I did not know what she was capable of.
But I knew one thing: she was watching me. And she did not look pleased.
I would have to be careful.
I had made a promise. To myself. To my brother. To the woman in Room 312.
I would watch over her.
No matter what it cost.
---
End of Chapter 4