Fatal Reaction Read Free Page B

brown hair was cut into a short bob style that ended just past her earlobes. A cascade of purple star earrings glistened against her ivory neck. Wispy bangs across her forehead gave her a pixie look that, if he was being honest, enchanted him in a one-night-stand kind of way. Besides being a genuinely caring person, Noreen was a more dedicated employee than Dorian had a right to expect her to be. She kept his long hours and never once complained. She filed his research paperwork, worked on grants, and eased tensions with his more-anxious patients in a way only another female could. Dorian wouldn’t be where he was without her, a fact she reminded him of on late nights when a couple of glasses of off-duty wine colored the otherwise dry, clinical conversations. Those nights were like walking a tightrope. Dorian knew better than to bring his sex life into the workplace again.
    Noreen slipped the stethoscope from around her neck and dropped it into her lab coat pocket. “You really should eat something.” Her voice was sweet honey.
    Dorian smiled and nodded. “You’re always taking care of me.” He sank into the leather office chair behind his desk and sighed. “Any word from County?”
    Noreen set the turkey sandwich—light mayonnaise, no crust—in front of him, and leaned against his desk. Her jacket fell open and beneath it, a fitted blue dress revealed the delicate curves of her hourglass figure. “I went over there this morning and spoke with Janice Harmon’s family.” She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to him. “Harvest team convenes at six a.m. Emily Warren’s transplant is scheduled for eight.”
    “You got them to sign?”
    She smiled. “There’s not much I don’t do for you.”
    “What about Prusak? Have you talked to Mitchell about him?”
    Mitchell Altman, County Memorial’s CEO and a man motivated more by power and money than ethics, had promised to take care of Marco Prusak, the pathologist who had staged a protest complete with blood and baby dolls. His position was that the transplant posed a risk to the fetus. At first blush, one would’ve thought he was protesting abortion.
    “Mitchell gave him two weeks’ leave,” Noreen said.
    “That’s it ?”
    “Guess so.”
    Kristin Newman, the receptionist, appeared in the doorway. Her thin brown hair was pulled back from her plain, if not homely face. She wore a wrinkled cotton dress and Birkenstock sandals, which were entirely out of season. “Dr. Carmichael, your first afternoon patient is here.”
    Dorian swallowed a bite of his sandwich. “I’ll be right down. See if she wants some water or tea while she waits.”
    Kristin muttered something as she walked away about not being a waitress. Her flip-flop footsteps echoed on the hardwood.
    Dorian waited until she was downstairs to comment. “Tell me again why we hired her?”
    “She’s smart, efficient, and good with computers. Do you need her to be beautiful, too?”
    “I guess I can’t have everything.”
    Noreen guided his hands to her hips, beneath her lab coat, and smirked. “You can if you ask nicely.”

CHAPTER 5
    Ana dragged a brush through her tangled, wet hair. The shower, meant to revive her, only made her more tired. She inhaled deeply, the warm steam easing the congestion from hours of crying, but doing nothing to quell the overwhelming sadness. Depression surrounded her, crushing her with its weight.
    She walked to the master bedroom and sat, slumped over, on the edge of the bed, holding her throbbing head between her hands. The light made her headache worse, and she closed her eyes, immediately recalling the image of Sydney’s lifeless body on the filthy motel-room floor. For the rest of her life, that was what she’d see first when she remembered her sister.
    She stood, a simple act made difficult by unrelenting grief, and haphazardly toweled off, leaving her back and shoulders damp.
    The phone rang for at least the tenth time that night, and Ana