Page 100 of Bitter Lies

My phone buzzes again. I ignore it.

Reaching down, I pick up the heavy item wrapped in what used to be a white silk handkerchief. The second it hits the light, everything in me goes still.

The fabric is stained dark with dried blood.

The weight in my hand tells me exactly what I’m holding before I even unwrap it.

And I’m not wrong.

Inside is a 9mm handgun.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I can’t leave it here. My DNA is now all over it—along with whoever placed it here. I’m not about to get pinned for a murder, nor am I about to let a stranger pin it on a person I’m fairly certain didn’t do it.

And if she did… she didn’t know what she was doing.

I reach into my backpack, pull out an evidence bag, and carefully seal it inside. Darius can deal with it when he gets here. Let his team of experts figure it out.

At least I didn’t touch the gun. That should make their jobs easier.

With my bags packed and Bear ready to go, I’m about to head home before meeting Trent when my phone buzzes again. If this is Silas pestering me about meeting up with him, he can fuck right off.

I click the screen and pause.

A couple of hours have passed since Lane took off.

The phone pulsates in my hand. Missed call after missed call. He’s been ringing nonstop for the last five minutes.

“What?”

“Answer your bloody phone when I ring you.” Lane’s voice is anything but calm. “We have a problem.”

Chapter 36

Isabel

So much for a slow shift.

I should’ve known better than to let that thought enter my brain. As soon as I hang up with my brother, all hell breaks loose.

I’m halfway through the night when Dr. Grieves interrupts my first chance I’ve had to eat. Three bites into my crisp red apple and into the bin it goes.

I rush out of the break room and jog to A&E to answer his page.

A nurse points me in the right direction when she sees me approaching. “Curtain three.”

“Thank you.”

I make it there just as he’s wheeling the patient out.

“It’s about damn time you showed up. What took you so long?” Dr. Grieves grumbles, his voice echoing through the ward, he slaps a chart into my hand. “Read that on the way up. Know what you’re walking into. After you’re caught up, scrub in.”

I follow them onto the lift, reviewing the patient’s chart. “Wait. Am I reading this right? Dr. Hilbert was stabbed? When? Where?”

“If you’d been where you were supposed to be, you’d know this.”

This arsehole has got to be kidding me.