Page 89 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

I nod. “Send them in.”

Ms. Winters—Diane, I remind myself, though I can't bring myself to use her first name—has been working at the clinic for exactly one week, four days, and six hours. Not that I'm counting.

Her resume is perfect. Ten years of experience. Computer certifications. References that wouldn't shut up about how organized she is. The logical choice after Emily vanished.

I called Emily's cell repeatedly those first few days. It went straight to voice mail every time. By the fifth day, I accepted she wasn't coming back. Posted the job opening that afternoon, and by Monday, Diane Winters started.

The waiting room is spotless now. The appointment calendar is color-coded. The filing system is organized. No more coffee stains on patient records or misplaced lab results.

It's hell.

Mrs. Henderson waddles in with Brutus wheezing in her arms. The pug's bulging eyes seem to blame me personally for whatever's about to happen.

“Good morning, Dr. Price!” Mrs. Henderson chirps. “Brutus has been just miserable, haven't you, sweetie? His breathing seems worse, and he's not eating.”

I force a smile. “Let's have a look at him.”

The exam is simple. I prescribe the usual meds and send them on their way.

As I update Brutus's chart, I catch myself listening for Emily's voice and that laugh that's always too loud but somehow perfect.

Instead, all I get is Ms. Winters's typing and her robot voice booking appointments.

“Dr. Price?” She appears at my door. “Your next appointment canceled. Would you like me to move up the afternoon schedule, or would you prefer to catch up on paperwork?”

I stare at her. Emily would suggest takeout during the break.

“Dr. Price?” Ms. Winters prompts me when I don't answer.

“Have you filed the Anderson case?” I snap, harsher than I mean to.

“Yes, sir. All yesterday's files have been processed, electronic records updated, and backup copies made.” She doesn't react to my tone, just stands there with her clipboard, the perfect employee.

“And the Patterson bloodwork?”

“Results came in this morning. They're on your desk, along with the quarterly inventory report and the updated vaccination schedules.”

Of course, they are. Probably alphabetized and color-coded, too.

“The surgical tools?—”

“Sterilized, counted, and stored according to protocol,” she finishes. “I also took the liberty of ordering more gauze since we were running low.”

My jaw clenches. “Is there anything you haven't handled with terrifying efficiency, Ms. Winters?”

She looks confused. “I... don't believe so, Dr. Price. Is something wrong with my work?”

Everything is wrong. It's too perfect. Too orderly. Too... not Emily.

“The phone system is giving me trouble,” I lie. “I keep hearing static on line two.”

Ms. Winters frowns. “I haven't noticed any issues, but I'll call the technician right away.”

“No,” I say too quickly. “No technicians. Just... fix it.”

“But I'm not qualified to?—”

“Just figure it out!” I bark, immediately feeling like shit when her professional mask slips, showing real hurt underneath.