Page 133 of The Ampersand Effect

“I don’t get it, Maren. Why are we dead?” The frustration in Grier’s voice cracked at the edges—wounded, disbelieving. “This is so unusual.”

“I know. It’s like we’re a ghost town, but the ghosts are visible andwanthelp. We just don’t have the orders to do anything about it.” Maren leaned into her chair, idly picking at something beneath her nail.

“Exactly!” Grier exclaimed, louder than she had anticipated. She leaned forward palms flat on the desk. “Why? Why are there patients in our halls and no orders coming in? You can’t tell me these kids wouldn’t benefit from acupuncture or an adjustment. Or a massage!”

She fumed.” So why aren’t we getting orders when they were coming in so predictably just a few months ago?”

Maren righted herself in her chair, planting one foot on the floor and crossing the other over her knee. She fixed her gaze on Grier. “You don’t think it’s a coincidence.”

Grier caught the inquisitive arch of her brow, the invitation to speak.

“I can’t explain it, no. But something feels off. Something feels… deliberate.” She drummed her fingers on her desk, thinking. “So, no—I don’t think this is a coincidence.”

“What are you going to do?” Maren’s voice softened. Quiet and concerned.

“I’m not sure, yet. But I have to do something. I’ll bring it up in our next grand rounds. Casually mention we’ve got some… unprecedented availability. See if anyone has a patient who might benefit from integrative support. I’ll offer to consult.

That might work. It was the professional approach. But it felt like begging—like proving her department’s worth all over again.

“Maybe you should do some recon,” Maren suggested, waggling her eyebrows. “See if your brother can get anything out of Dr. Rhodes.”

Grier’s hands stilled mid-tap. She’d confided in Maren once her suspicions about Grant and Haleigh had been confirmed—and they had both consented to her sharing. But she certainly didn’t want to use her brother to do her dirty work.

Still… Maren had a point.

Recon might be necessary. But a middleman wasn’t.

“That gives me an idea,” Grier murmured, reaching for her phone. She tapped the direct line to Haleigh’s office while Maren watched her quietly.

“Dr. Savage! To what do I owe the honor?” Haleigh’s sharp, cheerful voice rang through the phone. “I don’t think I’ve got any patients on your docket this week… dare I say it—is this personal?”

“Hi, Haleigh.” Grier smiled at the familiar sarcasm. Haleigh knew her well enough by now to understand she wasn’t one to call to just chat. “Actually, that’s part of why I’m calling,” she trailed off, waiting for Haleigh to catch up.

“Hmmm, all right, I’ll bite,” Haleigh replied, the intrigue in her tone exactly what Grier had hoped for.

Grier doubted Haleigh was behind the drop in patient numbers—not directly. But shewason the surgical floor, regularly interacting with more physicians and hospital bigwigs than Grier did.

She had access. And access meant information.

She glanced at the clock on her computer screen, confirming what she suspected based on the rumbling in her stomach: ten minutes to noon.

“Good, let’s give you something to eat, then. Got time for lunch?”

“You’re speaking my language. But I get the impression whatever you want to discuss isn’t exactly cafeteria-appropriate. Care to walk to the deli down the street?”

“If I’ve never told you how much I appreciate your conspiratorial brain, then let it be known—I do!” Grier laughed into the phone. “Meet you in the lobby in ten.”

She hung up to find Maren staring at her, one eyebrow cocked, assessing the one-sided conversation she just heard.

“I’m meeting Haleigh for lunch. I’ll do some recon, see if she has any insight about our numbers.” She hesitated, the thought that had been nagging at her since she began analyzing patient statistics still unspoken. “I can’t prove it, but this”— she splayed her fingers and circled her hand broadly in the air—”feels like it has Vanders written all over it.”

“You are becoming what we call in the business acrack whore,” Grier snickered at her own pun as she thrust her palms against Tobin’s thoracic spine, feeling it erupt with cavitations beneath her hands.

Tobin huffed out a breath, assisted by Grier’s thrust. “Does that make you my pimp? Or my dealer?”

“Rude!” Grier laughed, pinching the skin along Tobin’s ribs, tickling her and causing her to squirm. “Flip over—time for your neck.”

Tobin did as instructed. “This is my favorite part.”