Page 13 of The Night Shift

A few moments earlier

I am not obsessed with Holly Moore. Please.

Obsession is unhealthy. It’s a constant, uncontrollable preoccupation. Unadulterated dedication. I’m notobsessed. I’m just curious.

It began three years ago on the night of our internship mixer.November 14th, 2019. At approximately 7:45 p.m.

She was wearing a long, dark-green, satin dress and a pair of gold heels. Her nails were painted a deep shade of green, and her short blonde waves were pulled back into a ponytail. She was introducing herself to someone, her bright red lips curved and her cheeks glowing. Irresistible, captivating, and so goddamn beautiful.

That night Holly’s smile consumed me like a black hole, and I never really looked back.

Within the next two months, this flame of crippling curiosity only got bigger. My harmless crush evolved into something far more complicated. Just the mere thought of her face started scrambling all my synapses and rendering me stupid. She began plaguing my dreams and my nightmares. I wanted to be withher, around her, close to her all the fucking time. Even if she didn’t want me to.Especially then.

I wanted to know everything about her. Her likes, her dislikes, her fears, her silly quirks. So, naturally, I started following her. Started keeping tabs on her.

Nothing too invasive, just small day-to-day things of little to no importance. When she’d get into work, her favorite drink, her address, her weird habits, her birthday, the men she was killing, her favorite color, favorite show, pet peeves. Stuff like that.

Her favorite color is green. But not just any green.Sacramentogreen. Her favorite drink is a gin martini. Extra dirty with eight olives. She’s short and petite; just five feet seven compared to my six feet two, and yet she doesn’t let anyone look down at her. She doesn’t like eating the crust. She always uses the small spoons to eat. She thinks she fears nothing but has a deep-rooted phobia of accidentally eating food with mold on it. Her favorite show is BBC’sFlowers— especially the first season. Her pet peeve? Pretty sure that’s me. And so far, Holly has killed fourteen men.

Now, it goes without saying that one would have never expected such behaviour from someone as sweet and angelic as Holly, but obviously that apparent innocence was just a farce. I might not know much about murder, but I do know that female serial killers are a rare breed. From a medical perspective, Holly has never exhibited any overt indications of psychopathy, which means that her condition isn’t congenital. Something must have gone terribly wrong in her life to force her down this path. And given how long I’ve been at this, I’m sure I could easily track down her past, hack into her medical records, look for signs of mental illnesses, connect the dots and find out why she’s doing what she’s doing. But that sounds rather aggressive. It’s still early and I value a little mystery in our relationship.

“Why are you making that face?”

I look down from the chart in my hand and at the thirteen-year-old staring up at me. Kennedy Fraser. My patient and the most tolerable child in the paediatric ward.

It’s been a long day — two surgeries this morning, one cholecystectomy and a basic appendicitis, followed by rounds, then another emergency cholecystectomy that dragged well past what should’ve been the end of my shift. I just wanted to check on Kennedy one last time before heading out.

“What face?” I ask.

Kennedy frowns.

Two weeks ago, she was attending a pool party. When she was swimming, another guest ran and jumped into the pool, landing right on top of her. The force of the impact was directed at her head and neck. She sank to the bottom of the pool and was immediately rushed to the ER. Spinal X-rays showed a fracture between her C5 and C6. We performed a cervical fusion, removing the damaged disc and stabilizing the vertebrae with a bone graft and titanium plate to prevent further movement. The surgery secured her spine, but the damage to her spinal cord was already done. By the time she woke up, she was paralyzed from the waist down.

“That sappy smiley face,” she retorts, and my smile widens. Kennedy is a tough kid. Despite counselling to the contrary, she continues to insist that she’s going to get better and that she’ll be able to walk again. Some might call her delusional, but I find her resilience inspiring.

“Where’s your mother?” I revert my focus to her scans and change the subject.

“Cafeteria.”

“Again?” I place the CTs and X-rays back into her folder and set it on the bedside table. “Does she not know there’s a perfectly good pizzeria right down the street?”

Kennedy snickers softly. “I think my constant bitching about the hospital food might’ve guilt-tripped her into having the same.”

“Evil takes a new form in Kennedy Fraser.” I walk to the end of her bed. “Try and move your toes for me, please.” When she doesn’t do as I say, I lift my eyes to her face. “Kennedy.”

She shrugs and slumps back against the blue cushion behind her. “What? You know I’m not going to be able to. So why ask?”

There are days when the counselling gets to her. The constant reminder of the true extent of her injury, watching this other person, a complete stranger, talk about your life like they know what’s actually going on inside your head, it’s hard. I would know. And at the end of the day, Kennedy is just a child. The toughest one I know, but a child, nonetheless. When her spark of optimism starts to flicker out, it’s my job to reignite it.

“Because me and a couple other doctors have a betting pool going on. And I really need those fifty bucks.”

“To get yourself a haircut? Because you need it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh my god, did no one tell you how it looks today?”

Her words hit me like a ton of bricks. I quickly run my fingers through it, suddenly self-conscious about every unruly strand. A hundred different scenarios race past my mind, all of them involving Holly seeing me like this and deciding she wants nothing to do with me or with my unkempt hair. I swallow hard, trying to regain my composure, my heart pounding in my chest. The thought is downright unsettling. Disastrous.