Page 46 of Wasted

“I appreciate that, Robert. I really do.” She straightened her spine and lowered her arms. “But I’m fine and will handle this situation with the Lord’s help as I always do. I don’t believe I’m in any real danger, so please don’t worry.”

The words hitched in her mind as she said them. The sore spots on her body that would no doubt turn into bruises tomorrow suggested she might be wrong.

A man had crashed into her with a shocking force she’d never experienced before.

Lord, please protect me as You always do. And help my faith in You to be a witness of Your power and mercy to Robert and Treese.

And thank You for Cillian being there tonight.

If Cillian hadn’t been with her…She didn’t want to consider what else the attacker might have done.

Chapter

Fourteen

Cillian pulled into the parking lot of Weston Neurology. No surprise the clinic Dr. Henry Weston shared with three other neurosurgeons would be solely named after him. He did likely draw the most clientele and profit to the business.

Cillian swung his jeep into a stall by the front entrance, staring at the modern one-story building without really seeing it. Hard to concentrate on the malpractice investigation when another one was heavier on his mind.

His blood still boiled when he remembered the thug slamming Victoria to the floor. What a coward, knocking a woman down on purpose to try to make his getaway.

And it had unfortunately worked. For now.

Victoria had been right when she’d stopped Cillian from going to the police about the incident.

The detective and lieutenant wouldn’t have believed it and might’ve hassled Victoria for going to the house and sticking her nose where it didn’t belong, as they saw it. He and Victoria needed more hard evidence before they approached McCully or Willis again. It would have to be really good to convince those two.

If only they’d hurry up with the autopsy results. That would prove Victoria was right. With any luck, it might also reveal something that could lead them to the killer. Maybe the same guy Cillian had chased out of the mansion last night.

That guy was probably the one who’d left the note on Victoria’s windshield. The threat.

Cillian clenched his jaw. If he ever got his hands on the?—

Someone walked across his field of vision, breaking through the intensity of his thoughts. A woman, holding the hand of a boy who looked about eight years old. Hopefully, the kid wasn’t the one who needed neurosurgery.

Cillian pulled in a long breath, trying to calm his system. He wasn’t going to be able to charm anyone if he went in like Jack Reacher looking for revenge.

He opened the door of the jeep and got out, the crisp air like a cooling balm to the heat of his anger. He should’ve caught the guy. Or stopped him from hitting Victoria. The attacker must’ve hidden behind the door when she’d opened it. And the coward went for her instead of Cillian when his back was turned.

Cillian reached into the back seat and grabbed the bouquet in a glass vase he’d spent way too much money on. But Victoria was more than worth it. If he could free her from her dad’s hold, they could finally have a future together.

He headed for the building, straightening his shoulders and trying to look cheerful.

The third malpractice plaintiff he’d looked into admitted he had simply run out of money. Didn’t seem to be anything suspicious or helpful for Cillian there.

But that second lady he’d spoken with…Marsha Faint. She’d acted so scared. So strange. That was the case he needed more intel on. The one that might hide the skeleton Cillian could drag out of Henry Weston’s closet to make him back off.

Nobody knew more about doctors than their nurses. If he could get one of them to talk, he might be able to find out what had happened to Marsha to make her drop the lawsuit and shut up.

He wasn’t likely to run into Dr. Weston himself at the clinic, since doctors didn’t usually hang out in the reception area where Cillian would be. And Victoria’s old man probably wouldn’t recognize Cillian even if he did see him. Cillian had been a skinny young kid with long hair the one time he’d met the famous Dr. Weston in person for like two seconds. The angry doctor had barely looked at him.

Which meant Cillian could saunter right onto Dr. Weston’s home turf now.

He pulled open the glass door and quickly surveyed the small lobby.

Two receptionists worked behind a curved desk that faced the door. A couple of patients sat in chairs along one wall about fifteen feet away.

The redheaded receptionist glanced at him from behind her computer.