Damaged

by Pamela Callow

  “It couldn’t be the filler, could it? Isn’t it inert matter?” She tapped her pen against her lip. The defense was already taking shape in her head. God, she’d missed the fun of crafting an argument that wasn’t an endless variation on custody support. “Wouldn’t it be more likely that the disease was contracted either through a blood transfusion or from the plaintiff’s lifestyle?”

  “That’s what our client says. But it’s a little more complicated than that, Kate.” There was a hint of amusement in John’s eyes. “The products are not manufactured from inert matter.”

  Her mind raced. She knew she should know the answer to this. “Right. They make the products from live cells.” She weighed the implications for the defense: they’d have to fight accusations of substandard laboratory procedures, infection transmitted by lab technicians—

  “They don’t use live cells,” John said. “The tissue filler products are made from—” a small smile curved his lips “—cadavers.”

  “Cadavers?” She stared at him. “They use dead tissue in surgical procedures?”

  It was clear John had enjoyed shocking her. He nodded. “Yes. It’s processed at TransTissue and then used in dental surgery, neurosurgical procedures and many orthopedic procedures. You know, hip replacements, ACL repairs, the list goes on.”

  “Ugh.” Kate grimaced. She’d be a lot more careful about her joints from now on. Time for new running shoes. “Where does it come from?” At John’s wry look, she added quickly, “I mean, where does TransTissue get the cadaveric tissue?”

  “There are suppliers who harvest the tissue from bodies. Kind of like organ donors. The harvested tissue is sent to TransTissue to make into surgical products.” His voice became thoughtful. “One body can go a long way to help a lot of people.” He walked around his desk and handed her the file. “Here. Have a look at these notes and tell me what you think about this claim.”

  Kate nodded, slipping the claim into the folder. John sat behind his desk and flipped open another file.

  She headed to the door. “When do you need it by?”

  He smiled. “They’re a top client. Have it ready for Monday.”

  4

  Damn, damn and double damn.

  Kate jogged through the dim parkade to her car. It was 8:35 p.m. She bet that Alaska was starving and upset by now. She threw her briefcase onto the backseat of her four-year-old Toyota sedan and slid into the driver’s seat. The engine roared to life. She gripped the wheel tightly, weaving her way slowly through the near-empty parkade to the street.

  It was dark, but it was a Friday night and Haligonians had spring fever even if the weather didn’t. She was scared she’d hit some drunken university student celebrating the end of exams at the pubs connecting every street corner. So she crawled through the downtown core, her nerves on edge. She turned up Spring Garden Road, its bright, alluring storefronts swarming with Halifax’s hippest.

  She gritted her teeth in frustration at the pedestrians crossing the street willy-nilly in the dark. Did they have a death wish? It was only after she drove through the intersection of South Park Street that she relaxed. She was almost home. Her neighborhood bordered Hollis University, a pretty, leafy area in the south end of the city with century-old houses.

  Drizzle sent little streams of wet scurrying across the windshield. It would rain soon. She hoped it would hold off until Alaska had been out in the yard. It was bad enough having a white carpet of husky fur all over her house, but it was even worse when it was wet and smelled of dog.

  Five minutes later, she turned down her street. She pulled into her driveway. The house was shrouded in darkness. She’d forgotten to replace the burned-out porch light. Again. A street lamp illuminated the skeletal branches of a tall maple that waved disconcertingly around her opaque upstairs windows.

  A familiar disquiet churned her stomach. Stop it. It will be different in the summer. When it’s still light at 9:00 p.m. and the trees are green.

  The thought didn’t help her symbol of success feel any homier. Why couldn’t she revel in the satisfaction of new ownership? Irritated with herself, she threw open her car door. Her house loomed over her. A movement flashed in the picture window.

  She grabbed her briefcase and raced up the walk. Furious scrabbling on the wooden floor announced her arrival as she unlocked the heavy oak door.

  “Hey, boy!”

  With an excited whine, the pure-white husky threw himself against Kate. He was the only reason her house could claim to be a home. She hadn’t realized it until he’d moved in.

  She knelt down and buried her face in his soft fur. The dog licked her hand, then danced in circles down the hallway. There didn’t appear to be a paper trail this evening. It never ceased to amuse her that she, a lawyer, would be the owner of a dog who seemed obsessed with leaving one, usually comprised of toilet paper but sometimes home decorating magazines. She followed the husky through the kitchen. And winced when she saw the puddle on the linoleum floor.

  She cleaned up the mess, wishing she could wash away her guilt as easily. Now that she was on the TransTissue file, there would be many more evenings like this. She’d have to figure out something for this dog who’d adopted her. He gazed up at her, happiness in his blue gaze. Guilt stabbed harder. She scratched behind his ears. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  His eager tail wagging lifted her spirits. Her dog’s simple pleasures had become hers in less than a week. “Give me one more minute, boy,” she called, bounding up the worn walnut staircase. She pulled off her work clothes, throwing them on the bed, and changed into track pants and a fleece-lined rain jacket. Alaska whined below.

  “I’m coming!” She ran down the stairs, snatching the last apple from the fruit bowl. The husky bounced around her heels while she attached his leash.

  “We’re just going around the block,” she warned him as they stepped outside. “We both need supper.” Alaska’s tail thumped a Morse code of agreement.

  Drizzle fell onto her head. She forced herself not to pull up her hood. You made the choice to live here. And besides, you don’t need to hide. It’s different now.

  Every fiber of her body ignored her pep talk, wanting to disappear. To shrink under the cover of her hood so no one would recognize her. But she wouldn’t do that anymore. She’d remade herself. Created the future she’d always wanted. And today she had been given the chance she’d been craving for a long, long time. A chance to climb the ladder that, until now, had hung beguilingly out of her grasp.

  She wouldn’t let herself be dragged back down.

  Was that why she moved back here? Some crazy impulse had hit her in January. Whether it was the need to clean out the cobwebs of her life, or celebrate her new job, it had fueled the purchase of this house on her old neighborhood street. An impulse she didn’t care to examine but was sure a therapist would have a field day with. At the time, it was an act of defiance, of independence. Of proving to Ethan that she wasn’t ashamed of who she was.

  It was only after she recklessly bid on the house that it occurred to her there might be people living on her street, twenty years later, who would recognize her.

  Alaska paused to sniff the hydrant. Kate breathed in the damp spring air, studying the houses lining the street. The dark hid the occasional sagging porch, old windows and peeling paint—a hallmark of the homes that had been converted into student flats.

  When she’d lived on this street as a child, it’d been a family neighborhood. With kids her age, bicycles and skipping ropes strewn on the sidewalk. Now it housed either entrenched elderly or nomadic university students. It was both a relief and a source of sorrow to realize there were no reminders of her childhood here.

  Her stomach growled. The caffeine from her coffee had dissipated, leaving her hungry and tired. “Come on, boy, let’s get going. I’m starving.”

  The envelope on the car seat appeared empty, but Ethan Drake couldn’t stop himself from glancing at it every few seconds.

  He turned
left, then slowed down, surprised to see the neighborhood Kate now lived in.

  He frowned. Why had she moved back here after what she’d done? The fact he didn’t know the answer ate away at him. Another sign that he really didn’t know her, had never known her.

  Her house was easy to find, close to the corner. Her car was in the driveway. Good. She was home. He couldn’t deny the spark of satisfaction that she wasn’t out on a Friday night.

  He parked his Jeep on the street, grabbed the envelope and stuffed it into his pocket. Walk slowly, take your time.

  Easier said than done. Now that he was here, need surged in him. The need to see Kate. The need to hear Kate tell him she was wrong. To see his suffering reflected in her eyes. To know that she was just as confused as he was about why things ended the way they did.

  He deserved an explanation.

  What if she doesn’t give you one?

  He ignored that niggling doubt and jogged up the porch steps. It was dark. The light had burned out. The cop in him noted this fact with concern. Kate needed to get it fixed.

  It was a perfect opening line: I was driving by and noticed your light was out…

  He shook his head.

  You’re an asshole.

  She wasn’t likely to fall for that. His pulse began to race. What would she do when she saw him on her doorstep? Would she invite him in?

  Or would she slam the door in his face?

  He’d said some pretty harsh things to her. But damn it, he’d been hurt as hell. The bubble that had enveloped him on Christmas Eve had been rudely burst one week later. “Auld Lang Syne” had had a whole new meaning by the end of New Year’s Eve. Old acquaintances had refused to be forgotten, crashing the party with secrets in their pockets.

  He ran his hand over his hair. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the doorbell.

  Silence.

  He pushed the doorbell again.

  Silence.

  The bloody thing didn’t work. Just like the porch light. Kate needed a little help on the upkeep. He thrust away the obvious thought: if they were still together, he’d have this place sparkling by now.

  He peered into the oblong windows flanking the front door. A light was on in the back.

  He knocked on the door.

  No responding footsteps inside.

  Shit. Where was she? He peered through the glass again. It was cloudy with age and streaked with drizzle, but he would’ve been able to see movement if someone was home.

  He knocked again.

  No answer.

  Heat suddenly flamed in his neck. Of course. What a friggin’ idiot he was. Hard to believe he was a bloody detective when he couldn’t put two and two together.

  Kate’s car was here, but she wasn’t, because it was Friday night and some guy had come and picked her up and was taking her out to a nice restaurant, and he was standing on her front porch in the fucking freezing drizzle with a fucking envelope stuffed in his pocket.

  He’d had it all planned out. What he’d say—“I found this under the sofa”—how’d he act. But she always seemed to pull the rug out from under him.

  Man, how fucking stupid could he be?

  No more stupid than you were on New Year’s Eve.

  He spun on his heel, taking the front porch steps two at a time, and stalked toward his car.

  A large dog lunged toward him.

  He leaped back. Not far enough. The dog jumped on him.

  “Alaska!” The owner pulled futilely on the dog’s lead.

  Ethan stared in disbelief. “Kate?”

  Since when did she have a dog? Pain sliced through him. Anger added a satisfying sting. She’d never called him. Never apologized. Just left him scrambling for his engagement ring on the floor of Bob MacDonald’s house.

  Within weeks, she’d gone to the enemy camp and joined LMB. Then bought a house. Now a dog. What more could she do to show that he had meant nothing to her?

  The dog’s front paws were still planted on his chest. Ethan stared into its ice-blue eyes. He fought to control his anger. It wasn’t the dog’s fault. “Down, boy,” he said, pushing him away.

  The dog grinned and jumped down. Kate stepped closer. “Ethan?” The quiver in her voice betrayed her shock. Mist beaded tendrils of hair around her face. Her eyes shone with a clear amber light that pierced right to his heart. Shit, how could she still do this to him? When he knew, he knew, that the light in her eyes was deceptive. “What are you doing he—”

  The dog poked his muzzle in Ethan’s crotch.

  “Alaska!” Kate cried, yanking his leash. The dog pulled his muzzle out and strolled over to a light pole, lifting his leg. A graceful arc of pee shone under the streetlight.

  “Nice,” Ethan said. If he hadn’t been so angry, he might have seen the humor in this. The dog had summed up his relationship with Kate with brutal efficiency: sniffing his crotch, then pissing on the sidewalk.

  He may have learned the hard way that he didn’t know Kate the way he thought he did, but he definitely got this dog’s vibe. “Where’d you get him? The Shelter for Delinquent Dogs?”

  5

  Kate stared at Ethan. Shock reverberated through her. Then guilt. Longing. Grief, pain, anger. Flooding her. Making her reel. She couldn’t believe he was here. On her sidewalk. Waiting for her. Why, after all this time?

  Whatever the reason, the sight of him set her heart jumping and skittering as if it was trying to run for cover and there was nowhere to hide.

  There was nowhere to hide. That was the problem with Ethan. His presence was so large, so full of life, that it crowded out the safe place deep in her heart she burrowed into when things got too painful. The place she had found when she was ten, the place she had retreated to on a permanent basis six years later. The place he’d chased her out of for six heady months.

  She finally was able to move her lips. “Sorry. He’s not usually like this.” Not only was that a lame excuse, it was a lie. She had no idea what Alaska was normally like. She’d only had him for a week, and she’d spent most of it at work. Why did she always feel she needed to cover things up when Ethan was with her?

  He gave her an impenetrable look. “Maybe he’s just misunderstood.”

  Was that an apology? Or was that his excuse for the names he’d called her? She stared at him, hoping she could figure out what the hell he wanted. He looked too good, damn him. His dark hair curled slightly in the drizzle, the collar of his jacket yanked up and framing his jaw. She’d loved tracing the scar on his chin, feeling the smooth line, straight and clean under the bristly stubble.

  She found herself searching for the scar, her eyes hungrily absorbing the face she’d seen only in her memory for four months. He looked the same, yet different. There was a set look about his mouth. And his eyes… She couldn’t figure it out, but they weren’t the way she remembered them.

  Neither was the rigid set to his shoulders. Ethan had never been one to let his tension show. But it did now. He had to have heard about her new position at LMB.

  Her stomach clenched. He wouldn’t take it gracefully. And why should she expect him to? She could just imagine his reaction when he learned that his ex-fiancée jumped to Randall Barrett’s firm within weeks of throwing her ring in his face. Knowing her luck, he’d probably heard about it from Vicky.

  Despite her resolve not to think about the fraud detective, Kate couldn’t rid herself of the memory of Vicky’s face after Ethan had confronted Kate on New Year’s Eve. Those china-blue eyes, stark with mortification. Known for her unflappability, Vicky had never shown any outward malice toward Kate despite the fact her own relationship with Ethan had only ended several months before. But on New Year’s Eve, it was a different story. With no happily ever after. Vicky had shocked everyone. Including, it would seem, herself.

  Vicky had cornered her ex in a hallway outside the bathroom. Kate hadn’t seen it coming. She’d been getting a drink.

  But upstairs, Vicky congratulated Ethan brightly on his engagement
to the daughter of notorious embezzler Dick Lange.

  Stunned, he’d confronted Kate. Kate had stared at him, drink in hand, her mind still trying to catch up to the fact that Vicky—cool, matter-of-fact Vicky—had played the woman scorned card. And had made Ethan look the fool.

  But it was Kate who was left holding the bag. Had she planned on letting their kids visit Grandpa in the slammer? Ethan had demanded. It was irrelevant, she knew, that her father was no longer in jail. In Ethan’s mind, he would always be a con.

  He hadn’t said much about her sister, Imogen, but his eyes told the story.

  Vicky had even tried following Kate outside that icy night. Had it been to apologize? Kate didn’t know. Vicky Moffatt would have to live with what she had wrought. Just like Kate did.

  “So, how’ve you been?” Ethan asked, breaking the silence that Kate suddenly realized was growing longer by the second.

  “Good.” She nodded. “I bought a house.”

  His gaze swept over it silently.

  Closed. That’s what his eyes looked like. Closed. She followed his gaze, hoping he wouldn’t notice that the porch railing had mold on it and the screen on one of the bedroom windows was torn. Hoping even more that he wouldn’t know the significance of the address.

  “Congratulations,” he said. She hated how shuttered his eyes looked. They drilled into her without revealing a thing. She’d bet anything this was the same look he gave his suspects. “You’ve always wanted a place like this. And it’s in your old neighborhood, isn’t it?”

  Damn. Vicky must have filled him in on that, as well. Couldn’t let it go, could you, Vicky, my girl?

  “Yes.” She pushed a damp strand of hair from her face. She was sure by now her hair resembled waterlogged seaweed. What a stupid, irrelevant thought. To worry about your hair when Ethan’s come here to make you pay. Because judging by his edginess, he wasn’t here to kiss and make up.

  “And you got a dog? I thought you weren’t into attachments.” There was no mistaking his bitterness now.