Kit

by S. M. West

  His smile is more charged, putting a little more effort in appearing concerned. “Hello, Ms. Caroline Archer—”

  “Doctor Archer.” I’m deliberate in cutting him off and correcting him, once again. Why is it so hard for him to remember she’s a doctor and treat her with the respect she deserves?

  He pauses, eyeing me warily before turning his attention on Caro. She’s sliding out of the bed on wobbly legs.

  There’s a long, superficial scrape along her shin bone and several tiny scrapes or indents along her bare legs from her collision with the pavement. While I hate seeing her gorgeous skin marred and don’t want her in any pain, tonight could have been a hell of a lot worse.

  I grip her elbow to help steady her, and the nurse is at the door, standing sentinel.

  Holman continues, “Doctor, apologies. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Concern clouds Marie’s friendly demeanor. “Dr. Archer, please take it easy and remember to see your family doctor as soon as possible. And Detective…” She pauses, ensuring she has the man’s full attention.

  Holman is slow to face her, pausing to scrutinize Caro, then me, and finally he casts his skeptical gaze at Marie. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he thinks we’re all in this—whatever this is—together.

  “Please, not too many questions. Dr. Archer needs her rest and should be home.” The nurse has a firm tone and my smile is appreciative, although I don’t hold any hope it will make a difference with this guy.

  “This won’t take long.” His forced smile sets me on edge. Marie nods and leaves.

  “I’m not sure what Dr. Archer can add to what I’ve already said since we were together.” As fast as is possible, I usher Caro into the washroom, wanting to prevent this conversation. Caro needs her rest.

  She hesitates at the door, gaze on Holman. “Please let me get dressed and then we can talk.”

  Her voice is weak, tired, and I’m not happy at her concession. “Caro, you don’t have to do this now. We can go to the station tomorrow and give your statement.”

  My tone is cutting and aimed at the detective.

  “Kit, I can do it now.” Caro is insistent. “I just want to get this over with.”

  “I’ll wait. Take your time, Doctor.” He nods curtly.

  “Do you need any help?” I grab her clothes and hand them to her.

  “No, thanks.” She’s weary, her smile faint and movements sluggish as she shuts the door and I’m alone with Holman. Great.

  He ignores me—well, not quite. His gaze is fixed just above my head, but he keeps his mouth shut. I pull out my phone, not wanting to appear free to talk, and I see two missed calls. One from Sally and the other, Nick. Shit.

  Sally’s been to my place and is wondering where I am, and Nick, well, he’s freaking out even though he doesn’t even know about the explosion. My throat closes, unable to find any words to tell him how I broke my promise. I was supposed to keep her safe, and while she’s alive—thank fuck—she’s injured and still in danger.

  I can’t call him, not now when I don’t know what to say and not with Holman here. And texting is better for both of them right now. I’ll have to call Sally and explain, but it’ll have to wait until tomorrow.

  Shit, Pinter is tomorrow too. I have to call him.

  Me: Sorry. Something came up. We’ll do dinner another time.

  This time no response comes immediately. I stare at the screen, willing a reply from Sally, something that will say it’s okay. That me not being where I said I would be didn’t come off as if I stood her up. Shit, of course it would come off like that.

  Her silence could mean any number of things. Maybe she’s on the subway home? It’s almost eleven thirty, and my gut spasms at the thought of Sally trekking over to my place, only to be stood up.

  I should have canceled once Nick called. Even with my reservations about seeing her, I wanted to give us a try and now I’ve blown it. I’m long overdue on moving on, and Sally is supposed to be that chance.

  We might never be more than friends, but that isn’t the point. Dating Sally is more a chance to have a life after Caro. Or to finally face the reality of a life after Caro.

  As if she’s reading my mind, Caro steps from the washroom, pausing to grip the doorframe. She’s pale and frail, so unlike her usually strong and vibrant self. I spring to my feet at her side.

  “It’s okay. I can do it.” She pats my arm and shuffles into an empty chair at the speed of a senior with a walker. I’ve got to take better care of her.

  “Mr. Jensen, please leave us.” Again, Holman isn’t asking, even if the words are meant that way.

  “I’m staying.” My fingers grip my phone tightly, anticipating his objection.

  “It’s okay. Please wait outside.” Caro dismisses me, and a sharp twinge pokes at my chest.

  Her hair is wild and crazy, face dirty, and posture nothing but defeated and despite all of this, she will always have my respect. I won’t challenge her in front of this guy. I respect her too much, even if I think this isn’t a smart move.

  Holman is all too happy to shut the door in my face, and I try not to dwell on any inconsistencies that will arise from her account of tonight’s events compared to mine.

  There’s not much I can do about that, and I have to give Nick an update. I pull out my phone and go to texts.

  Me: Don’t lose your shit. There was an explosion at the clinic but we’re both okay.

  Absently, I stare down the hall with my phone in hand. No rings or buzzes from Nick or Sally. I’m not sure how long I stand like that, leaning against the wall.

  I try not to think about Caro in the room with Holman and what exactly I could possibly say to Nick that won’t cause him to drive home from Quebec tonight, no longer trusting his sister’s life in my hands.

  Caro finally exits the room with Holman behind her. Concern etches her already drained features and she mouths, “Let’s go,” eyes wide while grabbing onto my arm.

  Not needing further explanation, I wrap an arm around her shoulder and guide her away from the room and the detective.

  Neither of us spare a glance at him, although he’s clearly watching us. There’s no doubt, this isn’t the last we’ll see of Holman.

  Caro

  “What’s wrong?” His hand presses gently into my lower back, guiding me to the taxi idling at the entrance to the ER.

  Like so many times in my life, Kit is one of very few people—Nick is the other—that I want right now. My gratitude swells and threatens to choke me with tears. I don’t know where I’d be right now without him.

  I may never have found the vault and would be stuck putting together a puzzle with missing pieces. Without that discovery, I’m beginning to think Elliot wouldn’t have contacted me. He’s definitely involved in whatever this is.

  Kit opens the cab door for me, but getting into the back seat of the car isn’t easy. Bending, I wince and bite my lower lip to stifle a groan. Breathless pain threatens to knock me out as my muscles cry in agony with each clench or flex.

  Bruises, soreness, and fatigue rack my body and my head feels like a smashed watermelon—brains split apart and swimming. “Holman asked me why we went into the clinic and then why we left when we did. He just kept coming back to that.”

  Kit arches a brow at my comment, taking in the cab driver and rattling off an address close to the Beach, a neighborhood east of downtown on Lake Ontario. His home is my guess. I don’t know how to feel about that. It’s personal, a little too close, and too fast, but I don’t want to be alone.

  Since our breakup many years ago, I’ve made it a point to know as little as possible about him. Foolish since, to this day, I still get butterflies in my stomach whenever he walks into a room. When he first walked into the clinic, even with a gun in his hand, my heart flipped and stomach flopped.

  And my feelings haven’t changed. The only thing I accomplished by breaking up with him was to sentence myself to a life of loneliness and r
egret.

  Why am I even thinking about this right now? All I want is to lie down and curl into a ball until the pain goes away.

  “What did you say?” he asks, and my back slides down the worn leather to rest my head against the top of the seat.

  Just tightening my stomach muscles makes me dizzy. “I told him the same thing you did—we decided to go outside and wait. We look like idiots for not listening to the police, and he doesn’t believe that we just left at the right time.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because he kept coming back to it.” Closing my eyes, I brace for every bump and turn as the cabbie drives from the curb.

  “He doesn’t know anything for sure. He may suspect we know more but I’m pretty sure he isn’t thinking we set off a bomb in the floor of the clinic when we opened the door to that hatch.”

  “But won’t they find the hatch and the timer when they start investigating the fire?” Prying my eyes open isn’t easy, and I stiffly turn to face him.

  “Yeah. But they won’t be able to tell we discovered it or possibly even what or who set it off. They could think it malfunctioned or someone detonated it remotely.”

  “What? Why’d you say that?”

  “Well, think about it. Elliot texted you. He got some kind of alert to the door being opened so there’s remote capability.”

  “He said my car was damaged in the blast and that they have both our cars.” My chest hollows out at the thought of the vague answers I gave the detective.

  “Not surprised.” His eyes, brown with iridescent flecks of green and amber, darken and he lowers his voice, mindful of the driver. “The clinic was blown up, and while we triggered it, the cops are likely going to check our cars to make sure they aren’t rigged to do the same.”

  Breath seizes in my lungs, at first stuck on the possibility of another explosion. I’m unable to fully comprehend the danger at my doorstep. But then I recall the clinic bomb was pre-set, not aimed at us. Still.

  “But that isn’t possible, is it?”

  “Anything is possible, but the bomb was probably planted at the time of the renovations, if I had to guess. Elliot’s text is a strong indication of that. Taking our cars is just part of the investigation, although I’m sure Holman will look for anything to implicate us.”

  “What? Why do you say that?” My headache intensifies, the incessant pulsing now almost unbearable behind my eyes and at the base of my neck.

  “He’d be stupid not to be suspicious of us, but the way he talked to me… He already thinks I know more than I said.”

  “But we do…”

  Kit only nods, and I’m suddenly more than tired. Bone weary and wrung out. “Are we going to your place?”

  “Yes. I don’t want you alone. Besides, you shouldn’t be with a concussion.”

  I groan, remembering I need to be monitored tonight and woken up every few hours. Although the MRI was clear, it’s a precaution.

  “Also, not to freak you out, but those texts…” He pauses to stare down at me, his expression matching his serious tone. “They have your cell number so we can’t rule out that they also know where you live and about the Home.”

  “No.” I clutch at my head, unable to concentrate. “Not the Home.”

  Sheer pain and fear course through my body and override everything else. I’m frustrated and anxious and, if I’m being truthful with myself, scared.

  “Hey.” He grips the curve of my neck and shoulder, rubbing my tender muscle, and I bite back a delighted moan—the first pleasurable sensation all night. I wish his touch didn’t still affect me. “I texted Nick about the clinic, and I’ll talk to him about getting both places checked out.”

  “Thank you. I can’t even think about the Home being destroyed.”

  “Then don’t.” His hand falls from my shoulder. “We’ll make sure everything is fine.”

  I’m torn at the withdrawal of his hand. Bereft at the loss of his touch and grateful for the renewed clarity of thought.

  “Holman was very interested in how we knew each other.” My stomach twists. He definitely had the impression we were together, and while I don’t normally care what other people think, I made no attempt to correct the detective’s assumption.

  “He’s looking at me for this.” He relaxes farther into the seat, neither offense nor worry in his tone.

  “What?” Outrage sparks tension in my already overworked muscles, setting me on edge. “How is that possible? You had nothing to do with this!”

  He shrugs, running a hand through sandy, jaw-length hair. “It’s fine. Anything from Elliot?”

  I pull out my phone and the screen is cracked. I’m too tired to care or speak, and I shake my head since there’s nothing from Elliot since his warning to get out of the building. I immediately regret the movement, grimacing at the agony in my muscles and bones. I feel like I’ve been through a meat grinder.

  As the car slows, I type out a quick text asking Elliot to call me. We need to talk to him.

  The cab pulls up in front of an old factory-type building that’s been retrofitted into lofts, and we ride the elevator to the top floor in silence. Even exhausted, my mind fires with how to explain any of this to Nick. How’s he going to take the possibility of the Home being in danger? And I’m staying at Kit’s, how did we get here? It feels natural, right almost, even with so much unspoken or unsettled between us.

  A bottle blonde, average height and build, leans against the last door at the far end of the hall. Our presence, the ding of the elevator, or both cause her to turn toward us.

  She stares at Kit, not acknowledging me, and her features shift from what looks like worry into relief before forming a full-blown smile. Far too quickly, I look away and ignore the burning anguish hissing up the back of my neck and into my skull.

  The darkened ugly feeling inside of me is more than jealousy. It’s also self-blame and disappointment because I know how she feels. I once had him, but I tossed him away.

  Laughing nervously, she sprints toward him. “Oh my God, you’re okay.”

  White teeth gleam and tiny lines crinkle at the corner of her eyes. She’s so happy and seems as if she can barely contain herself. It’s clear she wants to hug him or something.

  He stops a few feet short, frowning, maybe even confused. It is late, and who knows why she’s outside his loft, but he doesn’t reject her when she launches herself into his large, corded arms.

  His big hands grip her slender waist, pulling her up and into him. She wraps her arms around his neck, fingers sliding into the ends of his wavy hair, and my insides clench.

  Who is this woman? Is she his girlfriend?

  The deep rumble of his voice pulls me back to the hallway. “Sally, what are you doing here?”

  “Oh my God, when you sent that text, my heart stopped.” The words rush from her. “Oh no, you’re hurt.” Her fingers feather across the bandage on his cheek.

  Like a punch to the throat, my neck muscles stiffen, all breath trapped, and my eyes sting with unshed tears.

  “What text?” Confusion swims in his eyes and he places her on her feet.

  “You said there was an explosion. I thought about calling the hospitals but there are so many in the city and I had no idea where you were. I figured your place was the best place to wait.” The woman glances at me and her gaze turns inquisitive, taking me in from head to toe.

  I can only imagine what she sees. My face is covered in tiny cuts and bruises, my hair is messy, and my pants are torn at the knees. I must look how I feel, like a battered woman.

  “Text? Yeah, I sent…” He fishes in his jacket pocket, bringing out his phone, and the furrow of his brow deepens.

  It takes a beat or two while he scrolls through the texts and then his head snaps up, eyes intent on Sally, and it’s clear whatever she’s referring to now makes sense. But he still finds something unsettling.

  “Caro, why don’t you go on in?” He hands me his keys, motioning to the door a
t the end of the hall where the blonde was standing just moments before.

  It isn’t a suggestion; he wants me to leave. A part of me is all too happy to oblige, to get away from their intimate moment, and another part of me feels like I’ve been banished.

  I nod without introduction and walk as fast as is possible in my condition. The pain rattles through my bones and I grit my teeth, needing a warm bath and painkillers.

  “And, um, Caro, give Nick a call.”

  Again I’m mute, nodding, unlocking the door and walking into his home. As if shutting out the world, Kit and Sally forgotten, a smile leaps onto my lips at the sparse furnishings of this beautiful loft.

  He’s a minimalist. Open concept, high ceilings, exposed piping and brick, and the floor is gleaming ash blonde. On one wall hangs an obscenely large flat screen TV—Kit loves his sports—and there are a couple of pieces of oversized leather and wood furniture.

  This is Kit. Simple and comfy. And some of it reminds me of when we lived together. We were still very much kids and didn’t have a lot of money so there wasn’t a lot to crowd our space, but it was warm and cozy. Somewhat like this.

  Like a slap in the face, Sally is front and center. Did she help him decorate this place? Just how little I know about him now is so apparent.

  His life is a mystery to me. The fact he has people, this woman for one, who care about him and know things about him that I don’t hurts. He has an entire life without me.

  I have a life without him, if you can call it that. It mainly consists of work, Nick, and Maggie. Oh, and Willow. It isn’t much of a life. It’s an existence.

  But this is how I wanted things between us. It’s silly, arrogant, and even conceited of me to think he’d be alone, his life standing still without me.

  None of this should come as a surprise, and yet I never consciously allowed myself to think about it. At all. I never once imagined Kit with someone else or even thriving and living a happy life without me.

  At least he was able to move on. I should be glad to know he’s got a life, but why isn’t that the case? What on earth is that about?