Dead Med, page 30
Now that I think of it, Dr. Zaleski was probably at DeWitt back then. Maybe she knew that student and could tell me what happened to her. But Dr. Zaleski frowns on personal conversations during work hours.
I call the operator and discover that the surgery resident on call for consults is Dr. Abe Kaufman. It’s the only good news I’ve gotten all night. Of all the surgery residents, Abe is the nicest. Hell, he’s the only nice one. You call Abe, he comes down right away and doesn’t quiz me on a million tests I ordered wrong somehow.
Sure enough, Abe rushes right down after I explain the situation to him. I spot his red hair and his large frame lumbering down the hallway, and I wave. He waves back enthusiastically.
“Appy?” he asks me.
“Uh-huh,” I say. “It’s a twenty-nine-year-old woman. Right lower quadrant pain, fever, elevated white count.”
Abe takes the chart from me and skims the first page. “Huh,” he says as his finger lingers on the name Dr. McKinley. “My wife is her primary care doctor.”
He strides into the room, a smile stretched across his face. “Ms. Durand!” he greets the young woman, who looks intensely uncomfortable. “How are you doing?”
“Terrible,” Elsie Durand groans. “The pain is… It’s so bad.”
Abe lays his right hand gingerly on her abdomen. It always surprises me that a big guy could be so gentle.
“What did the CT show, Kiera?” he asks me.
“I, um…” I bite my lip, bracing myself. “They haven’t done it yet.”
“Ultrasound?” he asks.
I shake my head again.
The last time that happened, the surgeon screamed at me for ten straight minutes. But Abe just shrugs.
“Well, it’s a clinical diagnosis,” he says.
“Can I have something more for the pain?” Elsie Durand pleads with him.
He shakes his head abruptly. “No. No pain meds. You’re going straight to the OR.”
I nod in agreement, relieved.
“By the way,” Abe says with a wink, “how’s Sasha treating you?”
I don’t even know who he’s talking about at first. “Do you mean Dr. Zaleski?”
“Oh, Christ.” Abe laughs. “I think that answers my question.”
I glance around nervously. “She’s, um, fine.”
“I’m sure.” Abe rolls his eyes. “Well, if you ever need someone to straighten her out, give me a call.” He cracks his knuckles and adds, “It would be my pleasure.”
He’s joking. I’m almost positive.
I find Dr. Zaleski back at her computer station, writing up a patient encounter. The moment she hears my footsteps, she whips her head around to look at me accusingly.
“Well? Are you going to tell me what happened with that patient, or do I have to guess?” she asks.
“Dr. Kaufman is going to take her to surgery.”
She raises her eyebrows. “He doesn’t want to wait for the CT results?”
“No,” I say.
Dr. Zaleski takes another sip of coffee and mutters something under her breath. “Where’s my coffee?” she finally says.
“Oh…” I look down at my hands, like if I wished hard enough, a Styrofoam cup of coffee might magically appear. “I’ll get it for you right now.”
She nods curtly. “Now, please. You’d think I’d only have to tell you once…”
Less than two weeks to go…
I sprint down the hall to the kitchen, where they have a machine filled with hot coffee that is constantly brewing. I grab one of the Styrofoam cups and press the button to dispense coffee. Of course, nothing happens. That’s exactly what kind of night I’m having.
“Problem?”
I whirl around, nearly dropping the cup on the floor. A slim woman in her late twenties wearing a pair of scrubs is standing behind me, her dark hair piled on top of her head. The ID badge on her chest reads Rachel Bingham, MD, Psychiatry Resident. It’s very late, but her eyes are bright, and she doesn’t seem the slightest bit tired.
Unlike me. Even my bones are tired. I didn’t think such a thing was possible until my third year of med school.
“The coffee machine won’t work,” I grumble.
She arches an eyebrow. “Why are you drinking coffee at midnight?”
“It’s for Dr. Zaleski.”
“Okay, then. Why are you Dr. Zaleski’s coffee slave?”
“I don’t mind getting it for her.” I don’t want it getting back to her that I’ve been bad-mouthing her behind her back. The residents talk amongst themselves, even between departments. “And she’s got a lot to do.”
“Here,” she says in a voice much kinder than my own resident’s voice, “let me help you.”
Dr. Bingham takes the coffee cup from me and fiddles with the machine. A minute later, the coffee machine starts dispensing piping-hot black liquid. I let out a sigh of relief. Dr. Zaleski definitely would’ve screamed at me if I came back to her without coffee. If I couldn’t get this machine to work, I would have had to hide in a supply closet for the rest of my shift.
Dr. Bingham turns her back to me as she finishes filling up the coffee and places the Styrofoam cup on the counter. “She takes it black, right?”
“How’d you know?”
“Just a guess. She’s always so hyper when she calls us for consults. You’d think she was on speed.”
I snicker. “Dr. Zaleski on speed? No way. She would never take that kind of chance. They do random drug tests all the time here, and she would wreck her entire career.”
She nods. “Yes, you’re probably right. It would be very stupid, wouldn’t it? Anyway, you better get her this coffee before it gets cold and she screams at you again.”
She isn’t wrong. I reach out to take the coffee cup from the counter, but that’s when I see it. A sprinkling of white particles dissolving into the black liquid. I squint down at the cup, trying to figure out what they are. But before I can, Dr. Bingham retrieves a plastic lid and pops it on top of the cup.
I start to ask her about what I just saw, but then I shake my head. What am I supposed to say? Hey, why were there little white specks in the black coffee? I’ll sound nuts. It’s probably a visual hallucination from lack of sleep.
The psych resident picks up the cup of coffee and holds it out to me. “Good luck tonight,” she says.
As I take the coffee from her, our eyes meet. A chill runs down my spine, although I’m not exactly sure why. I can’t help but think that I didn’t imagine those white specks in the coffee. While she was turned away from me, Dr. Bingham had a chance to do whatever she wanted to that coffee.
But why would she? I had to have imagined it. I must have.
After all, who would want to drug Dr. Zaleski?
THE END
Did you enjoy reading Dead Med? Click here to check out other unputdownable psychological thrillers by Freida McFadden, now available on Amazon!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book was originally written as Suicide Med and published back in 2014. In my original acknowledgments, I thanked my mother (who is devastated that I got rid of the eye #IYKYK), Dr. Orthochick, Laura Waller, Nathan Geissel, Jessica Schuster, Jenica Chung, as well as Roy Arnold, who helped me with his extensive knowledge of firearms.
Now that the book is officially Dead Med, I’d like to add on thanks to readers Emily, Nelle, and Val. As well as a thanks to Red Adept Editing for your help getting rid of those pesky typos. And I can’t leave out my agent, Christina Hogrebe, who gave me her blessing when I said I wanted to rewrite this book to get rid of the butt eye.
And finally, I want to thank my own Dr. Conlon, my anatomy professor in medical school, who made the class the most grueling, fun, amazing, and important course I’ve ever taken in my life. And don’t worry, nothing funny went on between us… or did it?
(No, it didn’t. He was super old.)
AFTERWORD
Did you enjoy reading Dead Med?
If so, please consider leaving a review on Amazon! Also, check out my website, where you can sign up for my newsletter and get updates on my books:
http://www.freidamcfadden.com/
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And now please enjoy a short excerpt of my new book, The Teacher…
THE TEACHER
Digging a grave is hard work.
My whole body hurts. Muscles I didn’t even know I had are screaming with pain. Every time I lift the shovel and scoop out a little more dirt, it feels like a knife is digging into a muscle behind my shoulder blade. I thought it was all bone, but clearly, I was wrong. I am acutely aware of every single muscle fiber in my whole body, and all of them hurt. So much.
I pause for a moment, dropping the shovel to give the blisters popping up on my palms a bit of relief. I wipe sweat from my brow with the back of my forearm. Now that the sun is down, the temperature has plunged below freezing, judging by the frost on the ground. But I stopped feeling the cold after the first half hour—I took my coat off almost an hour ago.
The deeper I go, the easier it gets to dig. The first layer of dirt was almost impossible to break through, but then again, I had a partner to help me back then. Now it’s just me.
Well, me and the body. But it won’t be of much help.
I squint down into the blackness of the hole. It looks like an abyss, but it’s actually not much deeper than two feet. How deep do I have to go? They always say six feet under, but I assume that’s for official graves. Not for unmarked ones in the middle of the woods. But given nobody can discover what is buried here, deeper might be better.
I wonder how deep a body needs to be buried before the animals can’t smell it.
I shiver as a gust of wind cools the layer of sweat on my bare skin. With every passing minute, the temperature continues to drop. I’ve got to get back to work. I’ll dig a little bit deeper, just to be safe.
I pick up the shovel once again, and the sore spots in my body all fight to be the center of attention. Right now, my palms are the clear winner—they hurt more than anything. What I wouldn’t give for a pair of leather gloves. But all I’ve got is a pair of big puffy ones that made it hard to grip the shovel. So I’ve got to make do with my bare hands, blisters and all.
When the hole was shallow, I was able to dig without climbing in. But now the only way I can continue is to be inside the grave. Standing inside a grave feels like bad luck. We all end up in one of these holes eventually, but you also don’t have to tempt fate. Sadly, it’s unavoidable right now.
As I dig the blade of the shovel into the dry, hard soil once again, my ears perk up. It’s quiet here in the woods, except for the wind, but I’m certain I heard something.
Crack!
There it is again… It almost sounds like a branch snapping in half, although I can’t tell if it was coming from behind me or in front of me. I straighten up and squint into the darkness. Is somebody here?
If there is, I am in deep, deep trouble.
“Hello?” I call out, my voice a hoarse whisper.
No answer.
I grip the shovel in my right hand, listening as hard as I can. I hold my breath, quieting the sound of air entering and leaving my lungs.
Crack!
It’s another branch, snapping in two. I’m sure of it this time. And not only that, but the sound is closer than last time.
And now I hear leaves crunching.
My stomach clenches. There’s no way I can talk my way out of this one. There’s no way I can pretend it’s all one big misunderstanding. If somebody spots me, it’s over. I’m done. Handcuffs snapped on my wrists, a police car with sirens wailing, life in prison without chance of parole—all that jazz.
But then in the moonlight, I catch a glimpse of a squirrel darting out into the clearing. As it scurries past me, another twig snaps under the weight of its small body. As the squirrel disappears into a clearing, the woods descend back into deadly silence.
It wasn’t a person after all. It was just a wild animal. The sounds of footsteps were just scampering little paws.
I let out a breath. The immediate danger is gone, but this is not over. Far from it. And I don’t have time to take a break. I have to keep digging.
After all, I have to bury this body before the sun comes up.
Buy The Teacher on Amazon today!
ALSO BY FREIDA MCFADDEN
The Teacher
The Coworker
Ward D
Never Lie
The Inmate
The Housemaid is Watching
The Housemaid’s Secret
The Housemaid
Do You Remember?
Do Not Disturb
The Locked Door
Want to Know a Secret?
One by One
The Wife Upstairs
The Perfect Son
The Ex
The Surrogate Mother
Brain Damage
Baby City
Dead Med
The Devil Wears Scrubs
The Devil You Know
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
#1 New York Times, Amazon Charts, Wall Street Journal, USA Today, and Publishers Weekly bestselling author Freida McFadden is a part-time practicing physician specializing in brain injury. Freida’s work has been selected as one of Amazon Editor’s Best Books of the Year, and she has been a Goodreads Choice Award nominee. Her novels have been translated into more than thirty languages. Freida lives with her family and black cat in a centuries-old three-story home overlooking the ocean.
Freida McFadden, Dead Med
