“Are you on your lunch break?”
“No. I’m sitting at my desk. I’m having a couple of small issues with my current project so I was taking a minute to gather my thoughts.”
Janice, one of the office interns assigned to mail duty walked in and dropped a plain white envelope in front of me. My name, along with the Polish office address, was scribbled on the outside in black marker. I mouthed a “thank you” and watched as she left my cubicle.
“Always so serious, Ciaran. Maybe you need to release some pent-up tension so you can focus. I would suggest a good orgasm, but we all know that’s not going to happen.”
The memory of a warm tongue sliding between my thighs tried to suffocate me.
Coughing, I grabbed the water bottle sitting on my desk and chugged some back before I was able to remind her our relationship did not include sex talks. “Melany, I told you I’m not discussing my private life with you.”
“Whatever, Miss Prude. I’ll have you know Chris has been making me come multiple times every night and my mind is as free as a bird.”
Rolling my eyes, I picked up the envelope and used the point of my pen to slice it open. An aged yellowed newspaper clipping slid out and landed face down on the desk.
“Is there a reason for this call other than to inform me you’re alive?” I asked, as I flipped the clipping over. Words scribbled in bright red marker across the top grabbed my attention first. “Do your job – report the truth. Report what he deserves.”
He who?
Squinting at the faded print at the top of the article, I read the title: “Plastic Surgeon Investigated for Death of Patient.”
Holy shit. What was this?
Melany continued to babble in my ear but I was no longer listening. “Hey, Melany, I have to go.” I hit the end call button and tossed the cell phone onto the desk.
Rubbing at the raised hairs on my arms, I continued to read.
It was dated fourteen years ago and reported that a Dr. Sean Duarte was under investigation for the death of a patient, a woman named Celia Munich. She had been undergoing breast reconstruction surgery after surviving a bout of breast cancer and went into cardiac arrest while under the anesthesia. The plastic surgeon, who’d had no prior issues, was facing second degree manslaughter charges.
Picking up the envelope, I scrutinized the exterior.
My name was written in messy print on the front along with the sending address. Other than a postmark that reflected yesterday’s date, that was it. There wasn’t a return address anywhere.
Saying a quick prayer that my computer cooperated I typed “Dr. Sean Duarte” into the internet search bar. Several articles came up.
Reading through them, I found pretty much the same information that was in the article. The only difference was a couple of postings included a bit more about the victim explaining how Celia was survived by her husband and three small children.
I slowly typed “pictures of Dr. Sean Duarte” into the search bar. Only five came up. I clicked the first one open and a picture of the doctor standing beside a tired-looking but beautiful woman emerged. Their hands were clasped tightly together as they smiled at the camera. According to the information on the bottom of the screen, the woman was Eve Duarte, the surgeon’s wife. I closed it and opened the other images one by one.
The last picture that opened was also of the doctor and his frail-looking wife, as they stood on the steps of a professional looking building. The image was dated June 10, 1987, the same year as Celia’s death. They didn’t look happy but that wasn’t what grabbed my attention; it was the small boy standing off to the right that set off a sinking feeling in my gut. Zooming in on the boy’s face, my heart broke at the hollowness of his eyes. His emerald green eyes.
Befuddled, I leaned back in my chair.
Once again, the previous research I had done had failed to supply this information. I had to assume it was because Kean’s last name was “Bennett” and not “Duarte”; however, I was ninety percent sure it was him in the picture.
What was his connection to the adults in that picture? I had a hunch but I needed confirmation. I needed answers. And I only knew of one person who could provide them. It was the same person who had discarded me like a used up condiment package at the restaurant.
I knew the direction I needed to move in next but found myself hesitant. I didn’t want to see him. Not after the way he treated me last night.
Taking a deep breath, I looked out the window. It appeared Dr. Kean Bennett had more skeletons in the closet than I thought. And someone wanted them exposed.
My eyes remained glued to the view of the sky where for the first time in weeks, storm clouds shut out the sun.
Chapter Eleven
Ciaran
I approached the front desk of the office where Gloria was once again keeping guard. This time I was prepared to do battle.
“Hello, Gloria. How are you this afternoon?” I sweetly asked, holding up a jumbo bag of assorted Lindor Truffles.
Gloria’s eyes went beady behind the frames of her reading glasses. “Oh, Ms. Thompson, Dr. Bennett doesn’t ever want to see you in here again. He made his point very clear the last time.”
“I know and I feel terrible about that entire misunderstanding. Do you think it’s possible for me to speak with Dr. Bennett so I can apologize?” Holding my bribe towards her, I shook the bag a little.
“I don’t think so. He has been in the worst of moods and is getting ready to leave for a meeting. Besides, he despises reporters.”
I took a quick glance behind Gloria’s desk chair and noticed a couple of women in dark blue scrubs whispering to each other as they listened in on our conversation. They had probably heard Kean yelling at me the last time I was here and knew who I was.
Ignoring them, I held the bag out towards Gloria and shook it again. “It’s a good thing I’m not a reporter. I’m a journalist. We are much nicer.”
With her eyes fixed on the candy, she snatched the bag from my hand. “Well, they don’t seem so nice to me. They always give Dr. Bennett a bad rap when he really is a sweetheart.”
I had to trample the impulse to tell her that “sweetheart” of a boss gutted me after he brought me over the edge with his mouth in a crowded restaurant. I was sure it would change her view of that so-called sweetheart in a heartbeat.
“Well, I believe in only reporting the truth. My piece will be different. I’m only interested in making him sound like the hero I know he is,” I lied.
The tips of my ears heated and I knew they had gone red. That man was no hero. His tongue perhaps, but not the man.
Gloria looked thoughtful for a minute before throwing a look over her shoulder at the small huddle of nurses, which sent them scattering in different directions.
After the last one disappeared, she leaned close to me and whispered, “But he is a hero. He helps the less fortunate all the time.”
Skepticism spilled onto my features. “Really? Can you elaborate?”
Gloria paused, twisted her lips and then continued. “There are juvenile burn victims who need reconstructive surgery but can’t afford it because they do not have insurance. Dr. Bennett works closely with the children’s burn unit at Williams Hospital and does their reconstructive surgeries for free.”
I was struck speechless while something fluttered in my mid-region. That royal ass of a man who used my body against me helped the less fortunate? I honestly didn’t see that coming at all.
“Ms. Thompson, please, please don’t mention I told you. No one knows but me and that’s only because I have known him practically forever. He would hate that I told someone else, much less a reporter.”
“A journalist,” I corrected. “Gloria, why are you telling me this?”
“Because, Ms. Thompson, I don’t want you thinking poorly of him. I know he doesn’t always come across as the nicest person, but he is truly a wonderful man. Just a bit misunderstood at times.”