Fatal Rounds by Carrie Rubin

Author:Carrie Rubin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Indigo Dot Press

19

Tam’s inability to help me this morning leaves me frustrated and angry, but I try not to stew for long. An hour of heavy-bag punching and kicking at Brian’s Gym and another twenty minutes of core work dull the heat in my belly.

I will bring Sam down. One way or another, I’ll bring him down.

Back in my studio apartment, I shower and throw on a clean pair of gym shorts and a racerback tank. If I hurry, I can make the four o’clock hospital yoga class. Though I could do without Mark and his hands-on approach, not to mention his verbal mantras, fifty minutes of stretching is a small price to pay for more dirt on Dr. Donovan, providing Shelly Parsons is there. Now that I’m on my own, I’m going to have to push harder for usable information.

Inside the Sweat Lodge, five yoga mats cover the floor. Shelly is on one of them. Only one treadmill is in use, and the free weights collect dust in the corner. Mark isn’t here yet.

I unroll my mat next to the respiratory therapist. She doesn’t seem to notice me at first.

“It’s dead in here,” I say, smiling her way.

Her eyes blink in recognition. “Oh, hi. Yeah. First weekend of August. A lot of people are probably on vacation.”

While she folds down into child’s pose, I stretch out my hamstrings. “Guess what I learned?”

She doesn’t move, just remains face down in her pose. I hear her say a muffled, “What?”

I wonder what’s wrong. During the last two classes she was more upbeat, even after Dr. Donovan dumped her. And she certainly didn’t hold back at O’Dell’s, where whiskey sours loosened her tongue like an oil can. Maybe I’m reading her vibes wrong. Maybe she just wants me to leave her alone.

“I think your ex-husband is working at my moth—” I catch myself. No need to make this more personal than it has to be. “At my friend’s mental health facility.”

Shelly bolts up from her child’s pose so quickly I worry she’ll slip a disc. “You’re shitting me.”

“Pete Parsons? Dark hair, bags under his eyes, colorful socks.”

“Oh my God, that’s him.” She unfolds her legs, sits on her butt, and pulls her knees to her chest. “Of all the wrong places for him to work. Such a sadistic bastard.” She stares hard at me, and just as our instructor shuffles in with his royal blue mat, she says, “You better warn whoever’s in charge there about him. I wouldn’t trust him alone with a patient.” She taps her temple. “He’ll mess with their heads.”

Mark directs us into downward dog, so I say nothing else, but Shelly has confirmed my suspicions. While Pete is not my main focus, I can’t lose sight of him.

Thanks to the small class size, I get extra helpings of Mark’s touches and dippy words of encouragement, so much so that I’m ready to yank the red hair right out of his scalp. I control myself, and when the session is

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