Rachel eases her SUV into the nearly deserted hospital parking lot.
Three cruisers are already lined up like silent sentinels, their light bars dark.
Jerry waits by the entrance, scanning the lot like he's expecting trouble.
"What do we have?" Rachel asks as she pushes through the sliding doors.
"The victim took a single round, straight to the heart," Jerry says, falling in beside her. "The cleaning crew found him during rounds. No witnesses so far."
They step into an upscale office with its dark cherry furniture, leather chairs, and the faint smell of cologne lingering in the air.
Dr. Robert Langston sits slumped in his chair, glasses crooked on his nose, a neat hole dead center in his chest.
Papers are scattered across the desk as if a gust of wind—or something worse—blew through.
A pen lies on the floor beneath his dangling right hand.
Rachel studies him. "Time of death?"
"Sharon puts the time of death between eight and twelve based on lividity, rigor, and temp. Since there's no struggle, I theorize that the shooter walks in, fires, and walks out."
"Casing?"
"Through-and-through. Same caliber as our other vics—at least that's what forensics is saying. They'll confirm once it's in the lab."
Rachel's eyes sweep the room one more time. "Stay on this, Jeff. I want security footage—every entrance, every hallway. Anyone who even breathed near this room."
"Yes, Sergeant."
"Victim's background?"
"Dr. Robert Langston. Thoracic surgeon. Twenty years here. Squeaky clean record—no complaints, no lawsuits."
Rachel narrows her eyes. "Check for any unhappy patients or families. And see if he's tied to Millie Clark."
Jeff hesitates. "Yeah… about that. Millie was his scrub nurse. Until a month ago."
"Find out why she left. Now." Rachel turns toward the door. "Jerry, you and I will notify the family."
Rosehill Drive winds up into the Ozark hills, every curve revealing more expensive homes than the last.
Langston's house is a showpiece—two-story brick, ten acres of manicured lawn, and a view that could sell postcards.
Rachel pulls in beside a candy-apple red Porsche.
"That's one hell of a driveway," Jerry mutters as they climb the last of the steep brick walkway. "
"It's a small price to pay for the gorgeous view," Rachel says, admiring the picturesque scene. She glances at Jerry. "Ready?"
He exhales. "No. But let's do it."
Slipping by the tall white pillars framing the entrance. Rachel pauses again. "This is the worst part of my job." Jerry nods. Rachel raises her hand to knock when the door opens.
A young woman in a black-and-white maid uniform stands there, hair pinned in a perfect bun, a faint floral scent drifting from her.
"We need to speak with Mrs. Langston," Rachel says.
"It's about her husband," Jerry adds.
The maid's expression barely changes, but she steps back. "This way."
The foyer is long and dim, the only light spilling from the far end. She leads them to a pair of French doors, opens them, and steps onto a wide veranda.
"Ma'am," she says softly, "two officers are here to see you."
Mrs. Langston turns toward them. Her eyes are swollen, her nose red, and her face pale. "It's about my Robert, isn't it?"
"I'm afraid so," Rachel answers.
The woman closes her eyes. One tear escapes.
Across town, Millie Clark wakes to a quiet house.
She pushes the covers back, slips into pink fuzzy slippers, and ties her housecoat tight against the morning chill.
The kitchen smells faintly of yesterday's coffee.
Crossing the kitchen, Millie notices a small cardboard box on the table. Lilly's name was scrawled in black marker across the side.
She frowns. "Where did that come from?" She recalls her and her aunt's previous conversation. "She did promise to send over some family things, so maybe that's what this is."
Millie finds a photo album labeled Birthday pictures at the top of the box. She flips through it and then lays it aside.
Millie's breath catches when she sees a small pink jewelry box. "I remember Daddy giving these to us for our ninth birthday," Millie says. Wiping a tear away, she pulls it out of the box. A tiny ballerina spins to the same tinny tune when she opens the lid. A silver necklace rests inside. Reaching in, she pulls the piece out, then reaches for the chain dangling around her neck. She swishes the charm back and forth as she recalls the day she and her sister purchased them. "BFs to the end," they each promised the other. "To the end," Millie sighed as the memory played in her mind.
She finds a small pink flip phone at the bottom of the box.
"Mom's old cell?" She flips the phone open to find it has a little battery left. My Aunt must've charged it before she sent it. Millie scrolls through the gallery and finds picture after picture of her and her twin. "Mom's favorite pastime was taking pictures of us; she thinks, recalling the numerous times she was told to strike a pose and how embarrassed she and her sister would get. "Please, Mom, not here," they'd beg as the camera flashed again and again. We hated that darn thing. She laughs as he continues to scroll down the screen.
Millie finds a video at the very bottom. I don't remember her taking any videos of us. She clicks on the icon and waits. An image of Lilly and Millie sitting side by side on a gurney pops up on the screen. I do remember being in the ambulance, but I don't recall Lilly ever taking this. She thinks.
Lilly's voice is raw, shaking when she says, "The EMTs killed our mother. They let her die."
Millie hears a man's steady, clinical voice in the background. "We did all we could."
"You pulled her out and walked away," Millie hears herself say.
"There was nothing more we could do."
"You didn't even try." The two say in unison."
Hopping off the bus, the EMT closes the door behind him.
Lilly's face appears on the screen. "One of these days, I'm." Grabbing Millie's hand, Lillie squeezes it, smiles, and says, "We are going to make sure the EMTs pay." The screen goes black.
Millie stares at the phone, trying to process what she just heard. The three victims suddenly come to mind. "All three are connected to our wreck." She plays the video again.
Millie's face pales, and her hands shake. Her voice is barely above a whisper when she solemnly mutters, "Is Lilly… getting revenge from the grave?"