LITMIR.BIZ

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a wife, but not the lifestyle that went with it.

      Long hours and single-minded focus were what got her this far. At thirty-four she was a well-respected general-practice surgeon with ambitions to be department chief. That usually didn’t settle well with prospective suitors.

      She’d been called a workaholic, too serious, too controlling, too dispassionate...

      “Since we’re both speaking next Friday, I was thinking maybe we could go together,” he said.

      She blinked. “Where?”

      “The annual fundraiser.”

      She’d forgotten about the hospital’s yearly fall gala. She’d been asked to speak about the technological advances used in general surgery. Ugh. No way of bowing out. She scrambled, searching for a reason why they couldn’t “go together” as he put it. “I...”

      Gary, the hospital’s security guard, poked his head inside the doorway. “Package for you.”

      Glad for the interruption, she waved him in. In his sixties, the man was twice her age, with graying hair and a wide smile, but he was still strong and capable. He’d been a part of Heritage Hospital long before she’d come aboard. She hoped he’d be around for a long time. He helped out when he saw a need, unlike some of the younger guards who manned the front reception area during various shifts.

      Given that Heritage Hospital took up a full block in a very affluent suburb of Chicago, she guessed the younger guards viewed their time at Heritage as a cushy job since they saw little criminal activity on a daily basis. Still, having a security presence gave patients and staff of the hospital a measure of comfort.

      And for the doctors and nurses, an extra pair of hands was an extra pair of hands. Welcome when needed.

      “These smell delicious.” Gary carried a pink bakery box. The distinctive label on the side was from a posh cupcake shop not far from the hospital. “There’s a card taped to the top.”

      Brenda rose and came around the desk to peel the envelope from the top of the box. Inside was a pretty thank-you card. The signature of the sender was illegible. She had no idea who was thanking her or why.

      “You get cupcakes from patients?” Sam asked, peering over her shoulder. “All I get are pictures once they’ve healed. I’d prefer cupcakes.”

      Brenda received other gifts and tokens of gratitude from patients, nice gestures for doing the job she’d spent her whole life training for. She had more wins than losses. Still, the Hanson case hanging over her head robbed her of appreciating this small thank-you.

      Three months ago, Peter Hanson had died on her operating table. He’d come into Heritage Hospital with acute appendicitis. She’d been the surgeon on call and quickly assessed he needed surgery. Everything went smoothly until his heart stopped in the middle of what she’d considered a textbook procedure.

      The autopsy had been inconclusive. There had been no heart disease. No blockage. No aortic stenosis, no myocarditis. No genetic issues. No structural damage.

      And now his family was suing her and the hospital for malpractice.

      A blemish on her otherwise spotless record. She felt sick thinking about it. Had she done something wrong, made some crucial mistake? The possibilities gnawed at her, eating away at her confidence.

      She set the pink bakery box on the desk and opened the lid to reveal four fancy cupcakes with colorful sprinkles atop fluffy white frosting and little smiley-faced rings, the kind usually meant for children.

      Brenda normally didn’t operate on children. At least not at Heritage Hospital. However, she did treat patients of all age ranges and walks of life at the downtown clinic she’d helped establish.

      In the past couple of years, she’d taken out an inflamed appendix on a ten-year-old girl, adenoids for a preteen boy, a ruptured spleen on a six-year-old and tonsils from at least three prepubescent kids. Had this come from one of those families? Or had these been the only available cupcakes at the bakery? That seemed more likely.

      “Yum. Those are from Blissful Indulgence,” Sam said. “So much goodness in a small package.”

      The cupcakes didn’t look that small to Brenda. Each confection looked to have about five hundred grams of fat ready to clog arteries. “Help yourselves.”

      “Don’t mind if I do,” Gary said and reached to take a cupcake. He peeled back the paper wrapper around the bottom and took a bite. After he swallowed, he said, “Thanks, Dr. Storm. These are amazing.” He left the office with a smile.

      Sam picked up a cupcake but didn’t take a bite. “You still haven’t answered my question. The fall gala? Us going together?” He gave her a searching look. “Unless, of course, you already have a date.”

      No date. And she didn’t want one with him. Or anyone for that matter. “Let me think about it and get back to you.”

      “I know what that means,” Sam replied with a slightly petulant tone.

      Maybe he had more of a clue than she’d thought. She’d give him an A for persistence.

      Gary reappeared at the door. “Help,” he croaked, clinging to the door frame, his face ashen as he slid to the floor in a heap.

      Alarm jolted through Brenda. Heart attack? A massive coronary, perhaps.

      She pushed Sam out of the way and ran to Gary. She rolled him over. “Call for help.”

      “On it.” Sam picked up the phone on the desk.

      She placed her fingers against Gary’s neck, hoping to find a carotid pulse. He had none. Her stomach sank. “No pulse. Not breathing.”

      Sam spoke into the phone. “Code Ninety-nine. Dr. Storm’s office.”

      Dread chipped away at her composure. She tilted Gary’s head back and tugged his jaw forward to open the airway. From her coat pocket, she grabbed a microshield CPR mask and placed it over his lips, fitting the mask air valve against his tongue. The faint scent of almonds wafted from his mouth. “Beginning CPR.”

      * * *

      “Gary died from cyanide poisoning?” Stunned, Brenda sat back in the armchair across the expansive mahogany desk from Ned Landsem, Heritage Hospital’s administrator. Her stomach roiled at the news. The smell of almonds on Gary’s breath hadn’t come from the flavoring in the cupcakes but from poison.

      Despite her and the staff’s best efforts, Gary had died. Her heart ached at the loss. She tucked her sadness away in the deep depths of her heart. Compartmentalizing came with the job. “How? Why?”

      “I don’t have all the details.” Nearer to seventy than sixty, Ned Landsem was still a dashing man with thick white hair and a robust personality that made working for him a joy. “The police suspect the cupcakes that were delivered to you were laced with cyanide. Once toxicology comes back, they’ll have confirmation.”

      Realization slammed into her like a gale-force wind coming off Lake Michigan in the winter. Someone had tried to kill her. Shock stole the breath from her lungs.

      She shuddered as anxiety and fear dug deep talons through her, leaving weeping wounds. Someone wanted her dead.

      And had murdered Gary instead.

      Tears burned the backs of her eyes. A senseless death.

      “The police don’t have the resources to give you round-the-clock security, so the hospital has hired a protection specialist from Trent Associates.”

      She drew back. “‘Protection Specialist,’ as in bodyguard?”

      “We had to move quickly. Trent Associates has an exemplary reputation. They were able to send someone out right away.”

      She sat forward. “I don’t get a say in this?”

      Though she logically understood the need for a bodyguard

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