Page 4 of Still Yours
“She never truly got over that boy,” an elderly lady breaks the quiet. “Such a shame because he’s certainly over her.”
“Do you think she reads about him often? I would.”
“Cries into her pillow about him, probably.”
“He seems worth enough effort to waste a bunch of coffee on his face.”
I push open the door, the bell ringing cheerily above my head.
I hate gossip and absolutely despise when it’s about me.
But just now? What I did to his enragingly handsome face and cut-throat smile?
So worth it.
CHAPTER THREE
Noa
“Mrs. Stalinski?” I call out.
After a few moments of answering silence, I push open the front door of her small Victorian home, pocketing my keys as I step in.
She knows to call me if she becomes uncomfortable at night or needs help, but she’s also stubborn, and Mrs. Stalinski would rather reach the point of piercing agony before calling for any more help than she already has.
“Hello?” I try again as I pass through the front hallway and into the kitchen at the back of the house.
The window above the sink looks over the fenceless backyard and quaint patio where Mrs. Stalinski likes to sit and enjoy a cup of coffee in the morning, hoping to glimpse the nearby family of deer.
I peer out that window, noting the untouched dishes in the drying rack that I cleaned last night.
Finding the wooden rocking chair empty, I push off the sink and walk to the base of the stairs leading to the second floor.While taking the steps two at a time, I hear a weak, “In here, dear,” coming from the main bedroom.
The second floor is in a U shape with a modest guest room to the right of the staircase followed by a second bedroom turned sewing/fitness room. At the center of the U is the main bedroom.
Propriety has me knocking lightly before bursting in, worried about what I’ll find.
My concern is unfounded when, at the sound of my movement, Mrs. Stalinski turns on her bedside lamp and stares at me limply from her side of the bed.
“What’s going on?” I ask, coming to her side and grabbing her wrist, gauging her pulse.
“A rough night, is all,” she croaks, shaking her head as if a night of excruciating pain is all in a day’s work. “You know how it is.”
“I do,” I murmur, laying my palm on her forehead for a sense of temperature before moving to my kit and retrieving a thermometer. She feels fine, but the blanched look on her skin and her bloodshot eyes tell me otherwise.
“Did you take your pain meds?” I press the button on the thermometer, then put it into her ear until it beeps a normal 98.5 degrees Fahrenheit at me.
“Like clockwork.”
I hum in thought as I pick up her bottle of opioids and double-check the dosage. “I’ll call Dr. Silver today, see if we can’t get you on some Fentanyl patches.”
“No, dear.” She’s quick to alertness before her eyelids droop once more. “You know I want to keep my faculties for as long as possible, and those things send me straight to la-la land.”
“Yes, but you don’t deserve to be in this much pain around the clock.”
Mrs. Stalinski gives me a long look. “I believe I befriended a unicorn the last time you threw one of those patches on my back.”
“Well…” I arch a brow. “Was it a nice unicorn?”
