Page 8 of Doc
Doc leaned closer, his shoulder nearly touching mine as he studied the papers.The scent of antiseptic soap and something distinctly male filled my senses.I held my breath, acutely aware of his proximity.
“And Mercer’s name is here too.”Doc pointed to another note.“Campaign contribution to the sheriff’s reelection fund, five thousand dollars.That’s a lot for a patrol officer’s salary.”
“Exactly,” I said, excited that he was seeing the connections.“And look at this -- Judge Carlton received campaign donations from RH Enterprises.So did the sheriff and the county commissioner.”I pulled out another clipping.“And RH Enterprises owns the building that houses The Velvet Room.”
Doc’s professional demeanor slipped as he became engrossed in the evidence.His eyes narrowed with focus, a small furrow appearing between his brows.He leaned even closer, his arm now pressing lightly against mine as he traced the connections between the names Mom had circled.
“Your mother was thorough.”His voice was lower than before, intimate in a way that sent a small shiver up my spine.
I nodded, hyperaware of him.“She never did anything halfway.Every story, every investigation was personal to her.”My throat tightened.“She never let anything go.That’s probably what got her --”
The words caught, a sudden wave of grief closing my throat.All these weeks later, and I still couldn’t say it out loud.Couldn’t fully admit that my mother’s determination, the very quality I’d always admired most about her, had likely led to her death.
Doc straightened slightly, giving me space, but his gaze remained on my face.For a moment, his clinical mask fell away completely, replaced by something that looked surprisingly like compassion.
“That’s probably what made her an excellent journalist,” he said quietly, finishing my thought in a kinder direction.
I swallowed hard and nodded, grateful for his understanding.The moment stretched between us, charged with something I couldn’t quite name.It wasn’t just gratitude I felt -- it was connection, unexpected and unsettling.
One of the club members at the bar called Doc’s name, breaking the spell.He straightened fully, professional distance reasserting itself as if it had never slipped.
“Keep digging.”He nodded toward the papers.“If there’s a pattern to find, you’ll find it.”
He turned and walked away, rejoining his brothers at the bar.I watched him go, wondering about the brief glimpse I’d caught beneath his carefully maintained facade.Then I turned back to my mother’s notes, more determined than ever to uncover what she’d found -- and what it had cost her.
But as I worked, I couldn’t help noticing how the skin on my arm still tingled where Doc’s had pressed against it, or how his scent lingered in the air around me.I pushed the thoughts aside, focusing on the papers in front of me.I couldn’t afford distractions, not when I was finally making progress.
My parents deserved justice, and nothing -- not even an unexpected attraction to a stern-faced doctor in a motorcycle cut -- was going to derail me from finding it.
* * *
I sat cross-legged in the middle of the borrowed bed, surrounded by a sea of papers that had long since lost any semblance of organization.Night had fallen outside the apartment windows, but I’d barely noticed, too engrossed in the puzzle pieces of my mother’s investigation to register the changing light.My eyes burned from hours of reading, and my stomach occasionally growled in protest of being ignored, but I couldn’t stop now.Not when I was finally starting to see the connections Mom had been tracing before she died.
A sharp knock at the door broke my concentration.I glanced at my phone -- nearly 9 PM.I hadn’t eaten since the sandwich someone had brought me at lunch.
“Just a second,” I called, untangling myself from the papers and padding barefoot across the worn carpet, and down the hall to the front door.
I checked the peephole before opening the door -- another habit I’d developed in the weeks since my parents’ deaths.Doc stood on the other side, a paper bag in one hand.He’d shed his cut but otherwise wore the same clothes as earlier.
I opened the door, suddenly aware that I was in sleep shorts and an oversized University of Alabama T-shirt, my hair pulled into a messy bun.“Hi,” I said, awkwardly crossing my arms over my chest.
Doc’s gaze flickered briefly over my appearance before returning to my face, his expression carefully neutral.“Thought you might need to eat.”He held up the bag.
The smell of food made my stomach growl audibly.I felt heat rise to my cheeks.“Thanks.I lost track of time.”
I stepped back to let him in, noticing how he filled the small space of the apartment.Everything about him seemed controlled -- his posture, his movements, the careful distance he maintained.He set the bag on the small kitchenette counter.
“Making progress?”he asked.
“Actually, yes.”Excitement pushed past my self-consciousness.I moved down the hall to the bedroom, rifling through the papers until I found what I was looking for.“Look at this.”
I held up my mother’s small black notebook, flipped open to a page filled with her notes.“This is a reference to a police evidence ledger.Mom noted items were checked out but never checked back in -- drugs, cash, weapons.”I pointed to a notation.“And here, RH Enterprises again.She wrote, ‘Connection between missing evidence and RH -- ledger page 46, Mercer sign-out.’”
Doc stepped closer, his brow furrowing as he studied the notebook.“What ledger is she referring to?”
“That’s the thing.”I could barely contain my excitement.“Police evidence ledgers aren’t public record.She must have gotten access somehow, maybe through a source inside the department.”I flipped to the next page.“And look here.‘D.A.files on Carlton cases missing.R says original copies in safe.Check RH warehouse property records.’”
Doc’s expression darkened.“So she had someone inside the police department and possibly the D.A.’s office.People who were feeding her information about corruption.”
