Darrell glanced at the caller ID, and something flickered deep in his eyes. A flash of unmistakable elation, there and gone in an instant.
He reached out and gently rubbed the top of my head.
"Beverly, something came up at the office. I need to run, but if you feel uneasy about anything, call me. Anytime."
He was already heading for the door, waving his phone at me over his shoulder.
"I'm always here for you."
The door closed with a soft click.
Then, from the hallway, came the hushed voice of Darrell's assistant.
"Mr. Farley, are we really switching doctors for the surgery in three days? That's going to be tricky to pull off..."
"We're not switching anything!"
Darrell's voice cut through like a blade.
"I was just humoring her. Once the anesthesia kicks in, how's she going to know who's operating on her? Don't tell me you've become as stupid as the woman in that room."
Sycophantic laughter trailed off down the corridor until the hallway fell silent again.
I dug my nails into my palms until the skin screamed.
I hated myself. Hated that for eight years I'd willingly stripped off my armor and forged, with my own hands, the very blade now aimed at my throat.
But it didn't matter.