Zoey

“I’ve got something for you,” Blake’s voice sing-songs from behind me.

Oh, I bet you do, I answer in my head before spinning in my chair to see him standing in my doorway. He’s wearing gray slacks, a pale blue button-up that’s loose at the collar and rolled up his forearms, and a black belt that perfectly matches his black shoes. He looks sexy, smart, and powerful.

Aloud, I say, “I wasn’t expecting you.”

I can feel the smile stretching my lips and the warmth in my chest blooming. Truer words have never been spoken, and after my conversation with Holly this morning, I’m feeling . . . open.

Open-minded, open to possibilities, and maybe even open to the future.

Blake helps himself to leaning back on my desk, one foot crossed over the other. “I think I’ve been expecting you my whole life.”

“Damn,” I whisper, awestruck. “You just . . . everything.”

Blake grins, loving that he’s blown me away. “Wanna see what I brought you?”

I lift my brow flirtatiously, having a pretty good idea what he’s referring to. “I don’t think here is the best place for that,” I say slowly, not sure I care at this point. Especially considering Alver already spread that gossip far and wide. If I’m going to get judged for it, I might as well do it, right?

But Blake chuckles, playfully amused. “Dirty girl, I like where your mind is, but I meant this.” He holds up a thick file folder I hadn’t even noticed he had in his hand.

“Oh,” I say, slightly crestfallen. “What’s that?”

He lays the folder down on my desk and opens it, telling me casually, as if it’s no big deal, “Richard Horne’s complete medical history.”

“What? That was fast,” I exclaim, all but forgetting my sexy thoughts of a moment ago when presented with new information.

I open the folder and scan the cover sheet, noting the consistency of appointments, basic lab information, and doctor recommendations. Flipping the sheet, I note his latest lab results. Unfortunately, it was a basic profile, nothing that would give me heavy metal blood levels.

“Richard Horne was a very loyal medical patient,” Blake tells me, and I do glance up at that, questioning him with narrowed eyes. “Same doctor for over a decade. All I had to do was show up, hand the receptionist Horne’s waiver, and she copied it for me happily. Even got to talk to the doctor—”

“Dr. Yu?” I ask, checking the names on the form.

Blake nods. “Nice guy. Said he’d been Dick’s doctor for years and he was the picture of health until about six months ago. There’s a visit summary in there, a couple of sheets back.”

I start digging to find it, impressed with how neat the file is. I’ve reviewed some medical records that needed a handwriting analyst and translator to know what the hell was being said.

Not Dr. Yu. His handwriting is almost mechanically precise, and most of the file is computer forms. Finding the sheet I need, I review the data, seeing Yu’s notes and the lab results from that appointment while I listen to Blake.

“So Horne said he’d been taking care of himself, even going for walks with their new puppy and taking vitamins, but he felt tired?” I summarize.

“Yeah, that mean anything to you with what you see there?” Blake asks.

I scan the labs again. “Dr. Yu didn’t check for heavy metals then. There would’ve been no reason to when a middle-age man complains of tiredness. That’s like a ‘join the club’ thing. But he checked his blood levels—no anemia—and his thyroid, which was fine. Testosterone level was within normal ranges. I’m not a doctor, but it looks like there were no findings that would specifically cause exhaustion. Dr. Yu recommended that Horne . . . continue walking and vitamins regimen, decrease red meat, and add leafy, green vegetables to daily diet, and prescribed eight hours of sleep each night,” I quote from the file. “And he recommended a follow-up in three months. Did Horne go for that?” I flip back, pausing after two sheets. “Here it is . . . hmm.”

I read through Dr. Yu’s report from that visit, going over everything as closely as I can.

“What?” Blake asks.

“Horne wasn’t only complaining of tiredness. He also said he was getting heartburn all the time, especially in the morning, and had started drinking mint tea instead of coffee because even decaf upset his stomach. But that didn’t work either, so his wife was making him green smoothies for breakfast. Look.” I point to a line in Dr. Yu’s notes and read aloud, “‘patient jokes that the smoothies are the equivalent of drinking a cow’s cud, but if they’re good for him, he’ll do it.’”

Something niggles in the back of my mind, but I can’t put my finger on what bothers me about that line.

“It looks like they did repeat blood work, but Dr. Yu told him to keep up the healthier diet and sleep. I bet that was when the heavy metals had started really affecting him. Early poisoning symptoms would’ve been tiredness, nausea, foggy headedness, tingling in hands and feet, and blood pressure changes. But . . .”

I stare at the page for a long time, silent as my brain works through the information. Blake doesn’t say a word, quietly propped up on my desk and letting me think.

“Something about that bugs me,” I whisper to no one, reading and rereading the bit about gross smoothies for breakfast. I mean, nobody really likes green smoothies, do they? Except for real back to the Earth hippies, who I think get their pleasure from doing ‘something right’ rather than the actual smoothie itself. They taste like grass and dirt in liquid form.