Chapter 2 - Coffee After Midnight
I drove three blocks before admitting to myself that the SUV was following me.
Left.
It turned left.
Right.
It turned right.
I deliberately passed the entrance to Lake Shore Drive and circled a block.
The SUV stayed behind me.
My first instinct was to call the police.
My second was to think rationally.
Maybe it wasn’t following me.
Maybe the texts were unrelated.
Maybe someone had entered the wrong number.
Then I stopped at another light.
The SUV stopped two cars behind me.
I took a photograph of it in the mirror.
The license plate was obscured by glare.
My phone buzzed.
For one irrational second, I expected another threat.
Instead:
EMILY: Also, I just realized I never asked your last name. That seems like information I should have collected BEFORE entering your vehicle.
I looked at her message.
Then at the SUV.
DANIEL: Hayes.
EMILY: Daniel Hayes. Noted.
DANIEL: Emily, is everything okay?
The typing bubble appeared.
Vanished.
Appeared again.
EMILY: Define okay.
DANIEL: Has anyone been bothering you?
This time she took almost a minute.
EMILY: Why are you asking?
That answer told me enough.
I called her.
She answered immediately.
“Daniel?”
“Has someone been threatening you?”
Silence.
“Where are you?”
“In my car.”
“Where?”
“About five minutes from your building.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Go somewhere public.”
The exhaustion was gone from her voice.
“Emily.”
“Please.”
I pulled into a twenty-four-hour diner with bright windows and several customers inside.
The SUV continued past.
I watched it disappear.
“Now tell me.”
She breathed out.
“I’ve gotten some messages.”
“What kind?”
“Anonymous.”
“What do they say?”
“Mostly that I should stop asking questions.”
“About what?”
Silence again.
“Emily.”
“A patient.”
The teenager.
I knew it before she said it.
“The motorcycle accident?”
“Yes.”
His name was Lucas Moreno.
Seventeen years old.
He had arrived at St. Catherine after a collision near an intersection in River North. Police reports initially described it as a single-vehicle accident.
But Lucas had regained consciousness briefly.
Emily had been beside him.
He had grabbed her wrist.
“There was another car,” he whispered.
Then he said something stranger.
“Black SUV.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“What?”
“He said a black SUV hit him.”
I looked through the diner windows toward the street.
Nothing.
“Did you tell the police?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“They said they’d investigate.”
“But somebody doesn’t want you asking questions.”
“That’s what it looks like.”
“Why you?”
“Because Lucas told me.”
“Was anyone else there?”
“A nurse.”
“Who?”
Emily hesitated.
“Rachel Kim.”
“And she heard him?”
“I think so.”
“You think?”
“Everything happened fast.”
I leaned back.
“What were the messages?”
“One said, ‘Doctors should treat patients, not investigate accidents.’”
“That’s not random.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you report them?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“Hospital security documented them.”
“That’s it?”
“Daniel, I work in an emergency department. We get threats more often than you’d want to know.”
“But this is different.”
“I know.”
There was something else in her voice.
“Emily.”
“What?”
“I got one.”
Silence.
“What did it say?”
I told her.
Her breathing changed.
“I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t send it.”
“You got involved because of me.”
“I gave you a ride.”
“Exactly.”
“That is not a criminal conspiracy.”
“You don’t understand.”
“No. I don’t. So help me.”
She was quiet.
Finally she said, “Go home.”
“That’s not helping.”
“Daniel.”
“Are you safe?”
“My building has security.”
“Are you safe?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
I didn’t believe her.
But pushing harder would accomplish nothing.
“Call me if anything happens.”
“You’ve known me forty minutes.”
“Forty-five.”
She laughed despite herself.
“That makes it much more reasonable.”
“Good night, Doctor Carter.”
“Good night, Wrong Car.”
The nickname stuck.
For the next three days, nothing happened.
No SUV.
No messages.
Emily and I texted.
At first it was jokes.
She sent me a photograph of three silver sedans parked outside the hospital.
EMILY: Anxiety level: catastrophic.
I replied:
DANIEL: Choose wisely.
She answered:
EMILY: Never.
On Sunday morning, she texted at 6:12.
Coffee?
I met her at a small café near the hospital.
She arrived in jeans, sneakers, and a dark green sweater.
Without the coat and stethoscope, she looked younger.
Still tired.
But different.
Human rather than heroic.
“Wow,” I said.
She raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
“You own clothes that aren’t scrubs.”
“I was told civilians wear these.”
We ordered coffee.
For an hour, we talked about everything except the messages.
Emily told me she had grown up outside Milwaukee.
Her mother, Susan, had raised her alone after Emily’s father left when she was six.
She had paid for medical school through scholarships, loans, and “a truly irresponsible amount of coffee.”
I told her about Ryan.
About our company.
About my failed engagement three years earlier.
“You were engaged?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“She wanted a version of my life that looked better from the outside than it felt from the inside.”
Emily studied me.
“That sounds rehearsed.”
“It is.”
“What actually happened?”
I smiled.
“She cheated.”
“Oh.”
“See? Rehearsed version is more elegant.”
“Sometimes elegant is overrated.”
I looked at her.
“Doctor’s orders?”
“Absolutely.”
Our eyes held.
Something shifted.
Then her phone rang.
She looked at the screen.
Her expression changed.
“Hospital.”
She answered.
“This is Dr. Carter.”
I watched the color drain from her face.
“When?”
Pause.
“Is he conscious?”
Another pause.
“I’m coming.”
She stood.
“Lucas?”
She nodded.
“He woke up.”
I drove her.
This time she deliberately got into my car.
We reached St. Catherine in twelve minutes.
Before leaving, she looked at me.
“Daniel, go home.”
“Should I wait?”
“No.”
“Emily—”
“Please.”
She disappeared through the emergency entrance.
I waited anyway.
Twenty minutes.
Forty.
An hour.
At 8:47, my phone rang.
Emily.
I answered.
“Hey.”
No response.
“Emily?”
Then I heard breathing.
Not hers.
A man’s voice spoke.
“You were warned.”
The call ended.
I was out of the car before I realized I was moving.
I ran toward the hospital entrance.
Inside, nurses rushed past.
A security officer was speaking into his radio.
“Where’s Dr. Carter?”
He looked at me.
“Who?”
“Emily Carter. Emergency medicine.”
His face tightened.
“Sir, you need to stay here.”
“Where is she?”
Then the elevator doors opened.
Emily stepped out.
She was pale.
Rachel Kim was beside her.
Rachel was holding a clear evidence bag.
Inside it was Lucas Moreno’s damaged phone.
The screen was cracked.
But one photograph was still visible.
A black SUV.
May you like
And standing beside it was someone Emily knew.
Someone who worked inside the hospital.
