Nathan's POV
I watched Doctor Chloe with a keen eye, her expression a mix of relief and fear. She didn't seem capable of taking a life, but appearances can be deceiving. I've learned that the hard way. As I observed her, I couldn't help but think about the essence of first impressions and how they can be misleading.
Doctor Chloe stood out from the other nurses, her schedule providing a possible window for involvement in Matt's death. My gaze fixed on her blonde curls, a seemingly innocent detail now tainted by suspicion. The room felt charged with tension as I contemplated the possibility that she might be a spy.
I cocked my gun, the metallic click echoing through the air.
"Move," I commanded, my voice firm. The gun rested against her lower back, a reminder of the gravity of the situation. She stood frozen, confusion and fear etched on her face.
"Who sent you?" she asked, her voice trembling.
This was the second time she repeated that question. Definitely not a normal reaction of an innocent person.
I pressed the gun against her skin, my finger poised on the trigger. "I'm not going to repeat myself," I warned.
She descended the stairs, each step calculated. As we reached the foot, she tried to push me away, but I countered, pinning her against the wall. The gun found its place against her temple, my finger delicately poised on the trigger.
"The more you struggle, the harder you make this for yourself," I growled. "Do anything stupid, and you'll have a hole in your head. Do you understand me?"
She nodded, eyes blinking rapidly as she fought back tears. I felt my chest tug. She was scared. Good.
We entered the kitchen, and I directed her to a chair. "Sit!" She complied, the chair creaking beneath her weight. The room held its breath, the tension palpable.
"Who are you?" I demanded, my voice edged with impatience.
Her gaze shifted between me and the gun, and she sighed, "Chloe."
"Doctor Chloe, I know, but I'm asking who you really are," I pressed, frustration mounting.
She frowned, confusion deepening on her face.
"Who sent you? Who do you work for?" I questioned, my gaze intense.
The gun rested on the kitchen island, her eyes flickering between it and my face.
"I don't know what you're talking about. You've got the wrong person," she insisted, fear and defensiveness tinging her voice.
I gritted my teeth, frustration simmering beneath the surface. Her denial only fueled my determination to unravel the truth. The room crackled with the energy of an unspoken battle.
I leaned in, my eyes locked on hers, as I studied her face. Fear and anger mixed in her eyes, and I knew she was thinking of a plan to escape. But I wasn't going to let that happen. I was determined to get the truth out of her.
"You're lying to me," I said, my voice steady.
"I am not," she replied, her gaze meeting mine.
"Then tell me who you are?" I demanded.
She studied me, her eyes narrowing. "I'm not going to tell you anything."
I took a step back, letting the tension build. "Who sent you?" I asked, my voice firm.
She gritted her teeth. "Did he send you?"
I was taken aback by her question, which held a note of accusation and desperation. "Who?" I asked, genuinely puzzled.
She eyed me skeptically. "I don't know who you are, and I don't know who you think I am."
I smirked, reaching for the gun. "You really don't want to play that game with me after what you did today."
She stammered, "W-what I did today?"
I placed the gun on her thigh. "Why did you kill Matt?"
Her expression shifted to bewilderment. "Matt?"
I deadpanned. "Your patient"
She leaned back, her gaze fixed on me. "You think I killed a patient?"
"Yes," I stated matter-of-factly.
She blinked repeatedly, struggling to find words. "I-i-i didn't."
"He couldn't have died like that, he was recovering," I asserted, frustration evident in my tone.
She regarded me with incredulity and fear. "I-i understand that you're mad that you lost someone, but I—" she shook her head. "I didn't kill him."
I snapped angrily, frustration boiling over. "Stop talking to me like I'm a crazy person."
Her eyes remained fixated on the gun, fear evident in every glance. She swallowed audibly, attempting to find words in the charged silence.
"Matt's death was unfortunate, but things happen like that, and it doesn't m—" she began, but I cut her off.
"No!" I interjected forcefully. "I saw his file; he was doing quite well. He was recovering."
She shook her head, her mouth parted as if to speak, but the words remained lodged within. The air hung heavy with unspoken truths, and I sensed the weight of guilt in her demeanor.
I picked up the gun, adjusting the magazine with deliberate precision. "There is only one bullet in the chamber," I informed her, my tone stern. "You continue this game, and I play mine."
"I didn't kill him. He wasn't even my patient!" she blurted out, desperation coloring her words.
I regarded her with a steely gaze. "I hate lies."
"And I am not lying," she swallowed hard, a palpable tension in her voice. "He was Doctor Paige's patient. I was only there because Doctor Paige asked me to cover for her."
I squinted my eyes, skepticism etched across my face. "I'm not lying, I swear it," she pleaded, her chest rising and falling in sync with the anxious cadence of her breath. "You can go to the hospital and confirm that. Hell, I can even give you his contact."
Doubt lingered in the air "Why did he hand over the patient to you?" I asked, searching for any crack in her story.
She shrugged, expressing bewilderment. "I don't know. This is not the first time doctors switch patients."
Her fierce gaze and declaration, "But nobody killed Matt, neither did Doctor Paige. We save lives, not take them,"
"There's always a bad apple, and some might look innocent until you bite them," I retorted, my cynical smile a shield against her conviction.
Undeterred, she declared, "I'm going to prove to you that Matt's death wasn't preordained."
I raised an eyebrow, intrigued by her confidence. "And how are you going to do that?"
Her response came with self-assured confidence. "I am a doctor, trust me." I scoffed, skepticism etched in my voice.
"You really think I'm going to let you walk free?"
She remained silent.
I scrutinized her, searching for any sign of deception. "How do I know that you won't call the cops or run away? How do I know that you aren't the killer?"
The silence hung in the room, heavy with tension. Her emerald eyes bore into mine, a penetrating gaze that seemed to reach the depths of my soul. "Because you know deep in your heart that I am innocent," she asserted with quiet confidence.
I retorted, a firmness in my tone, "You don't know me. You don't know what I think."
Her response came with a hint of resignation. "If I can't prove that I am innocent, then you do whatever you want."
I pressed, probing the boundaries of her conviction. "Even kill you?"
She swallowed, a visible sign of tension. "I know that I can't hide."
I inquired, searching for any sign of vulnerability, "How do you know that?"
Her voice was tinged with a knowing tone. "Because I know someone like you. Someone that would go the extra mile to get their revenge."
I knew it in my heart that she was wasn't lying. That she knew someone that wouldn't hesitate to get revenge and somehow it seemed like she was talking about herself.