Dead Girl Running (The New Order Book 1) Read Online Free

scalpel in the air over a dead body. “Now make yourself useful and get me another #10 blade. This one’s deadly dull.”
    “Okay, Mr. Rock ‘n’ Roll.” I grab the handle and change out his scalpel blade. “What’re you doing?”
    “This one died on those fancy docs upstairs, and now I’m supposed to tell them why.”
    Gus reminds me of Einstein with an attitude. He’s got the crazy hair, he’s brilliant, and he works best with classic rock blasting in the background. He collects old CDs like others accumulate china or figurines. No wonder I love it here.
    Grabbing protective eyewear and a breathing mask, I lean in for a better view as Gus reaches into the abdomen. When he palpates the liver lobes, they immediately fall apart in his hands.
    I gasp. “The liver’s not supposed to do that!”
    He nods, and his glasses slip down his nose. Since my gloves are still clean, I push them back up.
    “No, it’s not.” He points across the room. “Get me some of those pathology jars. Let’s send in a couple biopsy samples. I think this poor devil had lymphoma eating up his insides. His ultrasound was reported as inconclusive, so they would’ve had to take him to surgery to figure that out upstairs.”
    “I’ll bet you’re right.” I grab the vials, remove the lids, and help Gus drop in the samples. “You always are.”
    “Of course I’m right. Except for the surgery part. I guess it wouldn’t matter if they knew he had cancer since they wouldn’t treat him anyway.”
    “Why wouldn’t they treat him?”
    “Check the chart.”
    After I label the samples, I grab the clipboard chart and read aloud. “Prisoner. Limited Diagnostics. Restricted Treatment. What did he do?”
    “It doesn’t say. Maybe he killed somebody. Maybe he stole something. Or maybe he just wouldn’t play by the rules.” Gus eyeballs me. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
    “What are you talking about?”
    He smirks. “You rejected the doctors’ pills and therapies and
chose
yoga and running as treatment for your depression. Does any of this sound familiar?”
    “Yes. And it worked. A lot better than anything else did.”
    “I know. But the docs upstairs don’t like to be proven wrong. So you got labeled ‘uncooperative’ and ‘unstable.’”
    “I did?” Stupid jerks.
    “In bold letters across the resume they sent to me.”
    My stomach clenches. Why is he telling me this
now
three years later? Did I do something wrong? “They told me I was labeled ‘empathetic.’”
    “Oh, that was on there, too. Along with your Occupational Test scores.” He raises his bushy eyebrows. “And those three things aren’t mutually exclusive, you know.”
    I shake my head. “I can never tell if what’s coming out of your mouth is B.S. or the truth.”
    He grins. “It’s all of the above.”
    “That’s not helpful.”
    “It’s not meant to be.” Gus chuckles. “By the way, I got you a birthday present.”
    I place the pathology samples in the correct tray. “That’s not funny. I told you not to—”
    “Don’t interrupt. And don’t worry. I didn’t get you a Barbie or new pink running shoes.”
    “Actually, I could use new run—”
    “I told you not to interrupt!” He smiles, enjoying his little game. “And, anyway, this is
so
much better than that. It’s something you’ve wanted for a long while.”
    I wait for his announcement, keeping my mouth shut this time. He hums a tune and closes the muscular abdominal wall using a continuous suture pattern without speaking another word.
    I cut the ends of his sutures. “When are you gonna stop teasing me and tell me what’s going on?”
    He laughs. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to keep quiet long. All right, Miss Impatient, I’ll tell you… But first you need to take out the garbage.”
    I glare. “You’re impossible.”
    “Okay, okay.” He zips up the bag over the patient’s head. “This has got to be the best birthday present anyone’s