Undone (Will Trent 3)

Sara glanced at her watch. "I would admit you tonight for observation, but by the time we processed you and found you a room, your doctor's office would be open, and something tells me you wouldn't stay here anyway." She had spent enough time around police officers to know that Faith would bolt the minute she got the chance.

She continued, "You have to promise me that you'll call your doctor first thing—and I mean that, first thing. We'll get a nurse educator in here to teach you how to test your blood and how and when to inject yourself, but you've got to follow up with him immediately."

"I have to give myself shots?" Faith's voice went up in alarm.

"Oral meds aren't approved for use in pregnant women. This is why you need to talk to your doctor. There's a lot of trial and error here. Your weight and hormone levels will change as the pregnancy progresses. Your doctor's going to be your best friend for the next eight months, at least."

Faith seemed embarrassed. "I don't have a regular doctor."

Sara took out her prescription pad and wrote down the name of a woman she'd interned with years ago. "Delia Wallace works out of Emory. She has a dual specialty in gynecology and endocrinology. I'll call her tonight so her office knows to work you in."

Faith still seemed unconvinced. "How can I suddenly have this? I know I've put on weight, but I'm not fat."

"You don't have to be fat," Sara told her. "You're older now. The baby affects your hormones, your ability to produce insulin. You haven't been eating well. The stars lined up and it triggered you."

"It's Will's fault," Faith mumbled. "He eats like a twelve-year-old. Doughnuts, pizza, hamburgers. He can't go into a gas station without buying nachos and a hot dog."

Sara sat down on the edge of the bed again. "Faith, this isn't the end of the world. You're in good shape. You've got great insurance. You can manage this."

"What if I . . ." She blanched, breaking eye contact with Sara. "What if I wasn't pregnant?"

"We're not talking about gestational diabetes here. This is full blown, type two. A termination won't suddenly make the problem go away," Sara answered. "Look, this is probably something you've been building up to for a while. Being pregnant brought it on faster. It will make things more complicated in the beginning, but not impossible."

"I just . . ." She didn't seem capable of finishing a sentence.

Sara patted her hand, standing. "Dr. Wallace is an excellent diagnostitician. I know for a fact that she takes the city insurance plan."

"State," Faith corrected. "I'm with the GBI."

Sara assumed the Georgia Bureau of Investigation's plan was similar, but she didn't quibble. Faith was obviously having difficulty absorbing the news, and Sara had not exactly eased her into it. You couldn't unring a bell, though. Sara patted her arm. "Mary will give you an injection. You'll be feeling better in no time." She started to leave. "I mean it about calling Dr. Wallace," she added firmly. "I want you on the phone with her office first thing in the morning, and you need to be eating more than sticky buns. Low-carb, low-fat, regular, healthy meals and snacks, okay?"

Faith nodded, still dumbstruck, and Sara left the room feeling like an absolute heel. Her bedside manner had certainly deteriorated over the years, but this represented a new low. Wasn't that anonymity why she had come to Grady in the first place? But for a handful of homeless men and some prostitutes, she seldom saw a patient more than once. That had been the real pull for Sara—the absolute detachment. She wasn't at a stage in her life where she wanted to make connections with people. Every new chart was an opportunity to start all over. If Sara was lucky—and if Faith Mitchell was careful—they would probably never see each other again.

Instead of going back into the doctors' lounge to finish her charts, Sara walked past the nurses' station, through the double doors, into the overfilled waiting room and finally found herself outside. There were a couple of respiratory therapists by the exit smoking cigarettes, so Sara kept walking toward the back of the building. Guilt about Faith Mitchell still hung heavy on her shoulders, and she looked up Delia Wallace's number in her cell phone before she forgot to follow up. The service took her message about Faith, and Sara felt slightly better as she ended the call.

She had run into Delia Wallace a couple of months ago, when the woman had come in to see one of her wealthy patients who had been airlifted to Grady after a bad car accident. Delia and Sara had been the only women in the top five percent of their graduating class at Emory University Medical School. At the time, it was an unwritten rule that there were two options for female doctors: gynecology or pediatrics. Delia had chosen the first, Sara the latter. They would both turn forty next year. Delia seemed to have everything. Sara felt like she had nothing.

Most doctors—Sara included—were arrogant to one degree or another, but Delia had always been an avid self-promoter. While they drank their coffees in the doctors' lounge, Delia quickly offered the highlights of her life: a thriving practice with two offices, a stockbroker husband and three overachieving kids. She'd shown Sara pictures of them all, this perfect family of hers who looked as if they had walked out of a Ralph Lauren advertisement.

Sara hadn't told Delia about her own life after medical school, that she had gone back to Grant County, her home, to tend to children in rural areas. She didn't tell Delia about Jeffrey or why she moved back to Atlanta or why she was working at Grady when she could open her own practice and have some semblance of a normal life. Sara had just shrugged, saying, "I ended up back here," and Delia had looked at her with both disappointment and vindication; both emotions conjured by the fact that Sara had been ahead of Delia their entire time at Emory.

Sara tucked her hands into her pockets, pulling her thin coat closed to fight the chill. She felt the letter against the back of her hand as she walked past the loading dock. She had volunteered to cover an extra shift that morning, working straight through for nearly sixteen hours so that she could have all of tomorrow off. Exhaustion hit her just as the night air did, and she stood with her hands fisted in her pockets, relishing the relatively clean air in her lungs. She caught the scent of rain under the smell of car exhaust and whatever was coming off the Dumpster. Maybe she would sleep tonight. She always slept better when it rained.

She looked down at the cars on the interstate. Rush hour was at its tail end—men and women going home to their families, their lives. Sara was standing at what was called the Grady Curve, an arc in the highway that traffic reporters used as a landmark when reporting trouble on the downtown connector. All the taillights were bright red tonight as a tow truck pulled a stalled SUV from the left-hand shoulder. Police cruisers blocked the scene, blue lights spinning, casting their eerie light into the darkness. They reminded her of the night Jeffrey had died—the police swarming, the state taking over, the scene combed through by dozens of men in their white suits and booties.

"Sara?"

She turned around. Mary stood with the door open, waving her back into the building. "Hurry!"

Sara jogged toward the door, Mary calling out stats as she got closer. "Single car MVA with pedestrian on foot. Kraukauer took the driver and passenger, possible MI on the driver. You've got the woman who was hit by the car. Open frac on right arm and leg, L-O-C at the scene. Possible sexual assault and torture. Bystander happened to be an EMT. He did what he could, but it's bad."