Page 10 of Bratva's Mercy
“Cavanagh. Come in. Close the door.”
Damn. I’d hoped this would be a quick visit so I could get something to eat. Dinner last night hadn’t sat well with me, and I’d missed breakfast this morning. I’d barely managed to scarf down a cereal bar before going into surgery.
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. “If this is about the bereavement leave, Hargrove, we already discussed it. I don’t need it.”
Hargrove leaned back in his chair, studying me with the kind of careful attention that physicians usually reserved for patients.
“I recall the conversation,” he said. “Sit.”
I remained standing. “Is there a problem?”
He sighed and folded his hands. “Not a problem but a concern. You’re looking a little run down there, Cavanagh.”
“Probably because I just came out of surgery.”
“How did it go?”
“Successful but now we wait and see.”
“Good. Now let’s talk about you, and I’d prefer it if you sit. Please. You look like you’re about to drop.”
“I do not.”
But the mirror on the wall I passed to get to the chair made me cringe. My face looked paler than usual, which made the dark circles under my eyes stand out. I looked like a raccoon. A raccoon that badly needed some sun. Or a vacation in the Maldives. But what would I do there? Drown my sorrows over losing Bradley in a bottle? Hate myself that before he died, I’d been on the verge of giving him an ultimatum that would have likely ended up with us done? Blame myself that our last conversation had been full of anger and I’d walked away from him instead of talking it out like we’d promised we’d always do on our wedding day?
Work was more suitable. Nights all alone, surrounded by his ghost, were bad enough.
Where did it all go wrong?
You changed. He remained the same man you fell in love with, but you changed.
“It’s been almost a month since your husband passed away,” he said gently. “You were back here and in surgery forty-eight hours after the burial.”
“I had patients waiting. My husband’s death doesn’t stop other people from needing medical assistance.”
“You also had bereavement leave approved for ten days, which you didn’t take.”
“I didn’t—don’t—need it.”
Hargrove watched me for a moment before shaking his head with a faint smile. “You’re one of the most stubborn people I’ve ever hired.”
“I prefer committed.”
“That too, but everyone needs time to recover from such a loss. It’s not just losing a spouse, but…the way he went.”
I inhaled slowly and let the breath out. “What do you want me to say, Hargrove? That it sucks my husband died by suicide because he lost his damn mind and tried to kill someone who rebuffed his attentions?”
My chest tightened, making the last words croak out in a whisper. I gripped the armrests of the chair as my vision swam before me.
They had the world believing their lies about Bradley’s death. Because of them, everyone tiptoed around me, pitied me, whispered behind my back about my husband cheating on me. Meanwhile Brad had never once cheated. We had an open marriage and took thirds, fourths, often. I was the one who tried to change that before he died.
He did nothing wrong.
“Look, I don’t think it would be wise for me to force you to take the time off,” Hargrove said. “I’m trusting your judgment right now, but the second I see otherwise, I’m pullingyou off duty. You do good work here, Cavanagh, but I’m worried about your mental health, that you’re repressing things to function here at work instead of dealing with them.”
“I’m not.”
He picked up a piece of paper from his desk and handed it to me. I scanned the business card and scoffed.
