Chapter 2: The Detective and the Coffee

I had just finished a twelve-hour surgery, my feet throbbing like I’d been hauling bricks across the desert. My scrubs clung to my skin, and my head was full of static. All I wanted was to collapse on the nearest bench.

Before I could reach my office, a young man in a sharp suit appeared in the hallway, flashing his badge with a practiced flick. His voice cut through the hospital’s buzz. "Hello, Dr. Harris. I’m Derek Marshall, lead detective with the Flagstaff Police Department. There’s a case I’m investigating that may be related to you. Mind if I ask you a few questions?"

I rubbed my eyes, exhaustion rolling through me. The smell of antiseptic and latex stuck to my hands. "Detective Marshall, what case is this about? If it’s not urgent, can we make it quick? I just finished a twelve-hour surgery—I’m seriously wiped out."

Detective Derek’s eyes didn’t waver. He just said, "Gifted class."

I froze. That phrase cracked open something old inside me—like the scent of a forgotten yearbook pulled from a box in the attic.

"Alright. Let me change out of these and we’ll talk at the coffee shop by the entrance. I need caffeine or I’ll pass out."

He nodded. "Of course. I’ll wait at the café, Dr. Harris. What’ll you have?"

"Double shot iced Americano, double creamer."

Detective Derek nodded again and walked off, his shoes clicking on the linoleum—moving like someone who knew hospitals but never wanted to linger.