participation required only that he sit in his office and speak to the monitor on his desk. He much preferred to remain focused on his work at the Edge. There were times, however, when his participation in the world of research and development was required in order to push his lagging colleagues toward the most advanced medical technologies. Emergency treatment centers like the Edge were the future of emergency medicine. There was no better state-of-the-art facility.
Devon had set his career as a practicing physician aside and spent six years developing the concept for the center’s prototype before opening it in his hometown of Chicago. The success of the past year provided significant evidence that his beliefs about the future of emergency rooms were correct. This would be his legacy to the work he loved.
The subject of cost reared its inevitable and unpleasant head in the ongoing discussion as it always did. How could a person measure the worth of saving a human life? He said as much to those listening eagerly for a comment from him. All involved were aware, perhaps to varying degrees, just how much his dedication to his work had cost him. He’d long ago stopped keeping account. His work required what it required. There were no other factors or concerns to weigh.
Half an hour later, Devon had scarcely uttered his closing remarks when the door to his office opened. Patricia Ezell, his secretary, silently moved to his desk. She passed him a note, probably not containing the sort of news he wanted if her worried expression was any indicator, and it generally was.
You’re needed in the OR stat.
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to take any questions. Duty calls.” Devon severed his connection to the conference and stood. “What’s going on?” he asked as he closed a single button on his suit jacket.
Patricia shook her head. “Dr. Reagan rushed a patient into surgery in OR 1. He says he needs you there.”
Ice hardened in Devon’s veins. “Reagan is well aware that I don’t—”
“He has the surgery under control, Dr. Pierce. It’s...” Patricia took a deep breath. “The patient was unconscious when the paramedics brought her in. Her driver’s license identifies her as Cara Pierce.”
A spear of pain arrowed through Devon, making him hesitate. He closed his laptop. “Few of us have a name so unique that it’s not shared with others.” There were likely numerous Cara Pierces in the country. Chicago was a large city. Of course there would be other people with the same name as his late wife. This should be no surprise to the highly trained and, frankly, brilliant members of his staff.
“One of the registration specialists browsed the contacts list in her cell phone and called the number listed as Husband.”
Devon hesitated once more, this time at the door. His secretary’s reluctance to provide whatever other details she had at her disposal was growing increasingly tedious. “Is her husband en route?”
Patricia cleared her throat. “Based on the number in her contacts list, her husband is already here. The number is yours.” She held out his cell phone. “I took the call.”
Devon stared at the thin, sleek device in her hand. He’d left his cell with Patricia for the duration of the teleconference. He hated the distracting vibration of an incoming call when he was trying to run a teleconference. Normally he would have turned it off and that would have been it, but he was expecting an important work call—one that he would pause his teleconference to take if necessary. So he’d assigned Patricia cell phone duty with instructions to interrupt him only if that call came in, or if there was a life-and-death situation.
He reached for it now.
“Thank you, Patricia. Ask the paramedic who brought her in to drop by my office when he has a break.”
The walk from his office in the admin wing to the surgery unit took all of two minutes. One of the finely tuned features of the Edge design was ensuring that each wing of the emergency department was never more than two to three minutes away from anything else. A great deal of planning had gone into the round design of the building with the care initiation front and center and the less urgent care units spanning into different wings around the circle. Straight through the very center, the rear portion of the design contained the more urgent services, imaging and surgery. Every square foot of the facility was designed for optimum efficiency. Each member of staff was carefully chosen and represented the very best in their field.
As he neared the surgery suite, he considered what his secretary had told him about the patient. The mere idea was absurd. There’d been a mistake. A mix-up of some sort.
Cara.
His wife was dead. He’d buried her six years and five months ago.
Devon moved into the observation area where all three operating rooms could be viewed. He touched the keypad and the black tint of the glass that made up the top half of the wall all the way around the observation area cleared, allowing him to see inside and those in the OR to see him. Two of the rooms were empty. One held Cara Pierce.
The patient’s hair was covered with the usual generic cap, preventing him from distinguishing the color. Most of her face was obscured by the oxygen mask. He turned on the audio in OR 1.
“Evening, Dr. Pierce,” Reagan said without glancing up, his hands moving in swift, perfectly orchestrated movements that were all too familiar to Devon.
“Dr. Reagan.” Devon’s fingers twitched as he watched the finely choreographed dance around the patient. His life had revolved around saving lives for so long that his entire body was finely tuned into that instinctive rhythm.
“Splenic rupture. Concussion but no bleeding that we’ve found.” Reagan remained focused on the video screen as he manipulated the laparoscopic instruments to resect and suture the damaged organ. “She’ll be a little bruised and unhappy about the small surgical scars we’ll leave behind but, otherwise, she should be as good as new before you know it.”
Five or ten seconds elapsed before Devon could respond or move to go. “Watch for intracranial hemorrhaging.” He switched off the audio, darkened the glass once more and walked away.
A weight, one that he had not felt in years, settled on his chest. His wife had died of intracranial hemorrhaging. There had been no one to save her and his efforts had been too little too late. The old ache twisted inside him.
But this woman—who shared Cara’s name—was not his wife.
Devon drew in a deep breath and returned to his office. Patricia glanced up at him as he passed her desk but he said nothing. With his office door closed, he moved to the window overlooking the meticulously manicured grounds surrounding the facility. Trees and shrubs were precisely placed amid the expanse of asphalt, lending a welcoming, pleasing appearance. He’d insisted on extensive research for design purposes. What aspects would make the family members of patients feel more at home? What could be done to set a soothing tone for patients? A patient’s outlook and sense of well-being and safety were immensely important to healing.
Devon stared at nothing in particular for a long while. When his mind and pulse rate had calmed sufficiently, he settled behind his desk. A couple of clicks of the keyboard opened the patient portal. He pulled up the chart for the Caucasian female he’d observed in surgery. He surveyed the injuries listed as well as the paramedic’s comments. The kinds of injuries she had suffered were alarmingly similar to those his late wife had suffered in the car accident that had taken her life.
Pierce, Cara Reese, thirty-seven. Her address was listed as the Lake Bluff residence Devon had built for his late wife more than a decade ago...the house he had inhabited alone for the past six-plus years.
He scrolled down the file to a copy of her driver’s license.
His breath trapped in his lungs.
Blond hair, blue eyes. Height five-six, weight one-ten. Date of birth, November 10—all the statistics matched the ones that would have been found on Cara’s license. But it was the photo that proved the most shocking of all. Silky blond hair brushed