Furious Jeffrey Higgins (english love story books TXT) 📖

“We are being sued. We’re married, remember? What’s the suit about?”

“I operated on a patient to remove an infection, and I guess I didn’t get it all. I don’t know. Something happened. He died.”

“You never told me. When?”

“About two months ago.”

“And they blame you?”

“They think it was my fault.”

“We can fight it.”

“The nursing staff complained too.”

“What did they say?” I asked.

Brad took a deep breath. “That it was my technique, my lack of thoroughness. They alleged negligence.”

“Allegations have to be substantiated,” I said.

“This wasn’t the first time.”

“What wasn’t the first time?”

“Another patient died a few months before.”

I stayed quiet. Brad had not told me about that patient either. New England General Hospital had hired Brad before I left to take my fellowship at Boston Pediatric Surgical Center, but we had only worked in the same hospital for a brief time, and I had no firsthand experience to evaluate his surgical skill. I had heard rumors after we started dating, talk about incompetence, but I had shrugged them off as ad hominem attacks based on jealousy—catty attempts at career advancement. People could be competitive and cruel, and I knew doctors and nurses who thought demeaning the work of a colleague somehow made them appear more competent. Brad had done the same thing many times. But maybe the rumors were true.

My stomach twisted.

“Are we being sued for that one too?”

“Not yet,” Brad said.

“Does the administration think there was negligence? Are you culpable?”

“It’s only a simple lawsuit filed by the patient’s family. It’s frivolous.”

“But the complaints from nurses. Did they—”

“Lawsuits happen all the time. You know that. I’m insured.”

“Was there malpractice?”

“Everyone’s exaggerating, trying to feel superior. The other doctors don’t like me. It’s all bullshit.”

“That may be true, but is there any basis for this? Did you make a mistake?” I held my breath.

Brad shook his head and his eyes drifted to the floor. His shoulders slumped and his head sank. “Maybe . . . I don’t know.”

I glared at him and my anger gave way too empathy. “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know, dammit.”

“Brad, I—”

“I said, I don’t know.”

“Relax.”

“I am relaxed,” he screamed.

Brad’s eyes flared, chilling me. I wanted to speak but stayed silent. I had seen this mood before.

“I’ll be on deck,” I said, “if you want to talk.”

Brad followed me with his eyes.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I paced on deck with one eye on the sails and my other on the companionway, unsure what worried me more—sailing or Brad’s temper.

Brad always had an edge to him, an unpredictability, as if he lived on the precipice of fury, poised to erupt. Sometimes, he would grow quiet, his eyes would narrow, and the muscles in his jaw would bulge. In those moments, he would remind me of a lion, a predator in the bushes. He had controlled himself while we dated, but I had sensed a gathering storm.

Then, on a wintry day last January, the beast had broken free.

Brad came home smelling like perfume and whiskey and stormed around the house, angry about some problem at work. He had been drinking more since the pregnancy, and his intoxication only worsened his moods. When I asked him whose perfume I smelled, his eyes flared with rage and he grabbed me by the shoulders, hard enough for his fingers to leave bruises. I was eight months pregnant, and it scared me. He apologized profusely after the incident, saying he had been drunk and had not meant to do it. I made him sleep on the couch for a week, and he catered to my needs, waiting on me like a servant.

His exemplary behavior lasted for one month.

Two weeks after Emma’s birth, I complained Brad was not helping enough around the house, and he threw a glass of scotch against the wall. That scared me too. He begged for forgiveness again and promised to stop drinking and see a counselor. My judgment told me to dump him, but I owed my infant daughter a stable home and Brad had not touched me—not that time—so I relented. Chalk up another decision to my hormonal imbalance. He stopped drinking and saw a therapist. Things improved, but I still considered leaving.

Then Emma’s death trapped me in a fog of despair.

Now, Brad’s dishonesty, my suspicion of infidelity, and his seething anger all left me disquieted. Had he always been like this? Had Emma’s death opened a portal for his true self to break out? Brad had married once before, in his late twenties, to Helen Swift. Before Brad and I wed, I had looked her up online. She worked as a graphic artist, was a year younger than me, and still looked beautiful.

Helen may have the answers I sought.

I tiptoed down the companionway and listened to Brad’s snoring reverberate inside the stateroom. I returned to the navigation table, opened my laptop, and Googled Helen Swift. My old research popped up, and I located her telephone number. I lifted the satellite phone and dialed.

Is this crazy?

“Hello?”

My eyes darted to the stateroom door. “Helen Swift?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Dagny Steele. I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but I wanted to talk to you about Brad Coolidge.”

The line fell silent, and I looked at the instrument pad to make sure the call had not dropped.

“Hello?” I said.

“Yes, I’m here. I haven’t thought about Brad in years. Is something wrong?”

“Brad’s fine. I, uh, Brad and I were married.”

“Okay,” she said, her voice an impenetrable monotone.

“We had a baby, a girl.”

“Congratulations.”

“We lost her.”

More silence. “I’m very sorry.”

“Thank you. That’s not why I’m calling. I’m concerned about Brad, and I—”

“What do you want to know?” she asked.

I summoned my courage. “I hope this isn’t too weird for you, but I haven’t known Brad for that long. He’s been angry, stressed, lashing out.”

“Has he hit you yet?” she asked.

“Yet?”

“Brad was perfect when we dated. He was handsome, charming, and rich. His parents accepted me. Only after we married did the real Brad show himself.”

“The real Brad?” I asked. I wanted