Page 8 of Cruel Shame

“What else could they be hiding?” he asked.

A bitter laugh caught in the back of my throat. If I knew, I would use that information to destroy those fuckers.

Chapter Four

As soon as we arrived at the Glasgow Royal Infirmary, the paramedics wheeled my stretcher into a busy accident and emergency department already filled with other stretchers and single-bed booths. Tania mentioned something about getting me registered and walked over two the reception, where four nurses hunched over a computer.

Orlando stood at my side and squeezed my hand. “The last time I needed stitches, they used glue. Either way, they’ll numb the area before putting you back together.”

“Now you make me sound like Humpty Dumpty,” I muttered.

At the far end of the department, the double doors swung open, and DCI Cromar strolled in. He cast me a dismissive glance and walked toward the desk.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Orlando snarled.

“That’s what I want to know,” I replied.

The asshole pushed his way ahead of the other paramedics, flashed his badge, and said something to one of the nurses at the computer. All four of them glanced up in my direction.

Whatever he said galvanized them into action. A male nurse with gray hair wheeled my stretcher out of the accident and emergency department into a small, white room with a view of a loading bay. It was empty, save for a fluorescent green chair by the window. After plugging my bed into the wall, he muttered something about the doctor coming soon and left.

Orlando’s brows drew together as he glanced around the austere interior. “VIP treatment?”

I pulled my pajama sleeve over the exposed bandage and yawned. “Somehow, I think this is the room they dump the contagious people to stop them from infecting everyone else.”

With an amused snort, Orlando pulled out his phone. “I’ll tell the others where to find you. Want some coffee from the machine outside?”

“Could you get me a hot chocolate, please?” I asked.

He saluted and strolled out of the room.

I blew out a breath and stared out of the window. What a bloody mess. I disliked Myra and her witchy ways, but there was no coming back from an action like that. For her sake, I hoped the weapon she had brandished was an air pistol and not a real gun.

Running a hand through my dry strands, I winced at the pull on my cuts. Why was I feeling pity for Myra bloody Highmore who had nearly killed me? Maybe it was because Elizabeth had strung Myra along, just as she had strung along Kendrick and made him think they had a chance to be together.

I bit down on my lip, pulled a strand of platinum hair and held it to the light. Between accusing poor Mr. Burgh of being my biological father, trashing my room, and Elizabeth’s wandering hands, the bloody Liddells had kept me too busy to worry about my split ends.

The door opened, and I glanced up to find a familiar-looking man stepping into my room. He looked like the archbishop, but about ten years younger. And he wore a white shirt with black epaulettes, each brandishing shiny, silver medals.

I glanced down at the cap he held under his arm, which was adorned with even more silver. “You’re Camden Liddell.”

“And you’re in a lot of trouble, young woman.” He strutted across the hospital room, his pale, blue eyes boring into mine.

A rush of anger flared across my skin, and I clenched my teeth. “What are you doing here?”

Liddell reached into the pocket of his black uniform pants. “I came to offer you a warning.”

The door slammed open, and Orlando rushed in, holding a cup of something hot. “What’s going on?”

Camden Liddell turned around. He stood a couple of inches shorter than Orlando but with the kind of broad, softening build middle aged men get no matter how much they worked out. He reminded me of Billy Hancock before the prison rations. Orlando, in comparison, looked like he could fell this arrogant asshole in a single punch.

“Wait outside, son,” said the older man. “I need to speak with Miss Hancock alone.”

Orlando folded his arms across his broad chest. “You can’t speak to Lilah without the presence of Mr. Burgh.”

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Orlando Nevis. And you are?”