“I’m a doctor. You know the power of that responsibility. I’d have lost my license, and my calling is to help people. Think about it: if I’d turned myself in that night, I wouldn’t be here now to save Josh’s life. The end of what I did justified the means. It was clearly for the greater good: to make sure I could serve society with the medical skills I have. It wasn’t personal, I assure you.”

He stood, his knees cracking. He twisted side to side, as if working out the kinks in his lower back. Then he tightened his grasp on the knife, and I realized for the first time that he was wearing latex gloves. Tears of pain and grief and fury dripped down my face.

“This is your last chance, Emma. Tell me where the drugs are.”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. He was going to kill me no matter what.

He moved toward me, and I shrank away.

“No, wait!” I cried. “This—the poker chip!”

Dr. Palmer assessed me, curious.

“My pocket.” I motioned to my pants. “Can I…?”

He nodded, watching closely, his hand hovering over the gun tucked into his waistband as I slipped the chip from my pocket. Pain rocketed through my core at the movement.

“Remember… when I gave it to you?” My voice was thin in the icy air.

His eyes flickered as he reached for it. “I thought I lost it.”

I closed my palm. “Nate had it. He knew… about you. They all do. You won’t get away with this.”

His eyes darkened, fear flickering across his face. He snatched at the chip, but I tossed it a few feet away. It landed inside the dark stain left by Nate’s blood.

Dr. Palmer turned to pick it up. I reached behind me, my hand closing around the end of one of the two-by-fours. Lurching to my feet, I swung it like a baseball bat into Dr. Palmer’s head.

His skull ricocheted off the wood, making a low, hollow thud. He crashed to the ground. The gun skittered out of his pants, across the room. I staggered to it, clutching my seeping wound with numb fingers. I expected him to come after me as I flailed for the gun with blood-soaked hands.

But he didn’t move.

He was breathing, but stone-cold unconscious.

Typically someone knocked out remains unconscious for a minute or so. I didn’t have much time. But I couldn’t seem to make myself move.

I stared, frozen, at Dr. Palmer. Was he right? Did the good he’d done helping Josh discount his responsibility for my parents’ deaths? What about all the people who were now addicted because of him? What about my father? He’d still be alive if Dr. Palmer had done the right thing. Would I trade my son for my father?