"Action-packed, thoughtful, suspenseful, sensitive, all at the same time and all the way through." ~Ken Keith, Verified Reviewer
Trauma nurse Kate Manion is viewing her own hospital from the other side. Badly injured in an auto accident, she's laying in her own ICU, strapped down, paralyzed and unconscious. And yet, somehow, she managed to kill her nurse.
The murder was an accident; Kate swears. But the accidental deaths keep happening. Has someone taken Kate's mishap as a mandate to kill off anyone making life difficult for the staff?
As corpses pile up, Kate realizes that only she can stop the serial killer who is acting out the fantasy of every staff member at St. Simon's Hospital.
With only a burned-out forensic pathologist to help her, Kate must wade through greed, politics, secrets and suspicion to unearth a murderer she doesn't want to find; before he – or she—strikes too close to home.
Publisher's Note: As a former trauma nurse, Eileen Dreyer combines her real-world medical knowledge and superb story-telling to bring readers a series of uniquely plotted, spine-tingling, medical mysteries. Fans of Tami Hoag, Elizabeth George, Nora Roberts as well as John Lutz, Michael Crichton and Patricia Cornwell will enjoy these well-crafted medical thrillers.
OTHER MEDICAL SUSPENSE/THRILLERS by Eileen Dreyer:
If Looks Could Kill
|Publisher:||ABN Leadership Group, Inc, dba ePublishing Works!|
|Product dimensions:||5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.70(d)|
About the Author
Eileen Dreyer spent sixteen years as a trauma nurse before she turned to writing. She is trained in forensic nursing and death investigation and graduated from the Tactical EMS School at Camp Ripley in Minnesota. An Anthony Award nominee, she lives in St. Louis, Missouri, with her husband and two children.
Read an Excerpt
She didn't mean to do it. After all, Kate knew better than most people how badly nurses are needed. Even bad nurses. And her nurse was certainly a bad nurse. But by the time the woman met her fate, Kate wasn't in any shape to think clearly at all. In fact, by then Kate was so bruised and battered, not just by the accident but by her stay in intensive care, that she wasn't sure she wasn't already dead. She wasn't sure of anything except that she wanted out.
She didn't exactly wake up in the unit. She became aware, in a series of fits and starts, as if the breakers were being thrown on each of her senses and the janitor in charge couldn't figure out how to get them all going again at once.
First there was pain, waves of it, bathing her like one of those hot lights at McDonald's, so that if her body had been a hamburger she would have been a meat briquette. Pain: her head, her chest, her legs; pounding, swirling; sometimes constant, sometimes a red tide that broke over her and then receded.
It rode in and out on sounds. Familiar sounds, noises she knew somehow and hated. Noises that made her want to scream more than the pain.
"Her ICP's up again, Fran," she heard somebody snap. "Don't you think you'd better call the Bagel Man?"
Bagels? Did she want bagels? Kate couldn't remember. She couldn't remember anything but how badly she hurt, how she wanted to get away. How she couldn't move, except she seemed to be doing it against her own volition, turning one way and then another, her joints screaming in protest, the noises following her wherever she went.
"Almost finished," another voice answered, a voice that tapped some instinctive button in Kate. Something unpleasant. She hated that voice. She wanted it to go away and let her sleep. Somewhere deep in the ooze she'd once called a brain, she wondered why she knew this and nothing more.
Then it came to her that suddenly she could see. And she knew her ICP was going to hit the roof, because she realized what everything else meant.
Acoustic tile. The spidery arms of machinery, IV tubing snaking down from half a dozen plump clear bags and one smaller red one. Labels and tubes and a television turned to Wheel of Fortune. Banks of monitors and stock carts piled to the brim. White-coated figures scurrying around in a kind of weird, aimless dance choreographed to the tune of endless ventilator alarms.
She was in the hospital. Her hospital. She was a nurse, she remembered, this was the ICU, and she hated this place. She hated working here. She hated all the damned beeping noises, the same ones that followed her to sleep, even on a good day. Phones and monitors and ventilators and pagers. Endless, annoying, insistent, just like now. She hated the smell, that cloud of unwashed body, unbrushed teeth, and disinfectant.
She was paralyzed. She couldn't move, couldn't talk, couldn't breathe. Somehow, she was awake, her eyes open, and even without her help she was breathing through a tube hooked up to a machine.
That wasn't possible.
She must be dreaming. That was it. Nobody would have done this to her. You can't just intubate a conscious person and put her on a ventilator. And yet she felt tape stretching the skin of her face. She felt the plastic tube against her teeth. She felt the air rush in as the square beast squatting by the bed clicked and whirred.
Why? Was she being punished? Had she mouthed off to the wrong person and been caught by a new disciplinary policy she hadn't heard about? Or was it worse? Could she have died somehow and was being made to pay for her sins?
For the way you've talked about my gomers, Kate Manion, I sentence you to an eternity on a ventilator.
No, no, no! She'd never meant it. It wasn't as if she'd hurt anybody. But a person could take care of only so many gomers and not go crazy. Patients never getting betterNothing Personal. Copyright © by Eileen Dreyer. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.