(Duncan POV)
I did not belong at the wedding.
My uniform was clean, pressed, but it was not a tuxedo. The other men wore silk and diamonds. I wore navy blue polyester with a badge that said "Paramedic." My job was to stand near the back, stay out of sight, and be ready in case someone fainted or choked or had a heart attack. Rich people had heart attacks at weddings. It was good money.
The wedding hall smelled like roses and expensive perfume. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Waiters in black vests carried silver trays of champagne. I leaned against a pillar near the kitchen door and watched the guests file in.
I did not know the bride. I did not know the groom. I only knew that the Armstrong name meant power, and power meant good pay.
Then I saw her.
She walked down the aisle on her uncle's arm, her white dress flowing behind her like water. Dark curls pinned up with small white flowers. Warm brown skin. A smile that made her whole face glow.
My chest tightened.
I had seen her before. Not at a wedding. Not in a magazine. Somewhere else. A long time ago.
I tried to place her. The emergency room? No. A car accident? No.
Then she reached the altar. The groom took her hands. The priest began to speak.
I pushed the thought away. It did not matter. She was a bride. I was a hired hand. We would never speak.
---
The police arrived forty minutes later.
I saw them first. Three officers in dark uniforms, moving fast down the hallway toward the main doors. Something was wrong.
I pushed off from the pillar and walked closer.
The doors burst open. The officers stepped inside. Their boots clicked on the marble floor.
"Amelia Campbell?" the lead officer called out.
The bride turned. Her face went pale.
"You are under arrest for the murder of Rebecca Armstrong."
Gasps. Screams. A woman fainted. I moved toward her, instinct taking over, but another guest caught her first.
I looked at the bride.
She was staring at the groom. Her lips moved. I could not hear the words.
The groom's face was white. His hands shook. He looked at his mother. He looked at a blonde woman in the front row. He looked everywhere but at his bride.
Then he spoke.
"She has mental health issues. She's been unstable for months. Don't take her to jail. Take her to a psychiatric hospital. She needs treatment, not prison."
The bride stopped moving.
She stared at him like she had never seen him before.
"David," she whispered. "What are you doing?"
The officers pulled her away. Her dress tore at the hem. A white rose fell from her hair and landed on the floor.
I watched her go.
Something in my chest cracked.
---
The van pulled away. The lights flashed. The crowd dispersed.
I stood outside the mansion, my hands in my pockets, staring at the empty driveway.
"Hey, Duncan. You okay?"
My partner, Marcus, walked up beside me. He was older, with gray hair, tired eyes. He had been a paramedic for twenty years.
"Yeah," I said. "Fine."
"You look like you saw a ghost."
I shook my head. "I know her. The bride. I've seen her before."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "You know Armstrong?"
"No. Not like that. It was a long time ago. Maybe three years. The ER. A homeless man. She was the doctor who helped him when everyone else walked past."
Marcus was quiet for a moment. "That's the woman they just arrested for murder?"
"She didn't do it."
"You don't know that."
"I know her face. I know her hands. She held a dying man's hand when no one else would touch him. That is not a murderer."
Marcus shrugged. "People change."
"Not like that."
I turned and walked back to the ambulance. Marcus followed.
"What are you going to do?" he asked.
I did not answer.
---
The next morning, I sat in my small apartment and stared at my laptop screen.
Westbrook Psychiatric Facility. The place they had taken her.
I searched for the name. It was not a hospital. It was a prison dressed in white coats. Patients went in. Some did not come out.
My brother Marcus had died in a place like that. No one believed him. No one helped him. He was twenty-three years old, and he stopped breathing in a room with barred windows.
I won a settlement after he died. Enough money to live on. Enough to never work again if I chose.
I did not choose.
I became a nurse. I wanted to be on the inside. To watch. To protect.
Now there was a woman in a psychiatric hospital who had held a stranger's hand when no one else would. And I could not stop thinking about her face.
I picked up my phone.
"Westbrook Psychiatric Facility. How may I direct your call?"
"This is Duncan Green. I am a registered nurse. I am requesting a transfer to your facility."
"Do you have experience with psychiatric patients?"
"Yes." I did. My brother had been one.
"We have an opening on the night shift. Can you start Monday?"
"Yes."
I hung up.
The phone trembled in my hand.
I did not know if she would remember me. I did not know if she would want my help. But I had to try.
My brother died because no one believed him. I would not let that happen to her.
---
End of Chapter 2