The next morning, the fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor buzzed quietly above Amy's head. She was holding a tablet, scrolling through patient charts outside the Intensive Care Unit.
The elevator doors at the end of the hall dinged open.
A team of NYPD officers, wearing heavy tactical vests, marched out. They moved with terrifying purpose, heading straight for her.
The lead detective stopped inches from Amy. He flipped open a leather wallet, flashing a gold badge.
"Amy Leach," he said, his voice hard and loud enough for the entire floor to hear. "You are under arrest for attempted murder in the first degree."
Amy's head snapped up. The tablet nearly slipped from her fingers. "What? Are you out of your mind?"
The detective reached inside his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He held up a formal arrest warrant, signed by a state judge.
Nurses, doctors, and patients' families stopped in their tracks. A crowd began to form, whispers spreading like wildfire.
Two uniformed officers stepped behind Amy. They grabbed her arms, twisting them roughly behind her back.
The cold, heavy steel of the handcuffs snapped around her wrists. The sharp click echoed in her ears.
The physical sensation of the cold metal biting into her skin shocked her system. She stopped struggling. She locked her jaw and kept her head held high, refusing to give the onlookers the satisfaction of seeing her break.
They marched her through the main lobby of the hospital. She could see the flashes of cell phone cameras going off. Her professional reputation was bleeding out on the floor.
They shoved her into the back of an NYPD cruiser. The hard plastic seat dug into her back. The red and blue lights flashed against the buildings as the siren wailed, tearing through the congested Manhattan traffic.
At the 19th Precinct, they stripped her of her belt and shoelaces. They marched her into a windowless, concrete interrogation room.
A heavy metal switch was thrown. A blinding, high-intensity spotlight slammed into her face.
The detective threw a stack of glossy photographs onto the scratched metal table. They showed an IV bag and a severed plastic tube.
"Lab reports confirm a lethal dose of potassium was injected into Amira Hughes' IV line," the detective barked. He pulled out a tablet and hit play. "And security footage shows you entering her room at 6:00 AM this morning."
Amy squinted against the harsh light. Her chest felt tight, but her mind was razor-sharp. "I was doing my standard morning rounds. Check the camera angles. There is a blind spot behind the curtain. And anyone with basic medical knowledge knows potassium burns the veins-she would have screamed before it reached her heart."
The detective slammed his hands on the table, leaning in to break her.
Before he could speak, the heavy iron door of the interrogation room screeched open.
A man in a thousand-dollar suit walked in, holding a special DA permit. He was Amira's senior defense attorney. He was pushing Amira, who was sitting in a wheelchair, an oxygen mask strapped to her face.
The detective frowned, looking at the permit in the lawyer's hand.
"Officer," Amira rasped, pulling her oxygen mask down slightly, "I have some words I'd like to say to her in front of my lawyer, to help 'clear up' this misunderstanding. Could you give us a moment under supervision?"
The detective hesitated, then stepped back to the door, keeping a watchful eye but giving them a semblance of privacy.
The lawyer opened his leather briefcase. He pulled out a familiar document-the divorce agreement. At the bottom, Beckham's bold signature was already inked.
The lawyer tossed the document onto the metal table. He slid it across the scratched surface until it hit Amy's handcuffed wrists.
"Sign the papers, waive all alimony, and voluntarily surrender your medical license," Amira rasped, her eyes gleaming with malice. "Do that, and I will tell the police I made a mistake. I'll drop the charges."
Amy looked down at the papers. A low, dark chuckle rumbled in her chest.
She leaned forward against the metal table, her eyes locking onto Amira's.
"I would rather rot in a concrete cell for the rest of my life than bow down to a piece of trash like you," Amy said, her voice ringing with absolute, unbreakable resolve.
She raised her handcuffed hands and forcefully pushed the document. It slid off the edge of the table and fluttered to the dirty floor.
Amira's face twisted in rage. She slapped the oxygen mask back over her mouth and frantically waved at her lawyer to get her out of the room.
