Stokes sat on the bench in the changing room, staring at his hands, wondering where the hell his life was heading. He’d trained to be a doctor, not in the Core in one of the fancy MedAcads, but on Beaumonde. He knew he wasn’t one of the best, but he wasn’t one of the worst either, the kind who were only in the business for the money, for the chance to make large amounts of cash out of people who were too scared or stupid to know any better. At least he cared about his patients. Did his best for them. And when he came home to Newhall, joined Stan Hammond in the clinic, he thought he’d be doing just that.

And now he’d killed a man. Oh, Simon was still alive, lying in that room, his wife fluttering anxiously around him, but Stokes couldn’t help remembering the words of one of his old tutors, the one who had scared all the medical students with his ill-disguised delight in every disgusting aspect of his work.

“It’s the intention that you need to consider. Whether you succeed or not, while important to the patient, is almost secondary to you as a doctor. If you go onto that ward thinking that you won’t save their lives, don't bother going on at all. You’ve already lost. It is the intention that makes the difference.”

Well, Stokes had intended to kill. And if old Professor Wu was to be believed, and the intention was the result, then Simon was a dead man. He shuddered. He could still see the sunlight through the window, feel the shirt bunched up in his hands, hear the shout being cut off before it could begin ... It wasn’t premeditated or planned, but that young man stating that Stokes was the father of Rita’s baby, and knowing that, if he allowed that information to get out, to reach the sheriff ...

“Honey?” Claire walked around the corner, fiddling with her hair. “Are you okay?”

He took a deep breath. “I'm fine.”

“Only you’ve been sitting there like that for ten minutes.”

“Thinking.”

“Oh, I realised that. Could tell from the look on your face.” She smiled, tiny lines et