CHAPTER FOURTEEN
HANK VOIGHT

As I stepped forward, the office door swung open, revealing Hank standing on the other side. He looked at me with a warm, somewhat unexpected smile. "Mel, come in," he said, his voice surprisingly light. I couldn't help but be taken aback by the ease of his expression, considering how we had last parted ways.

Stepping into the room, I heard the soft click of the door closing behind me. Hank gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "Please, sit," he added, settling into his own chair with a casual ease.

I sat down, though it felt like there was a world of space between us. He leaned back slightly, folding his hands together as he studied me with a knowing look.

"So," Hank began, his voice thoughtful, "what brings you by? If I recall correctly, the last time we spoke, you made it clear you wanted nothing to do with me."

I met his gaze and replied with a small, almost reluctant smile. "I didn't. But someone close to me thought I should give you a chance."

Hank's eyebrows shot up. "Christopher Herrmann?" he asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and surprise.

I tilted my head, narrowing my eyes slightly. "Have you been spying on me?" I teased, an edge of playful challenge in my voice.

He let out a low chuckle, clearly unbothered. "I'm a police sergeant, Mel. What did you expect?" he replied with a grin, the tension in the room easing just a fraction.

Before I knew it, we were both laughing. The sound felt like a brief release from all the unspoken words that had been left hanging between us. Hank smiled, clearly pleased. "I'm glad you came," he said, his voice softening a little. "Now, I'd like to know more about you."

I raised an eyebrow. "Don't you already know everything about me?"

Hank's grin widened, the amusement still there. "I'd like to hear it from you," he said, leaning forward slightly, his interest piqued. "Tell me about you. Your hobbies, your job... and how you meet Herrmann."

I smiled at the mention of Herrmann's name. "Alright then," I said, taking a deep breath. "Well, I'm in my third year of residency at Chicago Med. I'm about to choose my specialty soon," I added, glancing at Hank to gauge his reaction.

A look of pride flickered across his face. "What are you thinking?" he asked, clearly intrigued.

"Trauma," I replied, the word coming easily. "I didn't realise it was for me until I met Christopher in the ER. He came in with injuries after being stabbed, and before I knew it, I was helping Connor Rhodes, the trauma attending, save his life."

Hank's expression softened. "That's impressive," he said. Then, after a beat, he asked, "How long have you known I was your father?"

The question made me pause. It was one I had never expected to ask, but now that it hung between us, I found I wanted to know. Hank's gaze darkened slightly, as if lost in the memory. "A week before the accident," he said quietly. "I saw you in the ER at Med. You looked just like your mother, down to the attitude."

The mention of my mother made a bitter taste rise in my throat, but I bit it back. "I'm not the most responsible parent," Hank continued, his voice tinged with regret. "But I wish I'd had the chance to be a father to you."

The room seemed to grow quieter, heavier, as if his words hung in the air. I could feel the weight of them, but I refused to let the silence linger too long.

"Lies were always my mother's speciality," I replied sharply, my tone biting. I had never known her to be anything but deceitful. As soon as I turned eighteen, I'd escaped her grasp and never looked back. Still, the past had a way of creeping in, and in my first year of residency, I'd received a call that she had died from an overdose. The news had stung, but not in the way one might expect.

I caught myself, realising I had said too much. "But I shouldn't talk ill of the dead," I muttered, biting my tongue to stifle the bitterness that still lingered.

Hank nodded solemnly. "I heard," he said quietly.

As Hank stood, ready to leave, his hand hovered over the doorknob. There was a moment of silence, an almost imperceptible tension, before he spoke again.

"You know," he said, his voice quieter now, more measured. "There's something else I should tell you."

I tilted my head, sensing the shift in the air. "What is it?" I asked, my tone cautious.

Hank didn't immediately answer. Instead, he seemed lost in thought, staring at a point somewhere just beyond me. I could see the muscles in his jaw tighten, the faint flicker of pain that passed across his face. It was the kind of expression that spoke of memories too painful to confront but impossible to forget.

He finally spoke, though his voice was thick with emotion. "You had a brother, Mel. His name was Justin."

The words hit me like a punch to the stomach. I hadn't known. Or maybe, on some level, I had suspected—when the few pieces of my past would surface, jagged and unfinished—but I hadn't allowed myself to dig too deeply. Now, hearing Hank say it so plainly, the truth hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

"Justin?" I echoed, the name foreign on my tongue. "What happened to him?"

Hank's gaze dropped to the floor, his hands fidgeting nervously with the edge of the desk. I could see the pain in the way his fingers twitched, as though he were trying to hold something back, something raw.

"He died a few years ago," he said softly.

Hank's eyes were dark, his face haunted by the memory. "He was left to die in the boot of a car," he said, the words tumbling out with a shudder. "Some people... I don't even know how to describe them. They kidnapped him. Held him there for hours. They left him in the boot, locked up, and when they finally found him, it was too late. He was already gone."

I felt a cold wave of shock crash over me. The brutality of it—the horror of being trapped, alone, unable to escape—it was beyond anything I could comprehend. The image of my brother, alive one moment and then abandoned in such a cruel way, made my stomach churn.

Tears stung the corners of my eyes, but I blinked them away, trying to keep myself composed. "Why didn't you—why didn't anyone save him?" The question left my mouth before I could stop it, the frustration and pain of it all clawing at me.

Hank closed his eyes for a moment, the rawness of the memory nearly choking him. "I wasn't there, Mel. I wasn't there when he needed me," he said, his voice cracking with the weight of the truth. "I tried to protect him, tried to keep him away from that life, but I couldn't. And by the time I found out what had happened, it was too late. I failed him."

The room felt suffocating, the air thick with the grief Hank carried. His words hit me like a barrage of bullets, each one shattering the fragile pieces of understanding I had begun to build between us. This wasn't just a loss. This was a tragedy, one that Hank had lived with for years—too many years.

"I never got the chance to make it right," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I never got to be the father Justin deserved."

I swallowed hard, unsure of what to say. The loss of a brother, the brutality of his death—it was something I could barely grasp. And yet, I felt the weight of it, felt the aching emptiness that Hank was carrying, the burden of being a father who had failed, a man who had lost more than he could ever explain.

Just then, the door to the office opened again, and a detective stepped inside, his eyes briefly flicking between Hank and me. "Sarge, we need to go," he said, his voice urgent but polite.

Hank stood up, his expression shifting to one of professionalism. He passed me a business card. "I've got to run, but please, call me. Don't leave it too long," he said, his tone more serious now.

Before he walked away, he turned to the detective with a small gesture, as if introducing me. "Oh, and before I go," Hank said, a mischievous smile playing at the corner of his mouth, "Mel, meet Ruzek. Ruzek, this is my daughter."

The look of shock on Ruzek's face was palpable, his mouth falling open in stunned silence as Hank walked out, leaving me to face the lingering awkwardness of the moment.

End Of Chapter 14