CHAPTER 30: HOUSE NOTICES EVERYTHING
The page comes at 2:47 PM—House's office, no explanation. Three days since Marcus walked out of PPTH with his tumor gone and his personality intact. Three days since I sent that anonymous tip, and the weight of it hasn't lifted.
House's door is open when I arrive. He's at his desk, tossing a tennis ball against the wall in a rhythm that suggests he's been waiting. Bounce. Catch. Throw. The patience of a predator who knows his prey will come to him.
"Sit." He doesn't look at me. Bounce. Catch. Throw.
I take the chair opposite his desk—the one positioned lower than his, a power play I've learned to expect. The afternoon light cuts harsh lines across his face, emphasizing the calculation in his eyes when he finally turns them on me.
"The Marcus case." Not a question.
"Successfully resolved. Tumor removed, no complications, patient stable."
"Patient's also a sociopath who's going to keep manipulating everyone around him." Bounce. Catch. The ball stops mid-throw. "You figured that out before the surgery."
My pulse stays steady. I've prepared for this. "I suspected personality issues separate from the medical condition. The tumor didn't cause his behavior—it just removed his filter."
"And you did what with that information?" House sets the ball down with deliberate care. "Told his wife? Called the police? Staged an intervention with matching T-shirts?"
"I solved the medical problem. Everything else isn't my job."
"Bullshit."
The word hangs between us. House leans forward, elbows on desk, and I recognize the posture—the same one he uses when he's cornered a patient who's hiding something. I'm the patient now.
"You spent hours investigating his background. Sealed juvenile records—how'd you even know to look? Business history, partner departures, employee turnover patterns. That's not standard diagnostic workup." His eyes narrow. "That's investigation. That's you finding something and deciding what to do with it."
I keep my voice level. "Thorough patient histories include environmental and psychological factors. His personality affected his symptom presentation. Understanding who he was helped me understand the case."
"That's the official answer." House stands, limping around the desk to lean against its edge. Closer now. "Here's what I actually think happened. You figured out what he was. You couldn't prove it medically, couldn't report it legally. So you did something else. Something that's been making you quieter than usual for three days."
The anonymous email burns in my memory. Sent from a coffee shop WiFi, no identifying information, carefully worded to trigger investigation without revealing its source. There's no way House could know about that.
But House doesn't need proof. He reads patterns like I read lies.
"I recommended psychiatric follow-up in the discharge notes," I say. "Standard protocol for patients with personality changes post-surgery."
"Which accomplishes nothing, and you know it." House's voice drops, losing the theatrical edge. This is the real House—the one who's genuinely curious, genuinely dangerous. "You're lying about something. Not the Marcus thing—something bigger. You've been lying since you started here."
My heart rate increases, but I've practiced this. The poker face holds.
"Everyone lies, House. You taught me that."
"Everyone lies badly." He tilts his head, studying me the way he studies MRIs. "You lie like you've been doing it professionally. No one reads people as well as you do without practice. Where'd you practice?"
I think about the truth—eight years as a hospitalist in another life, learning to read patients because missing something meant someone died. The experience is real, even if the context is impossible.
"ER before this," I say. "High volume, rapid assessment. You learn to read people quickly or you miss things. Body language, micro-expressions, inconsistency patterns. It's a skill, not magic."
"That explains observation." House's eyes don't leave mine. "Doesn't explain why you volunteer for dangerous cases without hesitation. Doesn't explain how you knew about the copper supplements before we tested for them. Doesn't explain—" he pauses, and something in his expression shifts, "—why you never get sick."
The last one lands like a punch. He's been watching closer than I realized.
"Documented genetic variant," I say, falling back on my cover story. "HLA haplotype. Hyperactive immune response. It's in my medical records."
"I read your records. 'Clinically benign variant affecting immune response.' That's a lot of words for 'I don't get sick.'" He pauses. "Most people take sick days. You've taken none. Most people caught the flu that went through the hospital last month. You had what looked like a mild cold for thirty-six hours. Most people—"
"Most people aren't me."
The words come out sharper than I intended. House's expression shifts—surprise, then satisfaction. He pushed a button and got a reaction.
"No," he agrees softly. "They're not. That's what interests me."
Silence stretches between us. Somewhere in the hospital, a code blue announcement plays over the intercom, but neither of us moves. This is the moment that will define our dynamic going forward.
"I'm good at my job," I say finally. "I observe things others miss. I work hard because patients deserve that, not because I'm hiding some grand conspiracy. If that's suspicious, maybe the problem is your expectations, not my performance."
House considers this for a long moment. Then he picks up the tennis ball again, resuming the rhythm. Bounce. Catch. Throw.
"You can go."
I stand, moving toward the door.
"Chase."
I stop but don't turn around.
"I will figure it out. Whatever you're hiding—whatever makes you different—I'll find it." His voice is almost gentle. "That's what I do."
"I know."
I leave without looking back. The hallway feels longer than usual, the fluorescent lights harsher. House won't stop. I've known this since the first time he looked at me with that calculating stare, the one that says puzzle instead of person.
My phone buzzes. Cameron's name on the screen.
Dinner this week?
I type back without slowing my pace: Friday?
Three dots appear, then: I'd like that.
The threat behind me. The possibility ahead. Balance increasingly precarious.
I take a breath and keep walking.
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