Chapter Seven Jenn
Chapter Seven
Jenn
Friday morning
Primum non nocere.
First, do no harm.
That’s the Hippocratic oath—taken by all doctors. We have to swear to consider the consequences of our actions and treatment. In other words, we have to promise not to make things any worse for the patient than they already are. Too bad we make no such promise to ourselves.
I’d never in a million years recommend one of my clients hop on a plane and head right back to the place that scarred them.
Not without months—maybe even years—of preparation in the office.
Because walking back into the “scene of the crime” without proper preparation is like walking into the wilds of Alaska in January without a coat. In flip-flops. And a tank top.
Foolish at best, suicidal at worst.
And yet here I am.
The campus of Miami Killian Medical Center looks pristine—perfect hedges, tropical greenery, glass-faced buildings gleaming like they’ve never known rot.
But I remember when this place reeked of mildew and despair.
The psychiatric center, once referred to as the catacombs because of its dark, dank, claustrophobic interiors, now boasts an atrium with vaulted ceilings and a gurgling water wall.
My heels click on the marble floor as I make my way to the reception desk. I’ve dressed for battle—tailored black suit, hair in a tight bun, my expression calm and composed. Controlled. Professional.
I have the sudden, nearly uncontrollable urge to snap the band on my wrist. But I keep my hand low now, in case Julian is somewhere nearby watching. He’d recognize the gesture instantly.
“Good morning. May I help you?” asks a young man stationed in front of a computer at the main desk.
“Good morning. Dr. Jennifer Flores for Dr. Braithwaite,” I say, handing him my license before he can ask; better to stay one step ahead.
“Good morning, Doctor,” he responds pleasantly, holding it in one hand while scrolling down his computer screen with the other. “Uh-huh. I’ve got you right here. Would you look directly into the lens, please?”
He’s pointing at a camera mounted atop his monitor. I smile. He clicks. A moment later a printer behind him hums to life, and he spins around just in time to pluck my new ID from the tray and affix it to a lanyard.
“Wow, that’s impressive,” I say as he hands me my new necklace, still warm from the machine that created it.
“We take security pretty seriously around here,” he explains.
“Please keep that on at all times while in the building. Next time, you don’t need to stop here.
Just scan the card against the black pad mounted on the wall by the door over there.
Someone from Dr. Braithwaite’s team will let you know what you can access internally. ”
“Right. Okay, thanks . . .”
“Jennifer!”
The sound of my name freezes me in place. Still facing the receptionist, I close my eyes and take a long breath. Then I smooth my expression—pleasant but neutral—before turning around.
He looks almost exactly as I remember: tall, trim, immaculate in his white coat and bow tie, the same crooked front tooth softening an otherwise patrician face. His blue-gray eyes still radiate that gentle, well-trained warmth—the kind only years of British bedside manner can perfect.
“Dr. Braithwaite,” I acknowledge flatly with a curt nod.
For a second it looks like he might try to hug me. Then he thinks better of it, extending a hand instead, offering up the same smile that once made me feel safe, protected, special. Now it just makes me nauseous. I resist the urge to slip my index finger under the cuff of my blouse.
“Oh, please, please. We’re colleagues now! You may call me Julian!”
We might have been okay if he hadn’t used the word “may.” But it lands more like a command than a kindness. And I don’t do commands anymore. Not from him. Not from anyone.
Ignoring the proffered hand, I drop my voice. “Doctor. Braithwaite,” I grit out, emphasizing each word, “using your first name would imply we have a personal relationship, which we most certainly do not.”
His smile cools.
“My apologies, Dr. Flores, it wasn’t my intention to imply otherwise.” He lowers his voice—soft, polite, edged. “But you’re in my house now. I have staff and patients to think about. So let’s keep things professional, shall we?”
I blink. Hard. I’ve played out this scenario a hundred times in my head over the years, and it always ends with me eviscerating him.
I’m unprepared for him to come right back at me—and with a valid argument, no less.
Just because he lost all credibility with me doesn’t mean other people don’t respect him—admire him, even.
He’s a brilliant doctor who just happens to be a shit human being.
And that’s hardly a rare combination. When his eyebrows quirk upward slightly, I realize he’s still waiting for me to shake his hand.
I also realize there are people watching us, including the gentleman who just handed me my ID.
So I meet his grasp and give a quick shake, restoring just the hint of a noncommittal smile to my lips.
“Yes, of course, Dr. Braithwaite,” I agree quietly.
He steps back, his face light and bright again as he gestures toward a door off to the side of the lobby. There’s an Employees Only placard affixed to it, and he presses his key card against the pad to release the lock.
“Your card should give you access to all the entrances to the building and onto the ward,” he explains, holding the door open for me. “I’ve had a small office arranged for you down the hall from mine. I’ll just ask that you avoid the third floor because—”
“Because that’s where I am.”
The voice shoots through me with the intensity—and sting—of an electric current.
David Kellogg steps out of the hallway—smooth and composed, a touch of silver sharpening rather than softening him. His hazel eyes have the same laser-cut precision I remember. Still devastatingly handsome. And, I’m sure, still devastating. Period.
“Hello, Jennifer.” His gaze is deliberate, appraising. “You’re looking well.”
“Dr. Flores,” I correct, fighting to keep my tone even.
He chuckles. “Right. You and your attorney made that clear.”
“Indeed. She also made sure the record reflected which one of us falsified documentation.”
Kellogg’s smile tightens but doesn’t break.
“Integrity,” he says lightly, “is a fluid thing. Around here, it tends to follow the man in charge. And these days, that would be me.”
I shrug nonchalantly.
“Well, how nice for you. I guess Dr. Braithwaite didn’t think it was worth mentioning,” I say, shooting my old mentor a glare.
He must have known I’d never have agreed to come back here if I’d known this asshat was still lurking in the hallways, let alone running the joint. That’s why he didn’t volunteer the information. The real question is, Why didn’t I ask?
Braithwaite steps between us, palms raised. “All right. Let’s all just take a beat. David, this is not what we agreed . . .”
“We didn’t agree on anything, Julian,” the other man replies.
His voice peters out under Kellogg’s withering glare.
Clearly the bloom is off the rose. Sometime in the last decade, Julian has seen what I saw—and what I warned him about while I was on staff here.
David Kellogg is responsible for the death of at least one patient that I know of. Maybe more.
Not that anyone cared then . . . or now, apparently.