Chapter Nine Jenn
Chapter Nine
Jenn
Ten years ago
If.
How is it that such a tiny little word can wield so much power?
Those two letters can be a threat. They can be a plea. They can be a wish.
And they can be a curse.
The ifs surrounding that night during my third year of residency still haunt me a decade later.
If Kellogg hadn’t been covering the regular attending.
If the ER hadn’t been a complete shit show.
If I’d made my case better and stood my ground stronger.
If I’d picked up the phone and called my supervising psychiatrist for backup.
If any one of those things had been different, a fourteen-year-old girl might still be alive today. But they weren’t, and she’s not.
Her name was Cami Miller. She’d texted intimate photos to her boyfriend.
When they broke up, he shared them with the whole school—then the little cybershit uploaded them to an amateur porn site.
Her parents brought her in when she went from hysterical to unnervingly calm.
I tried to engage her, but she refused to speak, refused to look at me.
My gut said she was high risk. I marked her chart for fast-track admission.
I just needed the attending’s signature.
I’d barely interacted with Dr. Kellogg before that night. When I found him, he had a coffee in one hand and his phone in the other.
“I don’t give a damn who you need to wake up!” he barked into the phone. “We’re drowning down here, and I swear to God I’m going to close the ER to ambulance traffic if I don’t get some help in the next thirty minutes!”
He slammed the phone down on the counter. The nurse beside him jumped, scattering file folders across the floor.
“Oh, brilliant! Just fucking brilliant!” Kellogg roared, sloshing coffee over the rim. “Can nobody do their job tonight?” That was when he noticed me, chart clutched to my chest. “What do you want?” he demanded.
I stepped forward, took a deep breath, then explained the situation as calmly as possible. To his credit, he listened—interjecting every few seconds to bark orders at whoever passed. When I finished, he stared down at me.
“Right. So let me get this straight—some kid gets caught sexting, cries a little, and now mommy and daddy want us to deal with it? Have you even seen the waiting room backup?”
“No. I mean, yes—”
“Which is it?” he snapped, stepping into my space.
I flinched.
“No, that’s not what happened. Yes, I’ve seen the backup in the waiting room. But in my opinion this is a high-risk patient.”
“Your opinion?” he echoed, brows raised incredulously. “What’s your name?”
“Jennifer. Flores.”
“What are you? Second-year?”
“Third.”
“Right. A third-year. And, Jennifer Flores, do you really think I give a shit about your opinion?” His spittle hit my cheek as he spoke down at me.
“News flash! Teenage boys think about sex nonstop. If the girl was naive enough to send the photos, she deserves a little humiliation. She hasn’t swallowed a bottle of pills.
She hasn’t tried to slit her wrists. Mommy and daddy just got tired of listening to her whine. Send her home.”
A quick glance around told me no one else was near enough to witness this interaction.
“Dr. Kellogg, I think you’re way out of line here,” I began, stopping short when his face darkened with rage.
“I’m out of line?” He took another step, voice dropping low. “Get. Out.”
“But I haven’t—”
“Get the hell out of my ER and pray that I don’t report your ass to Braithwaite tomorrow.”
He snatched the chart from my hands. I got the hell out.
The next time I saw the chart was at my disciplinary hearing.
The next time I saw Cami Miller, she was in a casket.
Friday morning
To see Kellogg today, sitting easily in this sunny office in his bespoke suit and Italian leather shoes, you’d never guess what he’s capable of. Calm, charming, predatory beneath the polish.
He studies me now from across the desk lined with framed photos—vacations, probably. A yacht. A Porsche. Maybe a blonde or two. My stomach turns.
“Julian here had to work pretty hard to convince me that you were the only one for this assessment,” he says smoothly.
“I was skeptical—until he disclosed your personal history. I had no idea you’d experienced so much trauma as a child.
No wonder you were so troubled when you were here.
We should have been treating you, not teaching you. ”
My fingers find the elastic on my wrist, rolling it like a rosary.
Breathe. Respond, don’t react.
“Dr. Kellogg,” I say evenly, “I really could not care less what you think of my life, past or present. So here’s the deal: If you’re just going to skulk and preen like a B-movie villain, I’ll just be heading home.”
He gives that practiced smile—charm without warmth.
“Oh, now, Dr. Flores, no need to get so defensive. Believe it or not, your insights might actually be useful here. So—shall we?”
Before I can tell him where to shove his insight, there’s a knock.
“Come in!” he calls out. The office door opens, and a woman with short-cropped gray hair and a plum-colored suit joins us.
For a second, it’s like my brain short-circuits.
Joyce Danner.
The hearing rushes back in jagged images: the white glass table, the ticking clock, my palms sweating through the paper cup while Joyce coolly asked if I’d like to amend my statement “for accuracy.” I remember the scent of burnt coffee, the hum of the fluorescent lights above.
Even in that windowless basement conference room, her words came out in a clipped courtroom cadence.
It’s the first time I’ve actually laid eyes on her in all this time, but she had a recurring role in my nightmares for years.
Come to think of it, all three of the people in this room did.
No wonder Gabe didn’t want me to take this job. He saw this little bout of PTSD coming a mile away.
This time I give the elastic on my wrist a sharp snap, forcing myself back to the room, to the present, to the woman who likely doesn’t remember breaking me. She nods in my direction, circling around to stand on the other side of the desk next to Kellogg.
“Dr. Flores. Nice to see you again.”
“Nice to—” I start to reply, but the lie catches in my throat so I try again. “Sorry—nice to see you again, Joyce.”
She perches on the end of a chair that Julian has pulled up for her.
“Right, so let me tell you what we know so far,” she begins.
“Yesterday morning a ranger discovered the body of Samantha Kinski floating in a canoe in a remote part of Everglades National Park. A short time later, he came across Mary—still alive but barely conscious. And, while it appears to be accidental, the two sisters had a rather . . . tumultuous . . . relationship. And the questions the police have been asking suggest they could be considering the possibility of foul play.”
At last, something substantial I can focus on beyond my own dark past. I grab onto it like a flotation device. “I presume they’re doing an autopsy on Sam?”
She nods. “Yes. We should have that report in the next day or two—there’s a bit of a backup at the coroner’s office going into the holiday weekend. But once that comes through, it will, hopefully, clarify things.”
I shake my head slightly and raise my palms. “I have to ask—is this evaluation really necessary, considering no one is accusing her of anything yet?”
“Right, well,” Julian begins cautiously, as if measuring how much to tell me. “Perhaps you noticed the Lloyd Langston Oncology Center on your way in?”
I had, and I already knew what he was getting at.
“Yes, I remember reading that Mary Langston is from the Langston Pharma family. Is that why she was brought here to Miami Killian?”
All three of them nod.
“I’ve known the family for many years,” Julian explains smoothly.
“Her grandfather, Lloyd Langston, was a great philanthropist, and he bequeathed a substantial endowment to the hospital in his will. Mary’s parents, Doug and Theresa, have continued his work.
In fact, they’re largely responsible for this new facility,” he tells me, gesturing to the walls and ceiling around us as if the whole place somehow belongs to him too.
über-rich patrons of the hospital with a daughter in trouble. I’m hoping this isn’t going where I think it is, because I wouldn’t put it past any of these people. I lean forward in my chair and lock eyes with Joyce.
“I hope no one expects me to produce a bought opinion,” I say.
The lawyer doesn’t bat an eyelash at my accusation.
“Not at all, Doctor,” she replies smoothly.
“Yes, of course you’re being paid for your evaluation.
But no, we’re not expecting anything other than your opinion—your honest opinion.
The family would like to get a jump on this—before the district attorney’s office can have their own evaluation done.
If I know what we’re dealing with, then I’ll know how best to proceed.
How best to protect the hospital while also assuring the Langstons that we have Mary’s best interests at heart. ”
“Which we do, of course,” Julian adds with a small, approving nod beside her.
Right. Because protecting Mary means protecting the massive influx of cash that comes with them.
“So what is Mary saying happened?” I ask.
“Not much. She says she can’t recall most of it. Just that she and Samantha were scouting a new canoe route. They ran a company, Wild Gemini, leading multiday Everglades trips. This one was a test run. Apparently, they were doing fine until they hit an eight-mile stretch known as the Nightmare.”
“Well, that’s not ominous or anything,” I comment.
“Yes, quite,” she agrees. “It’s a narrow cut-through that separates the north and south Everglades.
It’s notoriously difficult to paddle through.
We don’t have all the details of the recovery site at this point, but we do know that Sam wasn’t a strong swimmer.
And, should the autopsy come back with drowning as the cause of death, they’ll most certainly consider the possibility that it wasn’t an accident.
We just don’t know which way this thing is going to go. ”
“We’re hopeful that, as the shock wears off, she’ll be able to tell us a bit more,” Julian adds.
My body language training kicks in, and my eyes are drawn to his tie, which he’s rubbing with his thumb absently.
“Physically, she was a mess when they found her,” he continues.
“Severely dehydrated, borderline hypothermic, and half out of her head. She was scratched to hell, eaten alive by bugs, and covered in superficial infections. We’ve started IV fluids, broad-spectrum antibiotics, and wound care.
She’s stabilizing well and should make a full recovery. ”
I let out a long, slow exhalation as my gaze makes the rounds until I’ve had eye contact with all three of them.
“Okay,” I begin slowly. “So let me make certain I understand the arrangement here. Assuming I agree, then I’d be working for the Langston family, not the hospital. And not the court.”
“That’s correct,” Joyce agrees.
“And . . . if they don’t like what I have to say? Then what?”
Joyce shrugs and spreads her hands out in front of her.
“Then nothing. You’ll be paid no matter what your opinion is.
But, just so you know, you might be called upon to testify on Mary’s behalf if it comes to that.
And, on the flip side of that, you’ll be bound by doctor-patient confidentiality should the police or a prosecutor or anyone else question you.
That is, unless you have the family’s express permission,” Joyce explains.
“You mean Mary’s,” I correct her.
She looks confused. “Mary’s what?”
“Mary’s express permission. The family may pay my fees, but she calls the shots as far as what’s disclosed and to whom—including the parents.”
Joyce glances at Julian, who smiles broadly.
“Well, of course, of course. That goes without saying,” he declares with the trademark warmth that used to soothe me.
Now it just seems condescending. “This is all aboveboard. You’re just an independent contractor we’ve brought in to avoid any conflict of interest should this become a criminal investigation at some point. ”
“Look, Dr. Flores,” Joyce says, “Mary’s name will be released in a couple of hours, and then it’s only a matter of time before the press is camped out in the parking lot.
We really need your answer here—one way or the other.
Are you willing to treat her and sign a contract to that effect, or do I need to find someone else?
Because we’re up against the clock right now, and the Langstons are waiting for an update. ”
I take a deep breath as I consider everything I’ve heard in the last half hour. There’s nothing inherently wrong with this. It makes perfect sense, in fact.
“Yes,” I agree at last. “I’ll take the contract—so long as it’s understood that I’m going to conduct my own evaluation, in the manner I choose.
I don’t want anyone second-guessing my methods or my progress.
And I won’t lie—not in her chart, not in a courtroom.
If you really want to know what I think, I’m going to tell you. ”
She nods once firmly, as if I’ve just confirmed what she already knows.
“Excellent. Her parents will be very pleased to hear it. They were hoping you’d accept the job.”
Hopefully that means they’re more likely to be forthcoming with information.
“Do you think they’d be willing to talk with me about Mary?” I ask.
“Oh, yes. They’re quite eager to speak with you. They were hoping you’d see them this morning in fact.”
“This morning?”
I know I want to speak to the Langstons about their daughter; I just hadn’t planned to do it before I’d actually met her.
Julian nods. “Yes, as Joyce just said, they’re quite eager. I thought perhaps you and I could go over a few things in my office and then meet with them downstairs in the coffee shop.”
My sigh comes out as a little puff of air. “Right. Okay, well, they can give me some insight into Mary’s state of mind.”
“Yes, well, that’s rather the other way around.”
I don’t understand.
“Excuse me?”
“They’re hoping you’ll give them some insight,” Kellogg explains a little too slowly.
I ignore the implication that I’m too dim to get it and focus on Joyce.
“Meaning what, exactly?”
Joyce and Julian exchange glances briefly before she replies.
“Meaning Mary Langston hasn’t spoken to her parents in years, and it’s unlikely she’s going to start now.”