Chapter Eleven Jenn
Chapter Eleven
Jenn
Ten years ago
After that horrific night in the ER, six hours after discharging Cami Miller, I was sitting on the floor outside Dr. Braithwaite’s office, shaking so hard my teeth hurt. I’d walked the hospital for hours, adrenaline tearing through me until my body finally gave out right there in the hallway.
“Jennifer?” he said when he arrived, dropping to a knee beside me. “What’s happened?”
I tried to speak, but nothing came out. He guided me inside, settled me in a chair, and waited.
And then it all came out of me in a single, jagged breath: Cami’s visit, her parents’ fear, the intake, Kellogg snapping at me, refusing to admit her. By the time I finished, I was crying—ugly, gasping tears I hated giving him or anyone else.
Julian handed me tissues and crouched beside me. “Jenn, you didn’t do anything wrong,” he said gently. “David Kellogg can be . . . difficult. What you’re describing is unacceptable, and I’ll deal with it. But you? You’re safe. I won’t let anyone jeopardize your residency.”
That promise—the confidence in his voice—felt like someone lifting a boulder off my chest.
“I was afraid he’d retaliate,” I remember whispering. “That he’d try to get me fired.”
“Nonsense,” he said firmly. “I’ll keep you off his rotation for a while, give you breathing room. You did what you were trained to do. This will blow over.”
He squeezed my shoulder like a father reassuring his kid after a nightmare.
“Go home,” he said. “Sleep. Let me take care of the rest.”
And I believed him. Completely.
How tragic that I did.
Exhausted, I went home and collapsed into bed—sleep brought a few hours’ peace before the ringing phone dragged me back.
“Hello?” I rasped, unable to summon the energy—or the will—to sound awake.
“Jennifer?” A woman’s voice.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Jennifer, this is Maggie O’Day.”
My eyes flew open. Maggie was the director of residents at Miami Killian. If she was calling me, then Kellogg had probably reported me for insubordination.
Shit.
If they put a permanent note in my file, I might never get a job after residency.
“Um—hi, Maggie. How are you?”
She didn’t bother with pleasantries.
“I’m calling to inform you that your residency has been suspended pending an internal investigation,” she said crisply. “You’ll receive written notice—”
I bolted upright. “I’m sorry—what did you just say?”
“Dr. Flores, you will not be permitted to practice until the investigation is complete. Someone will contact you to arrange a meeting with legal.”
Oh my God—he’d actually gotten me suspended.
“I don’t . . .” I stopped, rubbing a hand over my face. “Is that really necessary? He was completely out of line. Dr. Kellogg was in a foul mood last night. I wasn’t the only one he yelled at.”
Silence. Then—
“Dr. Flores—Jenn—did you treat and discharge a woman named Cami Miller last night?”
Something twisted low in my stomach, acid rising in my throat.
“I did . . .”
“Perhaps you’re not aware—Miss Miller died by suicide a few hours later. Her parents are, understandably, distraught. Their attorney has already been in contact.”
The room seemed to tilt as the hand not holding the phone flew to my mouth.
“Oh . . . oh my God . . .” I whispered. “I told him. I told Kellogg she needed to be admitted, but he wouldn’t listen . . .”
“Do you have an attorney, Dr. Flores?”
“What? No! And residents are covered under the hospital’s insurance, right?”
Her voice dropped, suddenly cautious. “Jenn, listen to me carefully because I won’t say this again—and I’ll deny it if you tell anyone I did. When you hang up this phone, get yourself a good attorney. Do not wait, and do not speak to anyone but that person. Do you understand?”
“But I talked to Dr. Braithwaite this morning—”
“No one,” she snapped, then shifted back to her professional tone as if the outburst had never happened.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped listening. Cami was dead, and I was already the scapegoat.
“Thank you,” I managed before hanging up and sprinting for the bathroom, barely making it before the vomiting started.
When there was nothing left, I curled on the cool tile, cheek pressed to the floor, until the sunlight through the window dimmed to gray and the cicadas began outside. Then I pushed myself up, found my phone, and made the only decision that felt possible.
I didn’t care what Maggie said. Julian Braithwaite was the only person who could make this go away. And I knew he would never let me down.
How wrong I’d been. Even a decade later, I still cringe at my own naivete.
Friday morning
A door clicks shut somewhere down the hall, and the sound pulls me back to now—to Julian’s office, the smell of his bergamot tea and leather bindings.
He looks every bit the kindly, fatherly professor.
The illusion owes a lot to the setting. Where Kellogg’s office was all glass and sunlight, Julian’s is a study in comfort.
The blinds are drawn against the harsh Miami glare, and the light is warm, amber, forgiving.
Bookcases climb to the ceiling, and a pair of well-worn armchairs sit tucked in the corner.
I’m sitting in one now as he joins me, carrying one of his trademark red leather notebooks.
At first glance he looked almost unchanged, but now that we’re alone and I have a chance to really study him, I can see the subtle wear: the faint looseness around his jaw, the softened line of his shoulders, the way he settles into his chair with a sigh he probably doesn’t realize he made.
“Still using the red journals,” I note.
He smiles, sheepish. “Yes, though I have to order them custom these days—the company went under years ago.”
“Still one for every patient?”
He nods. “One per patient, per year. Hardly high tech, but it keeps my thoughts organized—and off the grid.”
“Well, you’ve got a point there.”
He clears his throat and gestures toward my arm. “And I see you’ve kept one of your old habits. Still need it?”
I glance down at the pink elastic peeking from under my sleeve.
“I do this week.”
My dry tone earns a quick, genuine laugh from him—an echo from another life. I can’t help smiling back.
“I’m glad you came,” he says at last, earnest now. “I wasn’t at all certain you would.”
“Neither was I.”
“I know you won’t believe this, but it makes me very happy to see how well you’re doing. You’ve become an exceptional doctor, Jenn. Truly.”
“Yes, well. I’m sure you expected otherwise.”
“What? No!”
I hold up a hand. “Come on, Julian. Ten years isn’t long enough to pretend nothing happened. You knew exactly what went down, and you still backed Kellogg.”
He takes off his glasses, rubs the bridge of his nose. When he looks up again, he seems older, smaller.
“Jenn,” he says quietly, “there’s nothing I can say to make it right.
But for context—David was up for a promotion.
The board adored him. I knew he’d be my boss within weeks.
And my wife . . . you remember Rose. She had stage-three ovarian cancer.
David promised to get her into a clinical trial if I recused myself from your hearing. ”
I study his face for any flicker of deceit. Nothing. Then again, Julian has always been a master at keeping his expression neutral.
I remember when Rose was first diagnosed—how he took a leave to take her everywhere: Sloan Kettering, Mayo, Dana-Farber.
Back then, it reassured me, seeing how fiercely he loved her.
There’d been rumors years earlier, before my residency—something about a graduate fellow he’d mentored a little too closely.
But I’d never witnessed anything that aligned with the gossip.
With me, he’d always been professional, polished, devoted.
Maybe he was both things at once.
Maybe he’s telling the truth now. Maybe not.
In the end, does it really matter why he did it?
“And did it help?” I ask flatly.
“It bought her another year. A good one.” He sighs. “I’ll always hate David for forcing my hand, but I won’t lie—I’d do it again. I regret the means, but not the time we gained.”
And there it is. Desperate people do desperate things.
We sit in silence for a long moment, the air heavy between us.
“You’re close with the Langstons,” I finally say.
Relief flickers across his face at the pivot to neutral territory.
“Yes. I knew Doug’s father, Lloyd, for years—consulted for Langston Pharma.
They were actually estranged for some time after Doug and Theresa married.
But when they adopted Mary, everything changed.
” He pauses for a long, thoughtful moment.
“They’re good people who adore their daughter, Jenn.
That much will be obvious when I introduce you. ”
The last line stops me short.
“Oh, that’s really not necessary, Julian. It’s better if I go alone. I’d like to get my own read first.”
He hesitates, thumb running along the spine of his red notebook.
“They trust me, Jenn. It might make things easier.”
“I’ll manage,” I assure him politely but firmly.
“Yes, of course,” he agrees with a weary nod.
The sadness in his face tugs at something old and buried. His confession about Rose has loosened memories I’ve spent years trying to pack away. I flash on my husband’s face—his steady warmth, the way he anchors me—and feel a small shudder at the thought of losing him.
Maybe that’s why I offer the tiniest olive branch.
“Julian,” I say quietly, “I’m sorry about Rose.”
For a moment we’re just two people staring at one another across the wreckage of a decade.
“Thank you,” he says gently. “I appreciate that, Jenn.”
And, for the first time in years, I almost believe him.
They’ve been thoughtful enough to clear a small office for me to use, and I take advantage of it to go through Mary’s file before meeting with her parents in an hour. I’m so engrossed, I don’t even register that someone has entered the room.
“Hard at work, I see,” Kellogg says as he drops down into the chair across from me.
I look up at him. “Something I can do for you, Dr. Kellogg?”
“Word is out that Samantha is dead and Mary’s being treated here. The news trucks are already setting up camp in the parking lot, and the hospital’s PR office is being flooded with requests for a news conference.”
“Are you planning on giving one?” I ask, curious to observe him in this new role of his.
New to me, anyway.
“No, but we are about to release a statement saying that she’s been admitted for treatment following an accident in Everglades National Park and is in stable condition.”
I nod. “Sounds reasonable enough.”
He cocks his head to one side, obviously assessing me. “We settled, you know. With the Millers. For nearly a million dollars.”
I did know there’d been a settlement—I just didn’t know how much.
After the catastrophic hearing, the hospital agreed to facilitate a quick and quiet transfer to another residency program so I could finish out my training in peace—away from Miami Killian, Julian Braithwaite, and David Kellogg.
I try to keep my face impassive as I shrug. “Oh, I don’t know, a million dollars seems pretty cheap for the life of a child,” I reply coolly. “It would have cost you a hell of a lot more if you hadn’t settled.”
“Yeah, well, clearly it hasn’t hurt my career.”
I don’t comment. Instead, I pose a question that’s been niggling at me since I got Julian’s call. “Why am I here?”
He doesn’t miss a beat.
“Because the Langstons are powerful people with a lot of money invested in this hospital, and it’s in our best interests to see Mary gets the best possible care.
And, like it or not, Julian’s right about you being the best person for this particular case.
” I’m about to applaud his newfound maturity, but then he goes and ruins it by opening his mouth once more.
“Plus, if this goes south, you’ll make a great scapegoat.
So . . . win-win,” he informs me with a grin.
Gabe would tell me to ignore him. Stef would tell me to eviscerate him.
I swear, it’s like having a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other.
In the end, I meet them somewhere in the middle, sighing disappointedly.
“Really? Is that the best you’ve got? Well, good luck with that because I’m not a lowly resident anymore.
I’m a well-established practitioner in this field.
And I wasn’t the one who got caught falsifying charts and forging signatures.
I’m not the one who sent a fourteen-year-old home to die. ”
He gets to his feet. “You know, Dr. Flores, medicine’s not a fairy tale. There are no heroes and villains—just people who make hard calls. Some of us stomach it better than others.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re the villain now—just like you were back then.”
He smiles thinly. “Keep telling yourself that. In the end, this place doesn’t care who’s right. It cares who’s still standing.”
He doesn’t wait for my reply before strolling out the door.