Chapter 43 #2
She advanced the slide, pages of meticulous notes.
"This is proper physical therapy. Not luck. Not guesswork. Science and skill."
Next slide: independent evaluations.
"After Cole's recovery, two other orthopedic surgeons reviewed my work. Their conclusion? Not adequate; exceptional. Cole's recovery was the direct result of expert treatment, not misdiagnosis or luck."
She paused, looking directly at Derek.
"Dr. Matthews' article was lies and slander. He questioned my ethics and competence without ever reviewing my treatment notes, without consulting Cole's physicians, without any evidence whatsoever."
The crowd murmured angrily.
"So why would a respected physical therapist from Boston publish such a baseless attack?" Ellie's voice hardened. "I'll let my husband explain."
Cole stood and joined Ellie at the podium.
"My name is Cole Hansen," Cole said. "Last December, an orthopedic surgeon told me my hockey career was likely over. Torn rotator cuff, complications that made surgery extremely risky."
He clicked to the next slide, medical records, grim diagnoses, doctors' notes all saying the same thing: Severe injury. Surgery high-risk. Prognosis poor.
Rachel watched the crowd absorb this, saw the sympathy on their faces.
"The surgeons recommended I consult with a sports medicine physical therapist before making any final decisions," Cole continued. "Someone with expertise in athletic injuries. Someone who could assess whether conservative treatment was even worth attempting."
He clicked to the next slide: a consultation report with an official letterhead from Boston Sports Medicine Center.
"That consultant was PT Dr. Derek Matthews."
Nobody moved.
Rachel's lungs froze mid-inhale. She glanced at Derek, his face had gone pale.
"Now, Dr. Matthews never actually examined me in person," Cole said, his voice carrying clearly.
"This was all done remotely, before I came to Evergreen Cove.
He reviewed my medical records. My MRI results.
My surgical consultations. All the documentation my doctors sent him.
And based on that remote assessment, he wrote, and I quote from his official report: 'Patient presents with severe rotator cuff tear and extensive surrounding tissue damage.
Given the complexity of the injury and patient's athletic demands, conservative physical therapy treatment is unlikely to restore function to competitive levels.
Recommendation: Patient should seriously consider career transition and long-term pain management rather than pursuing PT intervention that will likely prove unsuccessful. '"
Cole paused, letting that sink in.
"He never touched my shoulder. Never did a physical assessment. Never met me face to face. Only looked at scans and paperwork from his office in Boston and told me my career was over."
He clicked to the next slide. Ellie's initial assessment from just two weeks later.
"Then I came here to Evergreen Cove. I met Ellie. She looked at the same injury, the same MRI, the same medical records that Derek had reviewed. And she said, 'I think we can fix this.'"
Rachel watched Derek's hands grip the armrests of his chair.
"And she did," Cole said simply.
The crowd was riveted, everyone leaning forward.
"So let me be very clear about why Derek Matthews attacked Ellie's credentials," Cole said, his voice filling the room. "It's not because she did anything wrong. It's because she proved him wrong."
The crowd erupted in angry murmurs.
Cole leaned forward, his eyes locked on Derek.
"This isn't about ethics or proper methodology or patient safety. This is about ego."
Rachel watched Derek's jaw flexed once.
He clicked to a video. Cole on the ice, skating at full speed, executing complex plays, his shoulder working perfectly, shooting, checking, raising the stick high for a celebration.
"This is me two weeks ago. My shoulder works. I'm playing professional hockey again. The career Dr. Derek Matthews told me to abandon."
The applause started scattered but grew into a roar.
Derek stood abruptly, his voice rising defensively. "Mr. Hansen, I gave you my professional assessment based on the evidence and extensive clinical experience. Medical opinions can differ between practitioners—"
"Can they?" Cole's voice cut through the noise like a knife. "Or did you just make the wrong call and then spend six months trying to discredit the physical therapist who proved you wrong?"
"Your outcome is certainly fortunate," Derek said. "But one successful case doesn't invalidate my clinical judgment—"
"One successful case?" Cole's tone went quiet, the kind of quiet that came before violence. "I'm not finished, Dr. Matthews. You want to talk about methodology? About clinical judgment? Let's talk about your methodology. Your pattern of destroying anyone who makes you look bad."
Rachel felt Mac squeeze her hand tighter as Jamie practically bounced to the podium, his laptop in hand, his manic energy barely contained.
"This is Jamie Lawson," Cole said, gesturing to Jamie. "He's been doing some digging. What he found..." Cole's jaw tightened. "Well. You'll see for yourselves."
Jamie set his laptop down. He didn't look like the class clown today. He looked dangerous.
"Hi everyone," Jamie said, his voice echoing in the hall. "I'm Jamie. I play forward for the Eagles, and I’m really good at research. Which is perfect, because I wanted to know if Ellie Winters was the first person Dr. Matthews has attacked for having a different opinion."
The projector hummed, casting a harsh blue rectangle of light onto the pull-down screen. Dust motes danced in the beam.
"She wasn't," Jamie said. "In the last fifteen years, Derek Matthews has filed formal complaints against seven different physical therapists across three states. Seven."
A ripple of murmurs went through the crowd.
Jamie clicked the remote. A timeline appeared on the screen, dotted with names and dates.
"Meet Sarah Rodriguez, Marcus Smith, and Jennifer Walsh," Jamie said, pointing to the photos on the screen.
"Three practitioners with clean records.
Until they crossed Dr. Matthews. He filed complaints against all of them.
He wrote articles questioning their ethics.
He systematically dismantled their reputations. "
Jamie leaned on the podium, looking directly at Derek.
"Sarah lost her practice. Marcus had his license suspended for sixteen months before being cleared. Jennifer left the profession entirely. The pattern is always the same: they disagree with him, he destroys them."
"This is absurd," Derek answered. "These were legitimate professional concerns—"
"Were they?" Jamie cut him off. "Because it seems strange that the 'concerned professional' has such a messy record himself."
Jamie clicked to the next slide.
Rachel heard the collective gasp as a Massachusetts Medical Board document filled the screen. It was redacted in places, but the stamp was clear: SUSPENDED.
"Eight years ago," Jamie said, his voice dropping the playful tone. "Derek Matthews' medical license was temporarily suspended in Massachusetts pending an investigation into professional misconduct."
The room erupted, shocked voices, angry exclamations. Mrs. Henderson let out a loud, scandalized "Hmph!"
"That investigation was inconclusive. No charges were filed. This is slander—" Derek said.
"I didn't say you were charged, Derek," Jamie shouted back, his voice sharp enough to cut through the din. "I said you were suspended. That is a matter of public record. But isn't it interesting? You attack Ellie's flawless record, yet you're the one with a history of board interventions."
"This proves nothing, my friend," Derek said. "You're trying to distract from the issue at hand."
"Maybe," Jamie said, his voice suddenly deadly calm. "But this isn't a distraction."
He clicked to the final slide.
"That was the past," Jamie said. "Now let's look at Monday morning."
The monitor flickered. The security footage from The Grind appeared. It was grainy, security footage usually is, but the timestamp in the corner was clear. 10:15 AM.
Rachel saw herself on the screen, small and pixelated in the corner of the coffee shop, working on her laptop. But the room didn't look at her. They looked at the figure in the foreground.
"That's Rachel Morrison," Jamie said. "Sitting alone. Working."
He pointed to the figure near the potted plants.
"And that," Jamie said, "is Dr. Matthews."
On screen, Derek was holding his phone up, angling it between two potted plants. Watching, and hunting. Taking photos of a woman who didn't know he was there.
"You told Ryan MacKenzie you met with her," Jamie said to Derek. "You told him you had a conversation. But the camera says you were hiding in the bushes like a predator."
He paused, letting the word hang in the stifling heat of the room.
"That's called stalking, Dr. Matthews. And in Vermont? It's illegal."
The room exploded. People were on their feet, shouting. The anger was physical now, a wave of heat directed at the man in the front row.
Derek looked around. "She met with me. The footage is missing context—"
"We have barista testimony that Rachel was alone the entire time," Mac said, his voice booming from his seat as he stood up.
Derek faltered. He looked at Mac, then at the screen.
Rachel felt everyone's eyes turn to her. She looked at the screen, at the proof that she wasn't crazy, wasn't a liar, wasn't "too much."
This was her moment.
She stood up beside Mac, her hands shaking but her voice ready.
"I'd like to speak now," Rachel said clearly. "About what Derek did to me."
Rachel walked to the podium on legs that felt like water.
The entire town stared at her. Hundreds of faces. And Derek.
Rachel walked up the stairs to the stage and gripped the podium.