Chapter 8
The HR portal gives me nothing.
Colette's credentialing file requires director-level access. I can see her name listed under historical float staff — confirming Odette's memory — but the file itself is locked behind a permissions wall I can't get through without flagging my login.
I close the laptop. Sit with it for a moment.
I don't need her hospital file. I need her licensing file — and that's public record. The state nursing board maintains a database. Any disciplinary actions, practice restrictions, credential changes — it's all searchable online.
I pull it up on my phone. Search: Colette Marchetti, PMHNP. License active. No disciplinary history. Privileges listed at two facilities: her private practice address and Lakeview Behavioral Health Center.
There it is. Public. Searchable. Official.
She's on record at Lakeview. Has been since 2022. While telling me — every Tuesday, every brunch, every wine night — that she only does outpatient. Only private practice. "I could never go back to inpatient, you know? Too heavy."
I screenshot the licensing page. Save it.
Then I close everything and I text Odette.
Are you working tonight?
Three minutes. Then: Off at 7. Why?
Can I buy you pancakes?
A pause. Then: The bad diner or the worse diner?
Your choice.
Greek Star. Midnight. Don't be late — their shift change is 12:30 and after that the pancakes taste like regret.
* * *
Greek Star Diner is the kind of place that exists because hospital workers need somewhere to go at 2 AM that isn't home.
The linoleum is yellow. The coffee is endless.
The waitress has worked here since before I was born and she doesn't ask questions about why two women in street clothes are eating breakfast at midnight.
Odette is already in the booth when I arrive. She's got a coffee in front of her and she's reading a paperback — something with a shirtless man on the cover, which she doesn't bother hiding.
"Don't judge me," she says without looking up. "I've earned this."
"I'm not judging." I slide into the booth across from her. "I'm impressed you read physical books."
"Phones give me a headache. And the library is free." She folds the corner of her page — a crime I don't comment on — and sets the book aside. "You look terrible."
"Thanks."
"You're welcome." She pushes a menu toward me. The laminated pages are sticky and the specials haven't changed since 2019 — I know because the "NEW!" sticker next to the avocado toast has yellowed and curled at the edges. "Eat something. You've lost weight."
"I haven't."
"Your scrubs are looser than they were two weeks ago. I notice these things." She taps the menu. "Pancakes. Bacon. Toast. Minimum."
The waitress appears — silver-haired, pencil behind her ear, apron stained with something that might be syrup or might be from 2003.
Odette orders pancakes and bacon. I order pancakes and a side of toast I won't eat.
The waitress leaves and Odette looks at me with her full attention, which is a considerable thing.
Twenty-six years of reading people who are lying to themselves and everyone else.
"I got my records from Lakeview."
"And?"
"She fabricated everything." I keep my voice low.
The nearest occupied table is three booths away — an EMT crew eating chili fries — but I'm careful anyway.
"Fake dates. Fake conversations. She documented a February meeting that never happened.
I wasn't even with her that day — I was working a twelve-hour shift. "
Odette nods slowly. "Can you prove that?"
"Time clock records. I clocked in at 6:52 AM and out at 19:14. Her note says we had a conversation that evening where I disclosed suicidal ideation."
"So you have a documented alibi for the date she claims the disclosure happened."
"Yes."
"What else?"
"She referred herself. Colette is listed as both the reporting provider AND the attending physician.
Same person. She called Drew, convinced him I was in crisis, walked him through the commitment process, picked me up from my own house — sedated, because she'd had Drew giving me something in my tea for days — and admitted me to a facility where she has permanent staff privileges. "
Odette's face doesn't change. She's heard worse — I know she has. But her hands are very still on the table, which means she's angry.
"The motive," I say. "That's what I need to talk to you about."
"The board."
"You already know."
"Honey, I told you I know everything in this building.
" She picks up her coffee. Takes a long sip.
"Colette submitted her board application in January.
Same cycle as you. I know because Denise in governance told me — she was surprised.
Said she didn't know Colette was still affiliated with the hospital. "
"January." I do the math. "She committed me in March. Two months after submitting her own application."
"And you submitted yours when?"
"November. Last November. Before her."
"So she saw your application — or heard about it — and then she submitted hers."
"And then she created a disqualifying event." The pancakes arrive. I don't touch mine. "The board has a fitness review. Section 4.2. You have to disclose involuntary psychiatric holds. The committee can withdraw your candidacy."
Odette cuts her pancake into precise triangles. "And yours would be the only candidacy affected."
"Dr. Remick has nothing. The finance person has nothing. Colette has nothing. I'm the only one with a seventy-two-hour hold on my record."
"A hold she put there."
"Yes."
Odette eats a triangle of pancake. Chews thoughtfully. Then she points her fork at me.
"You know what this is, right? In legal terms."
"Fraud. Falsification of medical records. Abuse of prescriptive authority. Possible criminal charges for administering medication without informed consent."
"And?"
I look at her. "And what?"
"And it's a nursing license violation. Which means you don't need a courtroom.
You need the Board of Nursing." She takes another bite.
"File a complaint. They investigate. If the investigation substantiates — and with your documentation, it will — her license is suspended pending formal hearing.
No license, no board candidacy. No board candidacy, no motive to maintain whatever fiction she's built. "
I exhale. The first real breath I've taken since I sat down.
"You make it sound simple."
"It IS simple." Odette waves her fork. "You have the fabricated chart.
You have the alibi — shift records proving you weren't where she says you were.
You have the licensing database showing she lied about her facility affiliations.
You have a husband who will testify he was coached into the petition.
And you have section 4.2 as evidence of motive. "
"I also accessed the hospital HR system looking for her file."
Odette's fork pauses mid-air. "Did you find anything?"
"No. It was locked."
"Then you logged in, looked at a screen that told you nothing, and logged out."
"Yes."
"That's not a violation. That's a failed search." She eats another triangle. "Don't do it again."
"I won't."
"Good." She pushes the syrup toward me. "Now eat your pancakes. They're shaped like hearts because this place is an emotional support restaurant and you look like you haven't eaten in a week."
I look down. They are, in fact, vaguely heart-shaped. Lopsided and browned unevenly, but the intent is there.
I laugh. It surprises me — the sound of it, the way it breaks open something in my chest that's been sealed shut for days. It's not a big laugh. Not a healed laugh. But it's the first one since the letter arrived in my kitchen five days ago.
"Emotional support restaurant," I repeat.
"I've been coming here for nineteen years." Odette reaches across the table and taps my plate with her knife. "Eat. You're going to file a licensing complaint and go before the Board of Nursing and dismantle an eighteen-year friendship in front of a panel of strangers. You need carbs."
I eat the pancakes. They're mediocre. The coffee is bitter and too hot and the booth is sticky and the EMT crew is laughing too loud about something.
It's the best meal I've had in two weeks.
"Odette."
"Mm."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me. I'm furious." She sets her fork down.
Looks at me with something I haven't seen on her face before — not anger, exactly.
Something older. Deeper. "I've worked in psych for twenty-six years.
I've seen the system used wrong — by families, by administrators, by doctors who should know better.
But I've never seen a colleague weaponize it against a friend for professional gain.
That's—" She stops. Starts again. "That's a desecration. "
The word sits between us. Heavy. Exact.
"I need one more thing from you," I say.
"What."
"The hearing. If I file the complaint and it goes to formal proceedings. Will you testify? About her badge. About her being on Three East. About the timeline."
Odette picks up her coffee. Drinks. Sets it down.
"Honey, I'll do better than testify. I'll sit in the front row and I'll watch her face when they read the charges." She smiles — not warm, not kind. Professional. "And then I'll go back to work the next day and I'll tell the med room what justice looks like."
I nod. I eat my toast. I drink my terrible coffee.
Outside, the parking lot is dark and empty except for our two cars and the EMT rig.
The Greek Star sign buzzes orange against the night.
Somewhere in the city, Colette is asleep in her apartment with her clean license and her board application and her eighteen years of my friendship in her pocket like loose change.
Not for much longer.