8. Jones
JONES
The conference room blinds are drawn, which means what we're discussing stays between these four walls.
Eric sits across from me, Vincent to my right, Anya directly beside him with a stack of files she's organized with the kind of systematic precision that still surprises me.
Three weeks of working here and she's transformed every messy corner of our record-keeping into something I can actually respect.
Which makes what I'm about to tell them that much more galling.
"We have a problem," I begin, setting the security report on the table between us. "Medications have been disappearing from the pharmacy."
Eric's expression shifts immediately, the easy warmth he carries vanishing like someone flipped a switch. "How much and what kind?"
"Fertility hormones. Injectable progesterone. Estrogen supplements." I let that land for a second. "The kind of medications that have street value."
Vincent's jaw tightens, the only outward sign that he's processing the implications.
Anya reaches for one of her files, flipping it open to a page marked with yellow tabs. "I noticed discrepancies in the inventory three days ago. The numbers weren't adding up when I cross-referenced prescriptions filled against stock received."
The fact that she caught it before our monthly audit tells me everything I need to know about how seriously she takes this job. Most administrative assistants would have assumed the records were wrong and moved on. Anya dug deeper.
"Show me," I say.
She slides the file toward me, pointing to columns of numbers she's highlighted in different colors.
"Here. We ordered sixty vials of progesterone on the fifteenth.
Received confirmation from the supplier on the seventeenth.
But when I counted physical inventory yesterday, we were short twelve vials. "
Eric leans forward, studying the numbers over my shoulder. "Twelve vials. That's not a counting error."
"No," Vincent agrees. "That's deliberate."
The security footage confirms what Anya's records suggest. Grainy black-and-white images of the pharmacy after hours, time stamps showing 9:47 PM on a Tuesday when the clinic was closed. A figure in scrubs using a key card to access the controlled medication storage.
"Ryan Calloway," I say, sliding the printed frames across the table. "Three separate instances over the past month. Each time after his scheduled patients were finished, when he had no documented reason to be in the pharmacy."
Anya studies the images, her jaw tight. The professional mask she's learned to wear doesn't quite hide the flash of anger in her eyes. "He hit on me at my desk. Wouldn't take no for an answer until Eric intervened."
"I remember." Eric's voice has gone flat and cold, the tone he uses when someone crosses a line he won't tolerate. "Persistent bastard."
Vincent taps his pen against the table, the small sound sharp in the quiet room. "What's our liability exposure? If patients find out their medications were compromised, or if the state board launches an investigation?"
"Manageable, if we handle this correctly." I've already considered the angles, run through the scenarios that keep me awake at night when the clinic's reputation is at stake. "We report the theft to the board immediately. Full disclosure, full cooperation. Document everything."
Anya flips to another section of her file, this one thick with printed emails and supply receipts. "I can provide a complete audit trail. Every delivery, every prescription filled, every vial accounted for. The pattern will be obvious once it's laid out properly."
The methodical way she approaches the problem—no drama, no emotional reaction, just clear thinking and concrete evidence—reminds me why I stopped questioning her competence after the first week.
She doesn't just organize files. She understands what the information means.
"The timing matters," Vincent continues, already thinking three steps ahead. "If we terminate him before a formal investigation, his lawyers could argue wrongful dismissal. But if we wait too long, he has more opportunities to compromise patient care."
Eric pushes back from the table, his frustration finally breaking through his controlled exterior.
"Patient care is already compromised. Every vial he stole could have been the difference between a successful cycle and another month of disappointment for someone who's been trying to conceive for years. "
The weight of that settles over the room. This isn't just theft. It's betrayal of the trust our patients place in us, violation of the oath Ryan swore when he became a doctor. The anger I've been keeping contained sharpens into something colder and more focused.
"We fire him," I decide. "Today. Security revokes his access to the building, the computer system, the pharmacy. Everything."
Anya nods, already reaching for her phone. "I'll pull his personnel file and schedule the termination meeting. Do you want HR present, or are you handling it directly?"
"Directly." The word comes out harder than I intended, but I don't soften it. Some conversations require the kind of authority that can't be delegated or filtered through corporate protocols.
Vincent closes his notepad. "I'll contact our legal team, make sure we're covered on the investigation process. The board will want documentation that we followed proper procedures."
"And I'll handle the pharmacy audit," Eric adds, his anger channeling into something productive. "Make sure nothing else is missing, tighten the access protocols."
The pieces fall into place with the efficiency that defines how we work together.
Each of us taking ownership of what needs to happen, no overlap or confusion about roles.
It's the same dynamic that built this clinic into what it is today, and watching Anya slot seamlessly into that process feels both natural and surprising.
A knock on the conference room door interrupts the moment. Anya rises to answer it, returning with bags of takeout that smell like the Thai place six blocks away.
"Lunch," she says simply, setting the bags on the table between the scattered files and security photos. "I ordered when I saw this meeting on the calendar. Figured we'd need fuel for whatever we were discussing."
The shift from the cold reality of dealing with theft to the warm scent of pad thai and green curry feels jarring and exactly right at the same time.
Eric's expression lightens as he reaches for the containers, Vincent moves the files to make room for plates, and Anya distributes napkins with the same systematic efficiency she brings to everything else.
This. The four of us around a table, handling serious business and then sharing a meal. Professional partnership sliding into something more personal without any awkward transition or conscious decision. It works in a way I never anticipated when I agreed to the three-month arrangement.