Chapter 1 #2
Jeremiah was great for a good time, but he wasn’t the type to drag to Sunday dinner with my family.
I stripped the bed, tossing the sheets and my robe into the hamper. Minutes later, I was in the shower, hot water and my favorite body wash sudsing away the night and his scent.
* * *
The drive to Ridgeway took thirty-eight minutes on average. I knew every light, every lane change, every moment when traffic would slow or open up. I had a playlist for the morning commute—Cardi B, Megan Thee Stallion, some Beyoncé when I needed to feel unstoppable.
By the time I pulled into my assigned spot in the employee garage, I’d already run through several songs and scenarios.
Best case: the Hart family was just looking for answers. We could provide them with transparency and compassion.
Worst case: the family was looking for someone to blame, and the hospital was already deciding who that someone would be.
Dr. Cole Vaughn’s face flashed in my head like a blinking cursor.
I breezed through the employee entrance, taking the stairs to the fourth floor. The elevator was faster, but I liked the stairs. I got my steps in and it gave me time to shift from Harper-at-home to Harper-at-work.
Rowan was at their desk outside my office, short fade freshly lined, their usual uniform black button-down shirt and black slacks crisp against reddish brown skin. A silver wedding band caught the light as their fingers moved quickly across the low-profile keyboard.
They glanced up when I stepped out, already tracking me. A file folder was centered on the desk.
“Morning,” they said, standing to hand me the file. “This is as complete as I can get it. An electronic copy is already in your inbox so you can bring it up on your iPad.”
I took the folder and walked into my office, smiling over my shoulder when I noticed the mug of coffee waiting.
“You’ve got to stop spoiling me. Got me smiling in the morning and shit.” I dropped my bag, then slid into my chair. “Anything pertinent since we talked earlier?”
“The patient’s name was Earl Thomas Greene,” Rowan read from the summary page.
“Mr. Greene was a long-term resident at Brookside Assisted Living. The facility called 911 when they found him collapsed in his room. ER ran the protocol, did an ultrasound, found an aneurysm, and transferred to surgery. Next of kin is listed as Diane, his granddaughter. She’s married to a Hart—”
“So he’s not wealthy, but his granddaughter’s husband is?”
“Correct.”
“Brookside isn’t where I’d put my grandfather,” I mused. “Families don’t take care of each other like they used to, do they? So Diane is saying we moved on her behalf without her consent? How long until she was informed of his death?”
“The facility says they called her when they found Mr. Greene in his room. She’d been out of town and was hard to reach. Then RMC notified her to call the ER when he was transferred to surgery, then again upon his passing, but it was four hours before anyone spoke with her.”
“Four hours? She’s throwing a fit and it took her four hours to call someone back?”
In a hospital, that could be a lifetime or an eye blink depending on the patient, the injury, the intervention. And whether someone was pushing for aggressive treatment or letting nature take its course.
I tabbed through the file. Mr. Greene had been seen at the ER quite a few times in the past few months. “His history sounds like he was at end of life. He was in his eighties. So she’s saying what, exactly?”
“That nobody gave her a chance to be involved with his care, that her grandfather died alone because the hospital was in a hurry to cut somebody open.”
“Now what kind of ridiculous bullsh—”
I paused, biting my tongue. My opinion had no place here. But I was frustrated because that narrative would drive everything from this point forward.
Hart family money meant the cause of Earl’s death would be attributed to everything but him being an old man that died when his body gave out. They would dig deep, looking for medical error or malpractice or abandonment.
These kinds of claims made juries angry and hospital boards panic.
“What’s the documentation look like?” I asked.
“It passed post mortem review.”
“Hmm. Well, that’s good.” I scrolled through the file, flipping through the color-coded flags Rowan had already applied: yellow for missing information, orange for vague language. Red for timeline gaps that could raise questions.
“So, why is this case my problem?” I asked.
“Officially, because you’re the best at what you do.” Rowan stopped to smirk. “Unofficially? Probably because Diane Hart is Black and so is the surgeon.”
My eyes rolled at that. I suppressed a heavy sigh. “When being a competent Black woman bites you in the ass,” I said, reaching for the mug of coffee. “Let me read through this. I need you to rearrange my morning. Nothing new unless it’s urgent. This is going to be a…well, you know.”
“A shit show. Mmmhmmm. Already working on it.” Rowan left quietly, pulling the door closed behind them.
I found Dr. Cole Vaughn’s name in the notes. He’d assessed the patient, provided intervention. The intervention failed.
He’d done his job.
But had he done enough? That was the question Diane Hart and likely a very expensive lawyer was asking. That was the question I had to answer.
My phone buzzed. A text from my sister flashed on screen:
Alicia:
Are you alive? You’ve been AWOL from the last two Sunday dinners. I miss your face.
I stared at the message, scrolling back in my mind. Had it been two weeks since I’d had dinner with my family? Probably.
Between work and the general exhaustion of being the only single person at a table full of couples and kids, Sunday dinners had become something I found reasons to avoid.
Alicia would be with her partner. Aaron would bring his daughter.
Even Naomi would show up with whoever she was dating this month and swearing she was about to marry.
She was the most lovesick person I’d ever met.
I’d be the only one fielding questions from my mother about whether I was seeing anyone special and getting looks from my father that said he worried I worked too much.
I did not need their damn help to get a man. I had plenty of men.
Me:
My dry ass text message inbox says you ain’t missed nobody’s face. Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, I’ll be there this week.
Alicia:
Good! And would it kill you to pretend to be dating someone? It would make the ‘rents so happy in their golden years.
Me:
I will not be fake dating anyone to get a plate.
Alicia:
Fine. See you Sunday. And I do be missing your face! Love you.
Me:
Love you too, Leesh.
I returned to the file and started building a plan to make sure the Hart family didn’t sue the pants off of RMC. I was halfway through my second read when a Teams message popped up:
Rowan:
You in for Dr. Rice?
I frowned.
Me:
I don’t suppose I can hide from her.
Dr. Rice walked in and closed the door behind her, which meant this wasn’t a casual check-in. “Morning, Harper. I see you’re already digging into the Greene case.”
“Morning, Liz. Yes, I’m reviewing the file now.” I gestured to the chair across from my desk. “Coffee?”
“No, thank you. I’m already three cups in.”
Dr. Elizabeth Rice settled into the chair with grace, crossing one long leg over the other. She was in her late fifties, polished and seasoned, graying hair in a sleek, shoulder length cut—more than a bob.
A Robert, if you will.
Liz wore expensive suits and even more expensive shoes and never drove; she used a car service.
“I missed the gala on Saturday. How was it?” I asked, keeping my tone light. “I saw the photos on the Foundation page.”
“Exhausting but successful,” she answered, as if she lifted a finger to do any work for it. “We raised over two million for the cardiac wing expansion.” She adjusted a Cartier bracelet, ever so casually. “You should have come, Harper.”
“You know how it is this time of year. I was buried alive.” That, and I had no intention of paying for the privilege of spending my Saturday evening rubbing elbows with the blue blood crowd. “Did Natalie decide on a college, yet? It was between Stanford and…”
“She was between there and Wellesley, but Stanford won.” Rice’s smile warmed slightly. “We’re thrilled, though the distance is going to take some getting used to.”
I glanced pointedly at the file open on my desk, hoping to change the topic. I could only take so much of the part of office politics where I pretended to care about people’s spouses and children.
“So, let’s talk about the Hart case and why it’s on my desk.”
“Well, it’s delicate,” she said, after a pause. “Needs your steady hand.”
“You’re not kidding. We couldn’t manage to keep the grandfather of one of our donors alive?”
“Diane and Eric Hart are not people we want upset, Harper. They have deep ties to this hospital. The Chairman of the Board knows them personally.”
I kept my expression neutral. “And?”
“And,” she continued after a moment, “the chairman has been in my inbox about this case already. We need to make sure this doesn’t become an issue. I expect you to manage expectations all the way around.”
I knew the drill: protect the institution and make sure the donor family doesn’t decide to redirect their generosity elsewhere.
“OK. Well, like I said, I am reviewing the case.”
“Of course.” Dr. Rice paused. “And Harper—could you speak with Dr. Vaughn?”
“Why? Because he’s Black?”
“Because if this inquiry escalates, we need to make sure the message is clear and unified.”
I looked up, my brows raised and my hackles up. This case was already on my nerves. “The message?”
“That the hospital followed appropriate protocols. That any gaps in process were anomalies and not a breakdown they can pin on us.”
There was the exit strategy. If someone had to take the fall, it wouldn’t be Ridgeway Medical Center. It would be a single individual receiving a heavy dose of the blame.
“I’ll review the case,” I replied. “And I’ll brief Dr. Vaughn.”
Rice stood, her Colgate-white smile widening. “I know you will. That’s why you’re so good at this.”
She left, closing the door behind her.
I pulled my laptop closer, then logged into email to send a message through the head of Trauma to arrange for a conversation with Dr. Vaughn.
Poor guy had no idea the system was already setting up to sacrifice him.