Chapter Thirty-Three Jenn
Chapter Thirty-Three
Jenn
Sunday afternoon
When I return downstairs, I find David sitting at his desk, rubbing the bridge of his nose as Julian stands, looking out the window, jiggling his leg nervously.
“Ah, Dr. Flores, come join the shit show!” Kellogg says brightly, motioning me to one of the chairs in front of him. “Julian, stop pouting over there and have a seat.”
Julian spins around, red faced. “I’m hardly pouting, David,” he huffs, stomping over to drop into the other chair. “I just can’t believe this! The manipulation, the deception! Imagine if she’d actually gotten away with it!”
I feel a little stir of defensiveness on Sam’s behalf. “Well, you’re the one who has such a long history with the family,” I remind him. “If anyone should have spotted the difference, it’s you.”
“She’s right.”
My glance cuts to Kellogg for a second. Those are two words I never thought I’d hear coming out of his mouth. Not about me, anyway. Meanwhile, to my right, Julian is having a full-on meltdown.
“I-I hardly think that’s fair!” he splutters.
“I haven’t seen Mary for about five years now, since the last time I had Thanksgiving with the family.
And that was also the one and only time I ever met Samantha, who apparently did an excellent job at imitating Mary.
You know, I think we should be discussing invoking the Baker Act. ”
I sit up straight in my chair and gape at him. “The Baker Act? Are you kidding me?”
Also known as the Florida Mental Health Act, the Baker Act is a Florida law that provides emergency mental health services—by way of temporary detention—for people with mental illness. He wants to have Sam committed involuntarily.
“No, Jennifer, I assure you I’m perfectly serious. There’s no telling what that young woman might do next if left to her own devices.”
“Julian, that does sound a bit extreme,” Kellogg says. When he turns his attention to me, I brace myself for the worst. None of this was my fault, but there’s an excellent chance I’m about to become the scapegoat. Again.
“And you?” he asks.
I wait for the rest.
“And me . . . what?”
“What do you propose we do?”
“Do? I don’t think we can do anything. I don’t believe she’s a threat to herself or to anyone else—”
“I think Doug and Terry Langston would beg to differ,” Braithwaite cuts in.
I shoot him a glare. “Well, I think if anyone is hurt here, it’s that girl upstairs.” Julian scoffs, but I continue. “She’s been through a horrible ordeal . . .”
“Not as horrible as Mary,” he grumbles.
I shift in my seat to face him, my anger rising. “Okay, you really need to shut the fuck up now.”
Both men stare at me, wide eyed.
“I’m sorry, what did you just say to me?” Julian demands, echoing Terry Langston’s earlier question.
“I’m pretty sure she just told you to shut the fuck up,” Kellogg replies, folding his arms as he sits back against the back of his chair, an amused smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth.
“I cannot believe you—of all people—would speak to me that way!” my old mentor spits back at me.
“Why? Because I owe you something for bringing me down here to this clusterfuck of a situation? I don’t owe you anything.
Not a damn thing.” I turn back toward the desk and Kellogg.
“You want my opinion? Well, here it is—this woman’s been through enough.
She’s got a life to rebuild, and we should be helping her get out there, not locking her up against her will. ”
“At least here I could treat her. I could keep an eye on her,” Julian counters to his boss, ratcheting back on the theatrics.
David looks between us, no trace of the smile on his face anymore.
“Julian, even if I thought it was a good idea to admit Samantha Kinski to the psych ward for observation—which I don’t—I sure as hell wouldn’t allow you to do the assessment.
You’re way too close to this already. And this .
. . this chip-on-your-shoulder thing that you’ve got going on right now?
Yeah . . . no. Not gonna happen.” He looks to me.
“Dr. Flores, once you’ve written up your report, we’ll put it in the file.
Feel free to finish it here or do it when you get back home to New York.
Just send it to me along with your invoice. I’ll see it’s paid.”
I wait a long, awkward beat for him to add something else. Something snarky. Something insulting. Something belittling. But it doesn’t come, and I have no choice but to respond.
“Um . . . Yes, of course. I’ll do that.”
“Well, I object to this—all of this. I want that noted for the record,” Julian declares, standing up so he can glower down at me.
I keep my own expression impassive. “Duly noted,” I say.
When he stomps out, slamming the door behind him, I turn back to Kellogg.
“You won’t let him . . .”
“Admit her? No.”
“What if he gets another doctor at another hospital to do it?”
“No, that’s not going to happen, Dr. Flores. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to do a video call with our PR people so we can figure out how we’re going to handle the press.”
I stand. “Right, thank you again . . . for Sam . . .”
He nods curtly. “Not to worry. I’ll see Julian keeps his distance until she’s ready to leave.”
And just like that, the man who’s starred in two decades’ worth of nightmares evaporates. I walk out the door feeling, inexplicably, as if I’ve lost something.