Chapter Thirty-Five Jenn
Chapter Thirty-Five
Jenn
Sunday evening
It’s after six by the time I return to the VIP floor with a bag of food from Cuba Libre in tow. I’m already thinking through how to coax Sam into eating something—anything—when the empty sitting room stops me cold.
Shannon stands just inside the bedroom doorway, arms folded, expression tightened with something like apology.
“Dr. Flores?” she says softly. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”
A ripple of dread curls through me. “Is she all right?”
The nurse exhales. “She’s . . . not here.”
My pulse ticks upward. “Not here meaning what, exactly?”
“She left. She asked me to take her down to the garden for air. Then she sent me inside for a bottle of water. When I came back, the chair was empty.” She hesitates before adding, “Security checked the area, but she wasn’t under a hold. And she didn’t owe a bill. She was free to leave anytime.”
Sam must have been as desperate to get away from this place as I was.
And who could blame her? Who was she trying to get away from with all of us buzzing around her, picking apart her lies, her motives, her life.
Julian. Kellogg. Even me.
Shannon shifts her weight—a subtle, deliberate movement. She’s watching me too closely.
“I knew you . . . back then. When you were a resident? I’m sure you don’t remember me. I was just a newbie nurse—a floater.”
My mind flips through a hundred faces from the past.
“I’m so sorry, I don’t—”
“I was in the ER,” she says before I can finish. “That night . . .”
The memory snaps into focus at once:
Harsh fluorescent lights.
The sharp scent of antiseptic.
A much younger Shannon hugging a stack of charts to her chest.
Kellogg slamming the phone down so hard the receiver bounced.
The charts flew from her arms and skittered across the tile.
“Oh, brilliant! Just fucking brilliant!” he’d barked, coffee splashing across his sleeve. “Can nobody do their job tonight?”
I blink, the image dissolving.
Shannon gives a small, rueful smile. “Hard night to forget.”
She shifts her weight again, hesitating before continuing.
“I tried speaking up afterward,” she says quietly. “Thought maybe it would help. But he barely even looked up from whatever he was writing in his little notebook and just told me to drop it. So I did.”
She delivers it like a throwaway detail, already moving past it.
“I was young,” she adds. “Easy to scare. But you weren’t. You fought back. I think that meant something to her—to Mary. Or Sam.” A faint, apologetic smile. “Sorry. Still getting used to which name belongs where.”
Her pager chirps.
“VIP physician needs me,” she says, offering a small shrug. “I’ve got to run.”
She turns down the hall, and the moment ends as simply as it began. I reach out to touch the sleeve of her scrubs as she walks by. She looks down at me.
“Thank you, Shannon. For then. And for now.”
She gives me a brief nod and a sad smile before disappearing into the corridor.
The room becomes still in the silence she leaves behind—as if it’s holding its breath. The faint rustle that comes several seconds later feels amplified, out of proportion to its size.
Did I miss someone coming into the suite? I stand up and walk toward the source of the noise and nearly jump out of my skin when an older gentleman in green housekeeping scrubs emerges from the bathroom holding a bag full of trash. I’ve seen him before.
“Oh! Dr. Flores, it’s you,” he says, recognizing me.
“Hello . . . Forgive me, I can’t recall your name . . .”
“Jeffrey,” he supplies. His eyes flick to the takeout bag in my hand, and he brightens. “Cuba Libre café! Best burgers in the city, bar none.”
Despite everything, I smile. A tiny, welcome sliver of normal.
“That’s my family’s place. My cousin Stef owns it. You’re not wrong about the burgers. In fact . . .” I offer the bag. “I brought this for my patient, but it doesn’t seem like she’ll be needing it.”
His face beams. “Well now, isn’t it a small world! Thank you, Doctor—what a treat. Tell your cousin she’s got fans in me and my wife.”
“You’re welcome. And I will,” I promise.
A moment later, his expression shifts. He points toward the empty bed.
“Dr. Flores, was the young woman in here your patient? Mary Langston?”
I don’t bother correcting the name. “She is. Do you know what happened to her?”
“No, ma’am. I was wondering the same. She was so sweet—most patients up here barely look at me. But Miss Langston, she liked to chat. I was happy when she asked me to come twice a day. Just lovely.”
“Yes,” I murmur. “She is.”
“Well, thank you again—I’ll take one of these”—he shakes the bag of food—“over one of these any day.” He lifts the trash bag in his other hand.
Something about the way it shifts catches my attention.
“Wow, that seems pretty heavy for bathroom trash,” I say, instincts prickling.
“Oh, that’s just the food,” he says casually.
“The . . . food? In the bathroom trash?”
He nods. “Yes’m. Picked it up twice a day. Poor thing couldn’t stand the smell.”
“Right,” I say, though nothing about this feels right. “Every day?”
“Well, she was only here a few days. But yeah. Once after lunch, once after dinner. Figured she couldn’t stomach heavy meals. Thought about suggesting broth, maybe crackers, but I didn’t want to be nosy.”
I search my memory:
A nibbled sandwich Friday.
A protein shake Saturday.
Barely a bite of pastry today.
None of this fits.
“Did you notice what kind of food she was tossing?” I ask.
“Oh sure. Cheese, pepperoni scraped off pizza . . . and a beautiful piece of skirt steak—primo cut! Not a single bite taken.”
And then, quietly, everything begins to click.
Ordering meals a vegan heiress wouldn’t touch.
Discarding the evidence.
Maintaining a performance Julian would recognize instantly if she slipped.
Clever, clever girl.
“Thank you, Jeffrey. Enjoy the burger,” I tell him.
“Oh, I will!” He gives a delighted wave as he heads out. “Gonna take my break early while it’s still warm!”
And then the room feels impossibly empty.
Sam gone.
The bed stripped.
The air scrubbed of any trace she’d ever been here.
I remind myself—firmly, clinically—that this is no longer my case.
I need to let it go.
I gather my purse and leave the suite, a faint unease following me down the corridor, lingering around me like a cloud as I push the elevator call button.
A whisper of wrongness I can’t quite pin down.
Once the doors slide closed behind me, I shake my head, trying to reset.
I’ll pack up my things and get the hell out of this place with its secrets and lies.
Then tomorrow I’ll go home to the safety of my husband’s arms and tell him he was right not to want me to come down here.
Some ghosts should be left in their quiet graves. Pull at the edges, and they rise—with their stories and their consequences.