Chapter 4

That weekend, Cole Memorial hosted its annual charity gala. At the department gathering afterward, Graham walked into the room hand in hand with Maya, and their photo made the rounds through the hospital group chat almost immediately.

Before my night shift the following day, an intern noticed how worn out I looked and brought me a cold brew.

Graham, standing nearby, spoke almost reflexively. "She has a bad stomach. Nothing cold."

The air turned to stone. The smile on Maya's face froze in place, and she stood there not knowing what to do with herself.

I took the paper cup and set it on the desk, then held up my own thermos. "I have water."

That night, my mind was on the surgery scheduled for the next morning. The patient was an eight-year-old girl with a congenital heart defect, and the entire team had been preparing for a long time. When my shift ended in the early hours, I walked toward the parking lot clutching a stack of patient files and spotted a dark gray pickup truck parked across from the exit.

This was the third time that week.

I didn't head straight to my apartment. Instead, I moved toward the main road where surveillance cameras covered every angle and dialed 911. The operator told me to stay on the line. A patrol car was on its way.

I opened my emergency contacts. Graham's name was still at the top. Two years ago, on the day Maya filed for her domestic violence protection order, she'd entered that number herself. She told me that if I was ever in danger, Graham would answer. No matter what.

I placed the call. No one picked up.

I called again. Still nothing.

Derek emerged from behind the pickup, an aluminum baseball bat in his hand.

"That rich Cole boy is protecting Maya, so I can't get to her. But you? You're the one who talked her into calling the cops. You ruined my job. You ruined my life."

I backed away step by step until a construction barrier sealed off my escape.

"Maya walked out on you. That was her call."

"You put her up to it!"

"All I did was tell her she had the right to call the police."

"Then you're the one who's going to pay for it."

Cornered, I didn't beg him to let me go. All I managed to say was, "Don't hurt my right hand. There's a little girl waiting for me to operate on her tomorrow."

Derek's mouth twisted into a cold grin. The bat cut through the air and came down hard. I raised my arm to block it. A searing pain ripped through my forearm, and the crack of shattering bone echoed across the empty parking lot.

By the time the ambulance arrived, my phone lay smashed on the ground, its screen frozen on my unanswered calls to Graham. After the X-rays in the ER, the orthopedic surgeon's face was grim. A comminuted fracture of the right forearm with nerve damage. Recovery was uncertain.

I pushed through the pain to ask, "When is the earliest I can start hand rehabilitation?"

The doctor paused. "First, you need to accept the reality that your career as a lead surgeon may very well be over."

"I asked when."

Maya knelt outside my hospital room, sobbing uncontrollably. Graham stood behind her, his face white as paper. A nurse came in to ask if I wanted to see them.

"No."

Graham spoke through the closed door.

"I was—"

"Don't bother." I cut him off. "You didn't answer that call. That tells me everything I need to know."

Afterward, he kept bringing up how his father's connections could help me transfer to an administrative role, teach at the medical school, or arrange a research position that didn't require surgery.

With my left hand, I opened a drawer and pulled out an email I'd put off for too long. Dr. Adrian Mercer at the Boston Aortic Research Center had once offered me a research fellow position. Back then, I couldn't leave my patients, my friends, or the life I'd built, so I'd never replied.

Now, with my left hand, I typed a brief response: I accept.

I submitted my resignation, changed all my contact information, and moved out of Chicago without leaving an address for anyone.