“Alright, what’s going on?” I asked, already bracing. “You didn’t call me before sunrise to debate coffee.”
“Yes, I did, but okay. I’ve been tracking a patient death. The family’s starting to askquestions.”
Noting the inflection, I lowered the volume on the iPad and asked, “What kind ofquestions?”
“The kind they hire a medical negligence law firm to ask. A records request came through Friday afternoon. The review team flagged it.”
Patient deaths happened every day at Ridgeway Medical Center. We were the largest hospital in the region, a level one trauma center, the place people came when everything else had failed. When protocols and policies came into question, the Risk Management department got involved.
Most families grieved and moved on. Some asked questions. A few hired lawyers.
“Walk me through it,” I said.
The sounds of clicking told me they were already in the file. “Elderly patient brought in unresponsive. ER found a ruptured aneurysm. His condition deteriorated, he was transferred to surgery. Patient died before family arrived.”
“Happens,” I said. “So, what’s the problem?”
“Next of kin is pressed. They’re saying they were left out of critical decisions, and no consent was obtained for the interventions.”
I frowned. “An imminent situation trumps consent. We aren’t going to wait for family to mosey on down to the ER to say yes, we can save a life.”
“Normally, yeah. But the patient is a Hart. As in Hart Pavilion, Hart Endowed Chair?—”
My eyes slammed shut and I set my mug down with a heavy thunk. “Fuuuuuuck.”
“Right.” Rowan paused, pushing out a sigh. “Dr. Rice is already in my inbox.”
Dr. Elizabeth Rice, Vice President of Risk Management and Patient Advocacy, had never met a problem she couldn’t reframe as someone else’s fault. She and I had a tenuous relationship. We got along better when she let me do my job. Unfortunately, she was a bit of a helicopter and a micromanager.
“Who was on the case?” I asked.
After a few clicks, Rowan replied, “Aside from the ER team, Dr. Cole Vaughn, trauma surgeon. He’s been at RMC about three years. He’s as good as they get, from what I hear.”
I knew the name, the face, the physique. Dr. Vaughn looked like he’d stepped straight out of central casting of a nighttime medical drama. Mid-forties, dark, moody eyes framed by bushy brows. He had distinguished grays throughout his hair and beard that probably had the nurses doodling his name in their journals at night.
Vaughn didn’t seem particularly political. Either he was smart enough not to play games or naive enough to think being good at his job was enough to protect him.
We all learn sometime.
I glanced at the clock. I had time to finish my coffee, get dressed, and arrive at the hospital ready to jump into this case.
“Alright. I’ll be there by eight,” I said.
“See you then. I’ll have coffee waiting.”
“You have enough to do without fetching me coffee.”
“We have talked about this, Harper. You’re much more pleasant when you’re caffeinated.”
I pouted. “I’m starting to feel like you’re managing me.”
“Somebody has to. See you in a bit.”
I hung up and stood in my kitchen enjoying the last moments of silence. A long snore rolled from down the hall, reminding me that I wasn’t alone. I padded back to my bedroom. The door was cracked and from inside, the sound of deep breathing came through.
The dark-skinned, muscled body I’d worshiped the evening before was sprawled across one half of my king-sized bed. The duvet had been tossed away like an afterthought at some point during the night. One arm was thrown over his face, a sheet tangled low enough around his waist that I could trace his Adonis lines to a well-groomed length if I so desired.
Jeremiah and I had been doing this for three months—meeting for a game or a movie or dinner, then stealing time with each other, no strings. He was a project manager at a tech company downtown. Funny, sexy, great in bed, and smart enough to let me control the speed and depth of our relationship. He did not ask questions I didn’t want to answer. He texted or called, I responded if I felt like it.
