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.
ARobert,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.
Chapter Two
COLE
I peeled off my scrubs and shuffled into the locker room; it was nearly six o’clock and I’d been on my feet all day, beginning at seven with rounds, then two surgeries, then a tense forty-minute conversation with a family who wanted to know why their father now needed a feeding tube when he was “fine” days ago.
