Page 24 of Mirror Image

“I don’t give a damn who you need to wake up!” he barked into the phone. “We’re drowning down here, and I swear to God I’m going to close the ER to ambulance traffic if I don’t get some help in the next thirty minutes!”

He slammed the phone down on the counter. The nurse beside him jumped, scattering file folders across the floor.

“Oh, brilliant! Just fucking brilliant!” Kellogg roared, sloshing coffee over the rim. “Can nobody do their job tonight?” That was when he noticed me, chart clutched to my chest. “What do you want?” he demanded.

I stepped forward, took a deep breath, then explained the situation as calmly as possible. To his credit, he listened—interjecting every few seconds to bark orders at whoever passed. When I finished, he stared down at me.

“Right. So let me get this straight—some kid gets caught sexting, cries a little, and now mommy and daddy want us to deal with it? Have you even seen the waiting room backup?”

“No. I mean, yes—”

“Which is it?” he snapped, stepping into my space.

I flinched.

“No, that’s not what happened. Yes, I’ve seen the backup in the waiting room. But in my opinion this is a high-risk patient.”

“Your opinion?” he echoed, brows raised incredulously. “What’s your name?”

“Jennifer. Flores.”

“What are you? Second-year?”

“Third.”

“Right. A third-year. And, Jennifer Flores, do you really think I give a shit about your opinion?” His spittle hit my cheek as he spoke down at me. “News flash! Teenage boys think about sex nonstop. If the girl was naive enough to send the photos, she deserves a little humiliation. She hasn’t swallowed a bottle of pills. She hasn’t tried to slit her wrists. Mommy and daddy just got tired of listening to her whine. Send her home.”

A quick glance around told me no one else was near enough to witness this interaction.

“Dr. Kellogg, I think you’re way out of line here,” I began, stopping short when his face darkened with rage.

“I’m out of line?” He took another step, voice dropping low. “Get. Out.”

“But I haven’t—”

“Get the hell out of my ER and pray that I don’t report your ass to Braithwaite tomorrow.”

He snatched the chart from my hands. I got the hell out.

The next time I saw the chart was at my disciplinary hearing.

The next time I saw Cami Miller, she was in a casket.

Friday morning

To see Kellogg today, sitting easily in this sunny office in his bespoke suit and Italian leather shoes, you’d never guess what he’s capable of. Calm, charming, predatory beneath the polish.

He studies me now from across the desk lined with framed photos—vacations, probably. A yacht. A Porsche. Maybe a blonde or two. My stomach turns.

“Julian here had to work pretty hard to convince me that you were the only one for this assessment,” he says smoothly. “I was skeptical—until he disclosed your personal history. I had no idea you’d experienced so much trauma as a child. No wonder you were so troubled when you were here. We should have been treating you, not teaching you.”

My fingers find the elastic on my wrist, rolling it like a rosary.

Breathe. Respond, don’t react.

“Dr. Kellogg,” I say evenly, “I really could not care less what you think of my life, past or present. So here’s the deal: If you’re just going to skulk and preen like a B-movie villain, I’ll just be heading home.”

He gives that practiced smile—charm without warmth.