Page 227 of The Doctors Will See You Now

He was all I could think about in that moment. I didn’t give a fuck about myself or what that article could potentially mean for my career.

I just cared about him. I loved him. I wanted the best for him. And this, well, this fucking article that had been published was the absolute worst.

Had he seen it? Was he okay?

I could only stand in her office for so long before the urge to sprint to Scott’s apartment was too strong. Without another word, I turned for the hall and ran toward the elevator.

I had to get to him. I had to make this okay again.

But after sprinting across the city like a madwoman and pounding my arrival against the door to his apartment with my fist, when the door opened, what I was greeted with on the other side made it very clear that everything was the opposite of okay.

It was all completely fucked.

As the detective swung open the door of my apartment, time stood still and Harlow stood on the other side. Drenched in fresh tears and wild with sweat and anguish, she bounced her eyes off of the detective in horror, only to land on the two uniformed officers standing with me.

Three hours since the article had made its splash in the shark-infested waters of New York City, and my entire life had been dismantled.

I’d met with the board immediately, and while they’d been professionally cautious and respectful, I’d been suspended pending an investigation. They were keeping it in-house they’d said, waiting for any allegations from victims to come forward and looking through each and every one of my case files for signs of malpractice before making permanent changes to my position—aka: firing me for fucking forever.

Victims.

Chaos tortured my mind better than any dripping water ever could. If ever there was a time to be clearheaded, I’d have thought this was it. But I couldn’t seem to hold on to a single thought long enough to analyze it for fucking anything.

After the meeting with the board, I’d done my best to keep my head high and my mouth closed as I gathered my belongings and left the premises—escorted by security, of course—of a building I’d called home for the last ten years. Sure, I had an actual apartment—I was standing in it—but I’d seen more, done more, fucking grown more in that hospital than anywhere else in my life. Ten years of one-hundred-hour-plus weeks—gone.

I felt like I was trapped underwater, a clog in my ears making everything in the room sound muddled and distorted. I could see the detective’s lips moving in front of me, but I couldn’t make out a goddamn word.

“Scott,” he said again, his voice gentle, if you can believe that. “Let’s just go down to the station and talk, okay? You’re not arrested at this point. We just can’t ignore this public of an allegation without looking into it.”

I nodded. Or, at least, I think I did.

But as I stepped forward to gather what I needed, Harlow’s raging voice finally broke through the haze.

“No! No, listen to me!”

I looked over the detective’s shoulder to see her standing just inside of my apartment, arguing with the two uniformed officers.

“You don’t understand, okay? My name is Harlow Paige. I’m his girlfriend, and yes, my name is on the article, but I didn’t write that. I’d never write that!”

“Ma’am, you need to calm down, okay?”

“I can’t calm down!”

Even though she was responsible for all of this, something inside my heart apparently hadn’t gotten the memo yet and sought to comfort her.

“Harlow, it’s okay. They’re just questioning me. Just calm down so you don’t get in trouble too.”

A single, beaded tear trailed down her cheek when I finished speaking, her chest rising and falling like she’d run a marathon.

“I didn’t write that, Scott,” she whispered, almost so quiet I couldn’t hear her. “I don’t know what happened, but I didn’t write that. I would never write that.”

I just shook my head, confused and frustrated and so fucking tired, more tired than I’d ever been in my life.

I didn’t have it in me to answer her, to address her directly again, and I didn’t have the time. Detective Santos had been patient with me up until now, but the strained lines of his face said he was done with this scene.

I could either come peacefully to the station with him now for questioning, or things would get uglier.

Walking calmly to the table at the side of my entryway, I reached for my keys and wallet, settled them into my pockets, and looked back to the detective. “I’m ready.”