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She’d graduated third in her class at Johns Hopkins, excelled as an intern, and had been offered her pick of hospitals in which to serve her residency. Naturally, she’d enjoyed the grudging admiration of her colleagues, but the real reward lay in healing. A grateful patient’s simple “thank you” surpassed the accolades of her associates.
Heartbreakingly, those rewards came few and far between now. That’s why Lara enjoyed perusing her files, charting a patient’s progress from diagnosis to cure.
She was roused by an approaching car. Expecting it to drive past, she watched with puzzled interest when it entered her driveway and wound around to the rear of the clinic. She laid aside her reading material and quickly left her office. As she made her way through the clinic, she experienced a twinge of déjà vu. This was disturbingly similar to the night Key Tackett had appeared on her threshold, his side bleeding from a gunshot wound.
It was so similar that she barely registered surprise when she opened the door to find him standing on her back steps. Only this time he wasn’t alone.
Lara gave the girl a curious glance, then looked at him. “I keep regular office hours, Mr. Tackett. That’s something you seem to forget. Or ignore. Or is this a social call?”
“Can we come in?”
He wasn’t in a mood to spar with her. A frown was pulling his eyebrows together, and his lips were compressed into a stern, narrow line. If he had come alone, Lara probably would have slammed the door in his face. She was on the verge of doing so anyway when she gave the girl a closer look and saw that she’d been crying. Her eyes and nose were moist and red, and her face was mottled. She was clutching a damp tissue so tightly her knuckles had turned white.
Beyond these visible signs of distress, she appeared to be a perfectly healthy girl in her late teens. She was stoutly built, with a deep bosom and full hips. Her face was pretty, or would have been if she’d been smiling. Her shoulder-length hair was straight and dark. Because of the bleak expres
sion in her brown eyes, coupled with her obvious misery, Lara couldn’t shut her out.
She stepped aside and motioned them in. “What can I do for you?”
The girl remained silent. Key said, “This is Helen Berry, Dr. Mallory. She needs a doctor.”
“You’re ill?” Lara asked the girl.
Helen glanced furtively at Key before saying, “Not exactly.”
“I can’t help you unless you tell me what the problem is. If it’s a general checkup you need, you can be the first patient I see tomorrow morning.”
“No!” the girl protested. “I mean… I don’t want anybody to know… I can’t…”
“Helen needs you to examine her.”
Lara turned to Key, who’d spoken for the girl. “Examine her for what? If she’s not ill—”
“She needs a gynecological examination.”
Lara gave him a wide, inquiring stare that demanded further explanation. He remained silent, his expression immutable. The girl was anxiously gnawing her lower lip.
“Helen,” Lara asked gently, “were you raped?”
“No.” She gave her head a hard shake. “Nothing like that.”
Lara believed her and was greatly relieved.
“I’ll wait out here.” Key executed an abrupt about-face and stalked down the hallway to the dark waiting room.
His exit created a soundless vacuum. It was several seconds before Lara let out her held breath. She gave Helen Berry a reassuring smile and said, “This way, please.” The girl followed her into an examination room, where Lara pointed her onto the table.
“Don’t you want me to undress first?”
“No,” she replied. “I’m not going to do a pelvic examination until I have more information. Besides, my nurse isn’t here to assist me. I never conduct an examination like that without an assistant.”
That was for her protection as well as the patient’s. In a sue-crazy society, doctors were paranoid about malpractice suits. Because of the scandal that haunted her, she was more vulnerable than most.
Her patient’s eyes filled with fresh tears. “But you gotta examine me. I gotta know. I gotta know right now so I can decide what to do.”
Obviously distraught, she was shredding the soggy tissue. Lara clasped her hands to keep them still. “Helen.” She spoke gently but with authority. Her primary objective was to calm the patient. “Before we can proceed, I must get some information from you.”
She reached for a chart and a pen and asked Helen for her full name. The paperwork could have been postponed, but doing it now forced the girl to compose herself. Working her way down the standard form, Lara learned that Helen was a local girl who lived in a rural area. She was eighteen years old and had graduated from high school the previous May. Her father worked for the telephone company. Her mother was a homemaker. She had two younger sisters, one brother. There was no history of serious illness in the family.
