Page 4 of Bad Blood

I hop onto the counter, avoiding the debris from the mug splintered across the floor. “That I’m named in the lawsuit too?”

“Yes. I tried to assure them you weren’t involved, but the evidence . . .”

I know what he’s talking about. The exact moment. My stomach lurches, and I want to curl into a ball. I zone out, the ringing in my ears making it hard to hear Luca.

“There are two now . . .”

I can’t imagine the extent of what Kline has done. Death? I remember being called out of surgery for an emergency once or twice, but I still can’t recall the specifics of the patients. I’m not Kline’s babysitter and can’t go into every surgery with him. This is partly my fault. I should have listened to my gut.

He’s held my mistake over me for years, and I’ve let it slide. If whatever game he’s playing has anything to do with that—I’m done for. He promised to keep his mouth shut, but for how long? He’s noticed I’ve been sticking up for myself, and he doesn’t like it.

“Do you have any questions?”

“Did you say two?”

“Yes, we have evidence. There’s another instance where a questionable outcome did not result in death. We’ve had enough to build a case against him for a while now.”

And they didn’t take action. A death was the result of their negligence, yet I’m the one named in the lawsuit.

The room starts to spin. I lean back against the wall, pulling my knees to my chest. This can’t be happening.

“Brighton? You there? Hello?”

“You have to give me more information.” I clear my throat. “I can’t go into the meeting blind.” Not thinking, I hop off the counter, and a stab of pain shoots through my right foot. I hop to the left, and the phone clatters across the floor as I fall to my hands and knees.

Luca’s voice is muffled against the floor. He continues to speak, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. I brush my hand along the tile, push the mug pieces out of the way, and crawl to the phone.

“Luca, wait.”

“. . . on surgeries. We also have the anesthesiologist and nurse anesthetist coming in tomorrow. We want to make sure anyone present during the specific surgeries has given their statement.”

“Back up. I didn’t hear you.” I lean against the cabinet at the base of the sink, pulling my foot up to see the damage and bite down as I yank the sliver from my heel.

“The cases you’re named in were surgeries where you assisted Kline. One in March and the other three weeks ago.”

“Names?” I shrug off my lab coat, wrap it around my foot, and swallow the bile rising in my throat. I already know who he’s talking about, but I need confirmation.

“I’m not supposed to—”

“Who?” I’ve worked alongside Kline on many patients’ cases because of the oncology floor’s group approach to treatment. There are the two recent cases I worked with him, both at his insistence, but I can’t remember anything out of the ordinary. And certainly nothing that resulted in a death.

“Brighton—”

“You called me. Tell me their names. I deserve to know what he’s . . .” I shake my head, unable to finish the sentence, as I prop the phone between my shoulder and ear.

He sniffs and clears his throat. “Banks and Nelson. That’s all I can say.”

“I know their cases.”

He hangs up before all the words are out of my mouth.

I pull the fabric from my left foot and see the bleeding has stopped. Dropping my head back against the cabinet door, my mind races as I take in shallow, rapid breaths. I recognize the signs of shock. I need to do something, anything, to keep my mind busy.

The phone clatters to the floor. I hoist myself up by the edge of the counter and run my lab coat under the faucet, rubbing it under the cold water until the red turns a faint pink.

Banks, I remember. Every aspect. Lower lumbar lipoma. In and out. Less than an hour. But Nelson, I know the case. Can’t remember the surgery. I lift the lab coat, inspect it, and walk to the trash, stepping on the lever and tossing it inside. Some stains can’t be erased.

My meticulous brain fluctuates between different ways to start the cleaning process. Blood and shards of mug versus purse contents and a vacuum. I survey the droplets, the bits of mug, and the remaining objects from my purse; my brain is stuck in the mud. I scoop my laptop off the table and make my way around the fiasco and into the hallway. It can wait.

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