But the laughter, happiness, and dancing inside quickly dulled Justine’s instinctive reaction to flee such a raucous scene. People from the island that she recognized were inside. Naomi from the vineyard, Cameron Arendelle, Keturah Katz, and so many other familiar friendly faces. Including a few faces she recognized from the hospital in Seattle.
“Drinks?” Bennett asked over the music.
Brooke and Justine both nodded.
“Beer,” Brooke said.
“I’ll have a white wine,” Justine said, wincing at the loud music.
The servers from the pub wandered around with trays of appetizers, and one of the servers—Gabby—stopped in front of Brooke and Justine. “Arancini?”
“Ohh. Yes, please,” Brooke said, grabbing a little napkin, and a fried ball of risotto and cheese.
Justine nabbed one too.
Clint approached, wrapping a protective and loving arm around Brooke, and pecking her on the side of the head. “I take it you’ve been filled in on today’s events?”
Brooke shook her head in disbelief. “Talk about plot twist. And here I thought how my attempted murder turned out was a plot twist.”
“It was,” he confirmed.
“I need this story,” Justine said, accepting the wine from Bennett when he returned and thanking him for it.
“Another day,” Brooke said. “Right now, we celebrate. The hellions are gone, we have their money and their food.” She lifted her beer bottle into the air and cheered. “And, this woman cut open a woman’s throat today and saved her life. She’s a badass doctor!” Brooke was yelling that last bit and drawing a fair bit of attention.
Heat pooled in Justine’s cheeks.
Clint gaped at her. “Did you cric someone?”
“She was in anaphylactic shock. I had to.”
“That’s amazing. Well done.” He patted her on the back while Bennett just stared at her with so much pride in his eyes her belly did some seriously acrobatic flip-flops.
They mingled and ate, drank, and chatted. It was a wonderful party and the more people she spoke with, the more content Justine was with her decision to move here. These were her new people. This was her new home. She felt it in her heart, mind, and soul.
“Heard you performed an emergency cricothyrotomy today. That’s impressive. And you used a kitchen knife and a pen.”
Justine smiled at Dr. Paulette Ogden. She was a fellow surgeon and former colleague of Justine’s at the hospital. “Trauma’s not my strong suit, but I got by in a pinch. Instincts kicked in.”
Paulette leaned in for a one-arm hug since her other hand had a champagne flute. “What happened, Justine? Talk to me. We were friends. Then you … just left.”
“Well, Tad and Ashli happened.”
“I know, and we all felt so bad for you. But that shouldn’t have made you leave. You did nothing wrong.” She batted thick lashes over her grass-green eyes, which popped from her plum-colored crushed-velvet dress. She was a very pretty woman in her late forties, with dark-brown hair in loose curls, and a tight and toned body from her very disciplined CrossFit regime.
“I killed a patient because of how I reacted when I found out about Tad and Ashli. I brought my emotions into the OR. I nicked the man’s aorta and he bled out.”
Paulette’s eyes widened. “That’s not what’s in the autopsy report. Or what was discussed at the M and M.”
Justine leaned in, her brain threatening to short-circuit. “What?”
Paulette rested her free hand on Justine’s arms. “You didn’t kill that patient, honey. He threw a clot and a fat embolism. And his aorta was shredded before your scalpel even touched it.”
Justine shook her head. “No. No it wasn’t. I don’t remember that.”
Paulette simply nodded. “It’s true. Maybe you didn’t see it because of the angle you were at, or there was too much blood. But he went into that OR a dead man. There was nothing you could have done. His aorta dissected and was irreparable. It was in tatters. You didn’t nick it. Maybe you thought you did, but you didn’t. An autopsy was performed to rule out physician error, and you were found innocent on all counts. You didn’t kill that patient, Justine.” Her eyes turned sad, and she squeezed Justine’s arm. “Tell me you haven’t been beating yourself up over his death all this time?”
New, hot tears stung as they tumbled down her cheeks and the crease of her nose. The lump at the back of her throat made it near impossible to speak. “I thought I killed him,” she croaked. “I thought I killed him when I realized in the OR that Ashli was Tad’s mistress and having his baby. I thought I killed my patient. I thought I killed Mr. O’Malley, and you’re telling me I didn’t? You’re telling me I didn’t kill him?”