Page 92 of Wistful Whispers
“You fell for her.”
I nod. “Yes. Deeply. She's it for me.”
She watches me carefully. “Thank you for being honest, Seamus. All of this is very complicated. Now, let's cut to the chase. What exactly are you asking from me?”
I can see it in her eyes: the needle has moved a little.
Enough.
“Not for a pass or to ignore what’s happened.” I begin my actual pitch. “I’m asking to design a research track under your guidance. To give me a chance to dig into something I care about and which could bolster your practice as well. Why not turn what people are whispering about into something useful? Something to actually help women. If I’m going to burn bridges, I want it to be for something that matters.”
“Look, I don’t support projects driven by personal guilt or romance.” She narrows her eyes. “If you can back up your passion with discipline, I’ll consider it. You’ll need to write a formal proposal. I want an outline of your objectives, your proposed research timeline, and a clear plan for collaboration. I won’t go to bat for you unless you come in prepared.”
I nod, swallowing down relief. “You’ll have it by the end of next week.”
“Don't get anything twisted. Even if I agree, I won't be here to offer you sanctuary.” Dr. Madison doesn't mince words. “I won’t pick sides. If you’re serious—and I mean academically serious—then I’ll consider it.”
My heart pounds. “Thank you. Your expertise makes you an ideal mentor for this endeavor.”
Her gaze drifts to the window behind me. For a second, I think we’re done. I start to stand.
“Seamus.”
I glance at her and lower myself back down. “Yeah?”
She leans in. “You should know, there are serious rumors floating around. You came for Caldwell professionally. Embarrassed him. He expected you to back him and you didn't play ball.”
I let the rage simmer just under my ribs. “I didn’t play ball because he put the blame on me. He ignored a vessel I flagged. He made the call and killed a twelve-year-old girl. I’d do it again.”
“Seamus.” Dr. Madison folds her arms and clucks her tongue. “Flagging a vessel and having a different surgical opinion doesn’t automatically make him wrong. Surgeons make judgment calls every day. Are you certain it wasn’t just a bad outcome?”
Shit. My throat constricts. “I was there. I know what I saw.”
“I believe you,” she says gently. “You’re not just judging the outcome. You’re assigning motive. There’s a difference.”
I stare at the floor, frustration presses down on my chest like a weight I can’t lift.
“I think you’re in more trouble than you realize.” She leans in. “I’ve heard gossip—Caldwell’s not just icing you out. He’s started asking around. Quietly gathering names. Nurses, maybe a few residents. The ones you used to see.”
My blood runs cold. “What?”
“He’s building something, Seamus. You know how this works. He won’t hit until he’s sure the floor will drop out from under you.” She tilts her head. “May I ask you a question?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Marcella pushed you to side with the Blacks and confirm Caldwell’s role, didn’t she?” Her voice is barely a whisper. “For Miranda?”
I freeze. “She asked me questions in a deposition. I had to answer honestly.”
“Did you though?” Her tone isn’t accusatory—more reflective. “Entirely? In essence, despite the settlement the Blacks received, you're the one taking the fall professionally. Has it been worth it? Have you asked yourself whether she wanted justice or to close the case with a win?”
I clench my jaw. “Are you insinuating she used me?”
“No. I’m saying it’s worth asking her the question.” She lifts her chin. “Don’t you think? You’re in the middle of your research year. Evaluate what’s in front of you. Don’t let how you feel about her cloud the evidence.”
I feel like I'm about to vomit.
Dr. Madsion brings up a valid point. I haven’t allowed myself to question any of it. Not the fallout. Not the whispers. Not the shift in the way people look at me.
