Chapter 9: What Followed
James Whitfield called on a Wednesday, three weeks later.
I was at my desk — a new desk, in a temporary office two floors below Ethan's, while HR processed the paperwork that would move me to a different role within the company.
Not because anything was wrong.
Because we had both agreed it was the right thing to do before anything between us moved forward.
I stepped into the hallway to take the call.
"The licensing board opened a formal review this morning," James said.
"Andrew's attorney tried to file an injunction to delay it.
The judge denied it in under an hour."
"And the Tribune?"
"Dana Reeves published yesterday evening.
It's been picked up by four national outlets this morning.
His publicist has already issued a statement calling it a mischaracterization.
Nobody's running the statement."
I looked through the glass wall at my colleagues working inside.
"The family," I said.
"The child's family.
Have they been contacted?"
"My associate spoke with them on Monday.
They've retained their own attorney.
The DA's office has agreed to review the case." A pause.
"Ava, I want to be honest with you.
That process will be long.
It may not result in charges.
But it will be a real investigation.
Not what happened four years ago."
"That's enough," I said.
"For now, that's enough."
"There's one more thing.
Andrew's attorney contacted my office this morning with a proposed agreement.
Andrew will voluntarily surrender his hospital privileges at Mercy General and two other affiliated institutions.
In exchange, he's asking that the foundation not pursue the surveillance matter as a separate civil action."
"What does Ethan want to do?"
"He said it's your decision."
I stood in the hallway for a moment.
Through the window, someone laughed at something on their screen.
A normal Wednesday.
The kind of Wednesday I had not had in eighteen months.
"Tell them no," I said.
"The surveillance matter goes forward."
"I'll let them know."
"James — thank you."
"Thank you for not going back downstairs that night," he said.
"A lot of people would have."
I went back to my desk and sat down and opened my laptop.
Andrew's name appeared in my news feed within the hour.
I read the first paragraph of the Tribune article.
Then I closed the tab.
I didn't need to read the rest.
Two floors above me, I knew Ethan was in his office.
Probably behind on his schedule.
Probably forgetting to eat.
I picked up my phone and sent him a message.
*The review is open.
The article is out.
James said to tell you the judge denied the injunction.*
His reply came in less than a minute.
*Good.
Are you eating lunch?*
I looked at the time.
It was 1:47 p.m.
*I forgot.*
*There's a place on 54th that does a very good soup.
I'll have Marcus bring it up.
Don't argue.*
I set the phone down.
For the first time in a long time, I didn't argue.
Claire Denton called that afternoon.
She had seen the article.
Her voice was unsteady at first, then steadier.
She said she had spent two years wondering if she had done the right thing by leaving, if she should have stayed and fought harder.
"You did what you could with what you had," I told her.
"And now it's different.
Now there are more of us."
She was quiet for a moment.
"Does it feel real yet?" she asked.
"Not entirely," I said.
"But it's getting there."
Patricia sent a message that evening.
No words.
Just a photograph — a newspaper folded to the article, sitting on a table beside a cup of tea.
The cup had a small chip on the rim.
The table was in a kitchen somewhere, ordinary and warm and completely unheroic.
May you like
That was the whole message.
It was enough.
