Chapter 8: The Weight of It
The medical board suspended Andrew's license forty-eight hours later.
Grace called while I was at my desk.
I had come back to work — Ethan had not asked me to stay away, had not treated me as someone who needed to be managed, had simply said good morning when I arrived and put a coffee on my desk and asked if I needed anything before his nine o'clock.
I had said no.
He had nodded and gone to his meeting.
That was the thing about Ethan that I had never been able to explain to anyone, not even to myself in the quiet moments when I'd allowed myself to think about it: he never made me feel like a problem he was solving.
He made me feel like a person he was standing next to.
"Suspension is the first step," Grace said on the phone.
"The DA's office is moving faster than I expected.
The badge logs were more useful than Andrew anticipated — he apparently didn't know the system tracked that level of detail.
Combined with the three statements and the text he sent you the night of the gala, they have enough to proceed."
"Enough for what, specifically?"
"Formal charges.
Criminal." A pause.
"Ava, this is going to become public.
Probably within the week.
I want you to be prepared for that."
I looked out the window at the city below.
"I've been prepared for a long time," I said.
"I just didn't have anywhere to take it."
"You'll want to make a statement to the press at some point.
On your own terms, when you're ready.
I can help you draft it."
"Thank you, Grace."
I ended the call and sat for a moment.
Then I knocked on Ethan's office door.
"Come in."
He was at his desk, reading something.
He looked up.
"They're filing charges," I said.
He set the papers down.
"How are you?"
"I don't know yet." I sat in the chair across from his desk — the chair I'd sat in a hundred times to go over schedules and quarterly reports and travel arrangements.
"I keep waiting to feel something definitive.
Relief, or—" I stopped.
"Mostly I just feel tired."
"That's allowed."
"Grace says it'll go public within the week."
"I know.
She told me." He paused.
"The foundation is releasing a statement today.
Withdrawing the award.
The board voted this morning."
I nodded.
"Ethan." I looked at him.
"The two nurses.
Claire and Patricia.
They came forward because of what we were able to put together in one night.
But they'd been carrying this for eighteen months.
Patricia moved to a different city.
Claire stopped working in medicine for six months." I paused.
"They lost so much more than I did."
"I know."
"I want to make sure they're not forgotten in whatever happens next.
Not just as witnesses.
As people who were harmed."
Ethan was quiet for a moment.
"The foundation has a victim advocacy fund," he said.
"It's been used for hospital patients.
There's no reason it can't be extended." He picked up his pen.
"I'll talk to the board."
"Thank you."
"Ava."
I looked up.
"You came back to work today," he said.
"You didn't have to."
"I know."
"I'm glad you did." He said it simply, without any weight behind it except the weight of meaning it.
"Whatever happens next — whatever you decide about any of it — I'm glad you're here."
My throat tightened.
"I left a meal on your desk last Thursday," I said.
"You forgot to eat again."
The corner of his mouth moved.
"I know," he said.
"It was the best thing I ate all week."
I stood to leave.
"Ava."
I turned back.
"When this is over," he said carefully, "and when you've had enough time — I'd like to take you to dinner.
Not as your employer." He held my gaze.
"Only if you want to."
I thought about fourteen months of a ring that felt heavier every day.
I thought about a blue scarf folded carefully over the back of a chair.
I thought about a key card placed on a dressing table by a man who had no guarantee I would ever use it.
"Ask me again in a month," I said.
He nodded.
"A month."
I walked back to my desk.
My phone showed two missed calls from Andrew's number.
May you like
I blocked it without listening to the voicemails.
Then I opened my calendar and began to clear the next hour, because Ethan had a ten-thirty he always forgot about, and someone had to remember.
