Page 52 of Careless Whisper

“Reggie paged Dr. Loring, but she was pissed with Reggie, you know, because of the Armitage trial data screw-up, which was alsonotReggie’s fault, butshetried to make it.” Kajal was on a roll as if she’d been waiting to unload for the past five years. “Dr. Loring ignored Reggie, told her not to think she was anything special because she was sleeping with you…which was absurd because Reggie wouldneverdo that.”

The more I heard about it, the worse it got. Maren had known about Reggie and me. She hadn’t found out because Reggie had talked to her about it, accusing her of having an affair with me, which was what had convinced me of Reggie’s guilt.

I heard Kajal make a disgusted sound. “Then the patient coded, and Dr. Loring’s story changed.”

“Then why didn’t you do anything about it? Say something?”

“I did,” Kajal shouted. “I talked to the chief of surgery, and he said Reggie was just a brand-new nurse while Dr. Loring was the future of the hospital.”

Stratford’s chief of surgery was a good friend of Maren’s father, and mine for that matter.

“Finally, I told Reggie she had to go because you all were going to protect each other and not a nurse. I thought, at least, this way she wouldn’t have to deal with the animosity that was sure to come her way with an attending hating her guts.”

Like now!

Like with me.

Like with Maren.

“Dr. Graham, you know how it is. Maren was protected. She had a good name and a clean reputation. She was in the circle. Reggie wasn’t.”

I reclined back in my chair, the walls around me suddenly feeling a little too close.

“She didn’t deserve what happened,” Kajal added.

“No, she didn’t.”

“How is Reggie doing now?” Kajal asked, and then I heard her indrawn breath. “Is Dr. Loring blaming her for something again? Is that why you called me?”

“Kajal, I can’t thank you enough for talking to me. I appreciate it very much.”

I ended the call after that and prepared myself to eat crow, a big fat helping of it.

Since Maren had the day off, I went to her temporary apartment in Belltown—one of those sleek, glass-fronted high-rises with concierge service, security, and a rooftop infinity pool no one actually used. She was staying here until she got a place, she’d told me.

The elevator opened directly into her unit—wide-plank hardwood floors, oversized windows facing Elliott Bay, the kind of view (like mine?) that screamed money.

A vase of white orchids sat on the marble island in the kitchen of the open floor-plan apartment. Beside the flowers, in a tray, were two delicate espresso cups and a turmeric latte—hers.

Maren stood barefoot in jeans and a cropped shirt, scrolling on her phone when I came in. She ran up to me and gave me a quick hug. “What a pleasant surprise! I was going to order breakfast, but then I thought we could go out.”

She took my hand and walked me to the island. “Sit. I made the espresso fresh.”

She settled next to me, a wide smile on her face. “I didn’t know you had the day off.”

“I don’t.” I drank some espresso and released a long breath. “We need to talk.”

Her expression didn’t change, but I saw it—a flicker of apprehension. She picked up her latte and wrapped both hands around the to-go cup like she needed warmth to hold onto.

“I looked at the official complaint you wrote up about Reggie Sanchez, and you need to rescind it.”

She arched an eyebrow. “You disagree with me?”

“Yes.” I regarded her thoughtfully and not as a friend I’d grown up with, a woman who I’d made love with, but as a colleague—and what I saw I didn’t like.

“Well, we can duke it out in front of the review committee because I stand by my complaint.” She set her cup down on the counter, anger flashing in her eyes. “Is that why you’re here? If you want to talk work, you do it in the hospital and?—”

“I spoke to Lars Klevberg.”

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