Page 19 of Mirror Image
“Dr. Braithwaite,” I acknowledge flatly with a curt nod.
For a second it looks like he might try to hug me. Then he thinks better of it, extending a hand instead, offering up the same smile that once made me feel safe, protected, special. Now it just makes me nauseous. I resist the urge to slip my index finger under the cuff of my blouse.
“Oh, please, please. We’re colleagues now! You may call me Julian!”
We might have been okay if he hadn’t used the word “may.” But it lands more like a command than a kindness. And I don’t do commands anymore. Not from him. Not from anyone.
Ignoring the proffered hand, I drop my voice. “Doctor. Braithwaite,” I grit out, emphasizing each word, “using your first name would imply we have a personal relationship, which we most certainly do not.”
His smile cools.
“My apologies, Dr. Flores, it wasn’t my intention to imply otherwise.” He lowers his voice—soft, polite, edged. “But you’re in my house now. I have staff and patients to think about. So let’s keep things professional, shall we?”
I blink. Hard. I’ve played out this scenario a hundred times in my head over the years, and it always ends with me eviscerating him. I’m unprepared for him to come right back at me—and with a valid argument, no less. Just because he lost all credibility with me doesn’t mean other people don’t respect him—admire him, even. He’s a brilliant doctor who just happens to be a shit human being. And that’s hardly a rare combination. When his eyebrows quirk upward slightly, I realize he’s still waiting for me to shake his hand. I also realize there are people watching us, including the gentleman who just handed me my ID. So I meet his grasp and give a quick shake, restoring just the hint of a noncommittal smile to my lips.
“Yes, of course, Dr. Braithwaite,” I agree quietly.
He steps back, his face light and bright again as he gestures toward a door off to the side of the lobby. There’s an Employees Only placard affixed to it, and he presses his key card against the pad to release the lock.
“Your card should give you access to all the entrances to the building and onto the ward,” he explains, holding the door open for me. “I’ve had a small office arranged for you down the hall from mine. I’ll just ask that you avoid the third floor because—”
“Because that’s where I am.”
The voice shoots through me with the intensity—and sting—of an electric current.
David Kellogg steps out of the hallway—smooth and composed, a touch of silver sharpening rather than softening him. His hazel eyes have the same laser-cut precision I remember. Still devastatingly handsome. And, I’m sure, still devastating. Period.
“Hello, Jennifer.” His gaze is deliberate, appraising. “You’re looking well.”
“Dr. Flores,” I correct, fighting to keep my tone even.
He chuckles. “Right. You and your attorney made that clear.”
“Indeed. She also made sure the record reflected which one of us falsified documentation.”
Kellogg’s smile tightens but doesn’t break.
“Integrity,” he says lightly, “is a fluid thing. Around here, it tends to follow the man in charge. And these days, that would be me.”
I shrug nonchalantly.
“Well, how nice for you. I guess Dr. Braithwaite didn’t think it was worth mentioning,” I say, shooting my old mentor a glare.
He must have known I’d never have agreed to come back here if I’d known this asshat was still lurking in the hallways, let alone running the joint. That’s why he didn’t volunteer the information. The real question is, Why didn’t I ask?
Braithwaite steps between us, palms raised. “All right. Let’s all just take a beat. David, this is not what we agreed . . .”
“We didn’t agree on anything, Julian,” the other man replies.
His voice peters out under Kellogg’s withering glare.
Clearly the bloom is off the rose. Sometime in the last decade, Julian has seen what I saw—and what I warned him about while I was on staff here.
David Kellogg is responsible for the death of at least one patient that I know of. Maybe more.
Not that anyone cared then . . . or now, apparently.
Chapter Eight
