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She didn’t smile, exactly, but something in her face softened.

“Spain?” she croaked when I teased her about studying abroad.

“You pick the semester,” I said.

“Stop,” she whispered. “Just stop.”

“What am I stopping?”

“Making it sound like I can do anything I want.”

There it was—the truth beneath every tantrum, every sharp edge, every reckless dive onto the pavement.

“And why can’t you?” I asked gently.

“Because I’m not you, Mary.” No venom. Just fact. “I don’t have money or connections or a fancy name. Life doesn’t open up for me like that.”

I swallowed. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m trying to tell you . . . you’re not alone anymore. You have a sister. As long as I’m alive, you have family.”

She stared like she’d never heard the word used on her before.

And maybe she hadn’t.

So I squeezed her hand again.

This time, she squeezed back.

And neither of us knew how much that promise would cost.

Chapter Nine

Jenn

Ten years ago

If.

How is it that such a tiny little word can wield so much power?

Those two letters can be a threat. They can be a plea. They can be a wish.

And they can be a curse.

The ifs surrounding that night during my third year of residency still haunt me a decade later.

If Kellogg hadn’t been covering the regular attending.

If the ER hadn’t been a complete shit show.

If I’d made my case better and stood my ground stronger.

If I’d picked up the phone and called my supervising psychiatrist for backup.

If any one of those things had been different, a fourteen-year-old girl might still be alive today. But they weren’t, and she’s not.

Her name was Cami Miller. She’d texted intimate photos to her boyfriend. When they broke up, he shared them with the whole school—then the little cybershit uploaded them to an amateur porn site. Her parents brought her in when she went from hysterical to unnervingly calm. I tried to engage her, but she refused to speak, refused to look at me. My gut said she was high risk. I marked her chart for fast-track admission. I just needed the attending’s signature.

I’d barely interacted with Dr. Kellogg before that night. When I found him, he had a coffee in one hand and his phone in the other.