I thought about Kevin Lang, thrashing on the gurney, trapped in a nightmare of his own making.
I killed him. Dad made it go away.
Dad.
I reached for my laptop and typed the name into Google.Kevin Lang.
The results loaded instantly. Kevin Lang, twenty-six years old. Graduate of Columbia, with a business degree. Board member of a real estate development company. Engaged to a socialite whose Instagram was full of yacht photos and charity galas.
And the son of Richard Lang. City Councilman. Rising political star. The man I'd seen at the hospital days ago, shaking hands and smiling his focus-grouped smile while Dr. Park muttered about not trusting men who needed everyone to know how generous they were.
I clicked through article after article. Richard Lang had been on the city council for twelve years. He sat on committees for public safety, housing, and criminal justice reform. He had connections everywhere: the mayor's office, the police commissioner, half the judges in Queens.
If I reported what I'd heard, I wouldn't just be accusing Kevin Lang of killing a teenager.
I'd be going up against one of the most powerful men in the city.
My phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen.
DAD.
I stared at the notification until the screen went dark. He didn't leave a voicemail. He never did.
Two calls in one week. For a moment, I considered calling back. But I already knew how that conversation would go. The silence on his end when I refused to apologize for choosing myself. The disappointment that somehow still cut, even after all this time. I set the phone down.
My mind went back to the Edwards family.
What kind of person are you if you only do the right thing when it's easy?
Brian’s words echoed in my head.
I thought about the kind of person I wanted to be. The kind of doctor. The kind of woman who could look at herself in the mirror and know she'd done the right thing. Even when it cost her.
Watson purred in my lap, his threatening face peaceful, trusting.
I picked up my phone and called the NYPD.
The 114th Precinct smelled like burnt coffee and old paper. I sat in a plastic chair beside a detective's desk, surrounded by the low hum of ringing phones and murmured conversations. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A wanted poster was peeling off the corkboard behind me. Someone's half-eaten sandwich sat on a stack of folders.
The detective's name was Diaz. She was in her forties, tired-eyed, the kind of cop who'd seen too much to be surprised anymore. But she listened carefully, her pen moving in precise shorthand across her notepad.
I kept my voice clinical. Detached. Like dictating case notes.
"I'm reporting a suspicious injury under New York State mandates," I said. "A twenty-six-year-old male presented with acute fentanyl toxicity three days ago. During the post-Narcan recovery period, while still delirious, the patient made repetitive, unprompted statements regarding a specific unsolved vehicular homicide."
Diaz looked up from her notes. "Which homicide?"
"Derek Edwards. Jackson Heights, six months ago. Seventeen years old, struck by a hit-and-run driver. The case went cold."
She wrote the name down. "And your patient said what, exactly?"
"He stated, multiple times with staff members present, that he was responsible for Mr. Edwards' death. He referenced his father 'making it go away' and large sums of money used to cover it up." I folded my hands in my lap. "The specificity and repetition of these statements, combined with the victim'sname, created what I believe constitutes a good-faith suspicion of criminal activity. I'm obligated to report that."
"The patient's name?"
"Kevin Lang."
She paused, set her pen down, and looked at me for a long moment.
