The police had interviewed Kevin Lang. He denied everything. Said he didn't remember the overdose, didn't remember saying anything. His lawyer, hired by his father, of course, had called it "drug-induced delusion with no evidentiary value."
The investigation was ongoing, but I could tell it was stalling. Richard Lang's connections were everywhere. The case was dying a slow, quiet death, suffocated by politics and power.
Meanwhile, a formal complaint had been filed against my medical license. The accusation: violating patient confidentiality.
It was retaliation. I knew that. But it was also expected. I'd walked into that precinct understanding exactly what I was setting in motion. The complaint itself wasn't surprising; mandatory reporting of suspicious injuries was within my professional scope, and I had the documentation to prove it. My report had been filed in good faith, with proper clinical justification, and the hospital's legal team had confirmed as much when I'd met with them.
But confirmation wasn't the same as protection.
The investigation was mandatory regardless of merit, which meant meetings, paperwork, and formal statements. It meant explaining my clinical reasoning to administrators who nodded politely and took notes, their expressions carefully neutral. It meant my name was attached to an open file, flagged in a system that didn't distinguish between frivolous complaints and legitimate ones.
The Langs' lawyers knew exactly what they were doing. They couldn't stop the police investigation, but they could make sure it cost me something.
I'd weighed this risk before I ever picked up the phone. I'd made my choice.
That didn't make the weight of it any lighter.
Two weeks ago, I came down to the street to find deep scratches gouged across the driver's side of my Honda. It was parked where it always was, on the block outside my apartment building, the same spot I'd had for three years. No message. No witnesses. No security cameras on a residential street.
I'd reported it. Filed the paperwork. Added it to the growing file of incidents that no one seemed able, or willing, to investigate.
The message was clear:We know where you live. Back off.
I wasn't backing off.
But I also wasn't sleeping well. Wasn't eating right. Wasn't doing anything except working and worrying and pretending, every morning on the balcony with Brian, that everything was fine.
He knew it wasn't, but he didn't push.
Today's shift had been brutal. A twelve-hour marathon of traumas and near-misses that left me hollowed out deeper than physical exhaustion. All I wanted was to go home, curl up with my cat, and forget the world existed for a few hours.
I pulled my jacket tighter against the early autumn chill, entered my apartment building, and tried not to think about anything at all. The elevator doors were sliding shut when a hand shot through the gap.
"Hold up?—"
Brian squeezed through, gear bag slung over one shoulder, soot still smudged on his jaw. He looked as tired as I felt. Eyesheavy, shoulders slumped, his FDNY T-shirt wrinkled, and his hair flattened from his helmet.
"Hey." He hit the button for our floor and leaned against the elevator wall. "Rough day?"
"You could say that. You?"
"Three-alarm in Astoria. Everyone got out, but it was close." He glanced over at me. "You look like hell, by the way."
"Charming as always, Torres."
"I call 'em like I see 'em, Rothwell."
The elevator groaned its way upward. Slow and shuddering, the way it had been for months. Neither of us mentioned it. We'd both given up reporting things to the super.
I was already digging for my keys when the doors opened, and we stepped out onto our floor.
And stopped.
My door was ajar.
Not much. Just a crack. But enough.
Brian's arm came out, stopping me before I could move forward.
