By the time my shift ended, the sun was slanting through the windows at the end of the hall, casting long bars of light across the floor. Rosemary walked with me toward the lockers, her steps lighter than they had been that morning.
“Whatever happens,” she said, stopping at the door. “I’m glad you said something.”
“So am I,” I replied.
I was done staying quiet. For Rosemary. For Landon. For myself.
James had taken enough.
We changed out of our scrubs in silence, neither of us willing to say anything that might disturb the precarious placement of game pieces set in motion. This was playing out, and all we had to do was minimal damage while we waited for the end result.
The hospital always felt different at shift change. The floors cleared out in uneven waves, day staff funneling toward the exits while night shift filtered in with travel mugs and set faces. Rosemary and I moved with the first group, tote bags slung overour shoulders, shoes swapped, hair pulled loose in the way that signaled we were off the clock but not yet free of the day.
We were halfway across the atrium when Rosemary slowed. Not stopped. Just enough that I matched her pace without thinking.
She tipped her chin up.
The mezzanine level overlooked the main floor, glass railing catching the overhead lights. Admin offices lined the back wall up there, all frosted panels and muted colors meant to suggest calm authority. The HR door stood open.
James stepped out first.
Even from below, his agitation read clearly. His hands were moving too much, palms slicing the air as his mouth worked around words we could not hear. Parker followed, posture upright, expression unreadable. An HR rep trailed behind them, arms crossed, stance neutral.
James shook his head, emphatic, one foot planted hard as if that might anchor him. Parker said something brief. Whatever it was, it did not land. He responded again, sharper gestures now, shoulders tight, jaw working.
Rosemary’s fingers curled around the strap of her bag.
We stood there, the current of foot traffic bending around us, neither of us pretending not to stare.
“That looks bad,” I said under my breath.
Rosemary did not answer right away. Her gaze stayed fixed on the scene above us. “It looks… unfinished.”
James ran a hand through his hair and turned away from Parker, pacing a short line before pivoting back. The HR rep did not move. Parker did not shift. Whatever he was arguing, it was not changing the ground under his feet.
“I think it worked,” I said quietly. The words slipped out before I could weigh them. “I think they pulled her from the rotation.”
Rosemary glanced at me then, caution written into the lines around her eyes. “I’m not assuming anything until Parker tells me herself.”
Fair. Sensible. Very Rosemary.
Up on the mezzanine, Parker turned.
Her gaze swept the atrium and landed on us with unerring precision. She raised her hand, palm out, a clear signal to hold where we were.
Rosemary inhaled and let it out through her nose.
James followed Parker’s line of sight. His eyes found us, and the look he sent down was unfiltered and unmistakable. Whatever leverage he thought he had was gone, and he knew exactly who had tipped the balance.
He did not wait for Parker. He spun on his heel and took the stairs two at a time, descending with clipped speed, body tight with restrained fury.
When he reached the main floor, he cut straight toward us.
The glare he gave me was meant to scorch. I met it without flinching. He did not slow. He did not speak. He passed so close I caught the tension rolling off him, then disappeared down the corridor that led deeper into the hospital.
Rosemary’s shoulders sagged a fraction once he was gone.
Parker descended more deliberately, one hand resting on the rail as she came down the stairs. She stopped in front of us, her expression finally softening when she looked at Rosemary.
