Shirley nudges the phone toward me. "This is the only way you control the narrative."
Control. Another lie that almost comforts.
I take the phone from her. My reflection stares back at me from the dark screen, unfamiliar and resolute. I dial before I can second-guess myself.
When the call connects, a woman says, "Chicago Police Department."
My lungs seize. I force myself to speak clearly, choosing words that will wound me and spare her. "This is Dr. Red Mercer. I'm calling to self-report an ethical violation involving a patient. I'm prepared to cooperate fully and provide a statement immediately."
"You've committed a criminal violation?" the woman asks.
I swallow hard. "Yes."
Outside, the city keeps moving, unaware that something just cracked open beneath it.
And somewhere across town, Blue is still smiling, already planning dinner, believing this morning is solid enough to stand on.
"Where can the police find you?" she asks.
I give her the address.
"I'm sending officers now. Please do not leave your office, or you'll be considered in flight," she finishes, her tone flattening into procedure.
"I won't," I say, and it's the easiest promise I've made all day.
The call disconnects. I lower the phone slowly, my reflection staring back at me from the dark screen, still, composed, already condemned.
Shirley doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to. The damage is done, set in motion with a timestamp and a paper trail that will outlive whatever good I did in my fifteen-year career.
I set the phone on the cradle and straighten my cuffs, muscle memory taking over where instinct has gone quiet. Somewhere between breaths, I decide clean and contained is how it has to look. I stay exactly where I am, waiting for the knock that will change everything, feeling sick that Blue will walk into the aftermath with trust in her hands and no warning at all.
Shirley softly says, "You're doing the right thing."
I stay quiet, unable to be mad at Shirley and wanting to call Blue and warn her. Yet I know that anything I do from now on will be added to my list of violations.
The knock comes exactly eleven minutes later. It isn't loud or dramatic. It's precise, measured, the kind of knock that already knows it will be answered.
My spine straightens, my shoulders arch back, and my breath comes through my nose.
Shirley pats my arm, then opens the door.
Two uniformed officers stand in the hallway, their presence immediately changing the air in the room. One is older, eyes sharp and practiced. The other looks younger and alert, with his hand resting close to his belt without touching it.
"Dr. Mercer?" the older one asks.
"Yes."
He steps inside, glancing once at Shirley, then back to me. "You called to self-report."
"I did."
He nods, as if checking off an item on a list only he can see. "We're going to need to ask you some questions."
"Of course."
They don't sit. The younger officer positions himself closer to the door, blocking it without making a show. The older one pulls out a small notebook. He starts, "You understand your rights? You're not under arrest at this moment, but anything you say can be used in an investigation."
"I understand."
