My God, I’m going to do this. All the years that I’ve built my career—they’re all going to come down to this moment where it disappears. I won’t be the doctor who has saved countless lives, I’m going to be the disgraced woman who doctored a trial.
It doesn’t matter, though. This is the right thing and it’s the only way to make sure no one I love gets hurt.
I take a few deep breaths, standing outside the boardroom where I’ve sat on the other side, listening to doctors go over each step, rolling my eyes at the choices they made at the time.
Now, it’s my turn.
I push my nerves down, square my shoulders, and march in.
“Dr. Adams, please take a seat,” Dr. Pascoe instructs.
“I’d rather stand, if that’s okay.”
No point in delaying this. I scan the room, where some of the colleagues I respect are staring at me. I give them small smiles back, nods, and other forms of acknowledgement, looking for the one who matters most.
Westin isn’t here though.
I keep scanning and gasp when I see Bryce sitting there. He looks at me with sad eyes, and then gazes back down to his feet.
“Mr. Peyton asked to be here for the reading of the autopsy. He was adamant that he have the opportunity to speak, and so we’ll change things up,” Dr. Pascoe begins.
My eyes shoot to Bryce because that’s never the order in which we’ve done it, but I’d like to hear what he has to say, for my own sanity.
Dr. Pascoe clears his throat. “Once I read this, Mr. Peyton has agreed to let the review board meet without him, so, let’s begin with the autopsy.”
The slide shows up on the screen and it’s all there. “The official cause of death is a pulmonary embolism. The embolus was seen in the left main pulmonary artery with extension into the lower lobe,” he explains. “The autopsy reports that her iron was low, but the surgery was not the cause of death.”
There’s a swell of relief inside me, but even as it floods through me, it ebbs back out because Allison is still dead.
Bryce clears his throat and gets to his feet. “I’d like to speak on be—”
The door opens and Westin comes in with his hand up. “Sorry, had a difficult case.”
I fight back the urge to fall to the floor. They’re both here, and both can destroy me in so many ways.
“Please continue, Mr. Peyton.” Dr. Pascoe looks unamused.
“I’d like to speak on behalf of Dr. Adams. She treated my wife with humility, respect, and became a friend to her. Upon Allison’s death, I found a letter that was addressed to me, as well as one for Se—Dr. Adams. I’d like to read it, if that’s okay?”
I can’t handle this. My throat is dry and now I wish I had sat down.
“Dr. Adams, if you’re reading this, well, I died. I hope you know that your friendship, no matter how short it was, meant everything to me. You were warm, kind, and caring through a difficult time in my life. It’s the reason I was willing to fight. I want you to know that it’s doctors like you that give people like me hope, and whether we make it or not, it’s what carries us through our darkest days.
“I know that I placed a great burden on you in asking you to keep my secret, but it was what I truly felt was right. If I couldn’t have a baby, I didn’t want the cancer to rob me of anything else, even if it meant I would die. I was desperate, sad, and on the borderline of giving up, until your trial was offered. Then, suddenly, there was a glimmer of possibility again. I was faced with the renewed hope that this could give me the chance to have the life I desired.
“I know that my family won’t understand the risk I took. The only thing that gives me peace is that I was given the chance that soon, hopefully, every woman will be afforded. Those slivers of hope reminded me that sometimes, the smallest things can make the greatest difference for someone else. Because of you, I found a man who made my days full of laughter and smiles. Thank you.”
Even in her death, she’s a bright ray of sunshine in a dreary place.
Bryce puts the paper down and then looks to me. “I’m leaving to head back to North Carolina in a bit, but I wanted to read that to you all, especially you, Dr. Adams. Thank you for giving her peace when she was battling something that was far deeper than cancer.”
I smile at him softly, knowing that this is the end of the road for us. There’s nothing left to say and we both know we’re not the people we once were. Our love may have been all-consuming once, but we had our chance and lost it. “Thank you. I appreciate you reading that.”
“Goodbye, Dr. Adams.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Peyton.”
He looks to the group, his eyes staying on Westin for a beat longer, and then he folds the letter up, and walks out of the room.
The closure we probably both needed has come, and now it’s time to set things right.
“Let’s go over the surgery,” Dr. Pascoe says as the door closes.
“First,” I cut him off. “I’d like to talk.”
“Dr. Adams—”
“Please,” I say.
If I were any other doctor, he probably would argue, but like Bryce, Dr. Pascoe knows what it’s like to watch a spouse suffer. I’m sure hearing that has broken him a tiny bit, since it could’ve been him sitting in that chair.
I look around the room, my eyes landing on Westin, and I begin as if it were just him and me in the room.
“There is a problem with the medication that Allison Brown received,” I admit the truth, and there’s no going back now.
Chapter 30
“What do you mean a problem?” Dr. Pascoe asks.
I steel myself for the disappointment that will shine in his eyes. Dr. Pascoe has supported me, believed in me, and been a mentor. I’m going to prove that he was wrong in all of that. I’ve spent the last twelve hours playing this out. All of the endings are the same, and none of them are good.
“If you look at her file,” I start, but Westin stands, stopping me from speaking.
“Dr. Adams,” he clears his throat. “Sorry to interrupt and I don’t like doing this to a fellow doctor, but I feel like I have to speak up. There is, in fact, a problem with Allison Brown’s file. I was going over it last night, to prepare for the line of questioning today, and I noticed there was a very important piece of paper missing.”
I look at him, wondering what the hell he’s doing. There’s no paper missing. “I’m sorry? I don’t understand . . .”
He looks around the room, taps his fingers on the table, and then starts speaking again. “I wanted to see where the sign-offs were regarding the trial drugs and then compare them with the toxicology report,” Westin says.
He’s going to take me down himself. The very last shred of hope I had regarding us is gone. I guess he needs to be the one to bring it to light to prove that he had nothing to do with it. I watch him walk toward the front, where I stand, and begin to shake.
“Is this your signature?” he asks.
I take the paper from him, holding back any outward show of emotion. After spending years pretending not to feel, you’d think this would be easier, but it’s not. Having someone I love be the one to drive the knife through my heart hurts more than I could’ve imagined.