What am I going to do?

I’m alone. On the wall, beautifully matted and framed by Carolyn, is the signed Hippocratic oath—my oath of office, pledging kindness and compassion to all my patients.

What in the hell have I done?

Jennings’s tires just screeched on the pavement as she sped out of the parking lot. I can picture her at the wheel, her face all flushed and angry.

The door to the hallway is closed. I can’t simply sit here like a lamb waiting to be dragged to the slaughter, especially when I didn’t do anything that wrong. I love my patients, but there’s not a chance in the world the board of medicine would understand that. They won’t care that Roberta Jennings is eating herself to death.

Hypertension … type 2 diabetes … ankle edema … varicose veins … arthritic knees … hiatal hernia … carbon dioxide narcosis …

They won’t know how many times I begged her to change—how many diets, how many referrals, how many discussions. They won’t see that I had every right to scream at her the way I did. They won’t care that I have been at work for hours, seeing my patients in the hospital, which no other docs even do, attending medical rounds, doing paperwork. I haven’t even had lunch. I have to do something to save myself—to save my career.

I gaze at two pictures of my family on the corner of my desk. My favorite is the one taken in springtime—Carolyn and our three daughters, huddled together on our front porch swing. The girls are raven-haired beauties, just like their mother. The milkman’s kids, I’d often half joke, because they didn’t look much like me. The other picture is of Chloe, my youngest. I know I’m not supposed to have a favorite child, so it feels horrible to admit to myself that I do.

Must do something.

Everything I’ve worked so hard for is in danger. My breathing is coming hard—shallow and more rapid. It’s like I’m trying to suck in molasses. I know exactly what’s going on inside me. Chemical signals from the amygdala area of my brain are instructing my heart to beat faster. Adrenaline is being pumped into my bloodstream like rocket fuel.

Witnesses.

Everyone out there is a witness to what happened. They will all be called before the board. That would be the end. A lamb to the slaughter. I must do something to prevent them. I don’t remember unlocking my desk drawer and bringing out my pistol. It’s still in the locked box I put it in when Joe Perry’s office was held up last year.

Now, it’s here in my hand.

I release the safety. Everyone out there in the waiting room will testify as to what they heard. And that’s all it will take to finish me off. Nobody cares about my patients the way that I do.

Can’t believe this happened.… What choices do I have? How else can I save my career … my family?