Page 50 of Once Upon A Second Chance

"Enough." Holloway’s voice cracks like a whip. He pins each of us with a glare.

"Here’s how this is gonna go. Hogan stays unless someone brings me actual proof of negligence. And if I hear one more word from anyone about this during clinic hours, that person will be fired."

A beat of silence. Then—

Darlene tosses the folder back onto the table. "Fine. But the patients are gonna ask questions."

"Then we tell them the truth," Holloway says.

Mrs. Whitaker sits stiffly on the exam table, her knuckles white around the edges of her purse. I've been her physical therapist for three years, through two hip replacements and one very determined attempt at line dancing. She's never once flinched from my touch.

Until today.

“Maybe we shouldreschedule,” she murmurs as I adjust the settings on the therapeutic ultrasound unit.

The gel bottle slips from my fingers, hitting the floor with a wet smack. "Is your pain worse?"

Her eyes dart to the door, where Richard's—Hogan's—laughter echoes from the next exam room. "It's just... with everything going on..."

The unspoken accusation hangs between us like a scalpel.

I force my hands steady as I squeeze fresh gel onto her hip. "Dr. Hogan saved Tommy Higgins' arm after that tractor accident. Remember?"

She winces as I press the transducer to her skin. "Of course, but—"

"—but some papers from New York matter more than what you've seen him do here?" The words come out sharper than I intend.

The ultrasound screen blurs. I blink hard.

Mrs. Whitaker reaches for my wrist, her paper-thin skin warm against mine. "Oh, honey. I didn't mean—"

The door swings open. Richard—Hogan, dammit—pokes his head in, his smile fading as he takes in the scene. "Everything okay?"

Mrs. Whitaker's grip tightens. "Just fine, Doctor."

The lie tastes like ash.

The parking lot asphalt radiates midday heat through my scrubs as I push open the clinic's back door. Richard's voice carries from behind the dumpster enclosure—low, tense.

"—not what this is about."

"Bullshit." Jesse's growl sends a chill down my spine. "You show up here with a guilty conscience and zero warning, and now my sister's fighting your battles?"

I round the corner to find them squared off like prizefighters. Jesse's fists are clenched, his work boots planted wide. Richard—Hogan, Hogan, Hogan—stands with his back against the brick wall, his posture deceptively relaxed.

"You think I'm using her." It's not a question.

Jesse steps closer, close enough that his faded work shirt brushes Richard's scrubs.

"I think you left her once when things got tough and the grass looked greener somewhere else.

Now you're back with a trail of New York shit following you, and Penny's out here looking like she's ready to gut anyone who looks at you sideways."

The truth of it hits like a punch.

Richard doesn't flinch. "Ask me whatever you need to ask, Jess."

"Did you hurt that kid?"