Page 159 of Wicked Proposal

Brad found out about myothercontract.

The one with Yulian.

And he’s here to rat me out to whoever will listen.

We’re made to sit on a C-shaped leather couch bigger than my whole living room. It goes around a glass coffee table. No coffee is provided, but then again, why would it? I’m about to face my doom. Meet my maker, at least career-wise.

God, I’ll never work in this city again, will I?

I brace myself for the inevitable. Consider begging, too.

“As you all know, there was an unfortunate incident last week which we’re all here to resolve. Mr. Smithers, the floor is yours.”

An unfortunate incident?For a second, I allow hope to bloom in my chest. Hope that, in some counterintuitive way, this whole circus is actually for my benefit.

Because what other incident could have happened last week, if not Brad trying to send me fishing for his trouser trout?

“Thank you, Dr. Adams.” Smithers fixes his papers on the coffee table before rising. “Last week, Ms. Winters provided my client with ineffective care. As a result, he’s suffered.”

I blink. Resist the urge to stick my fingers into my ears and dig for wax, because clearly, I can’t have heard right. “What?”

“Please, do not interrupt.” He flicks his beady gaze to me, then goes back to his papers. “At the hour of 2:13 P.M., Mr. Baldwin came into the ER of this hospital with acute pain in his left arm. It was aching, swollen. There, Ms. Winters examined him—if it can even be called that. She sent him home with a prescription for, I quote, ‘a cold shower.’”

“Hey!” I snap. “He was perfectly healthy. Onlyonepart of him was aching and swollen, and it wasn’t his damn?—”

“Ms. Winters, if you can’t keep silent during these proceedings, we will be forced to put this in the hands of a judge.”

“For a sore wrist?!”

“Quiet down, Winters!” Adams barks at me. “You’ll have your turn to respond.”

I bite my lip and reluctantly obey.

“Very well.” Smithers clears his throat. All the while, Brad sits cross-legged, perfectly silent and triumphant, happy to let others do his dirty work for him. “As I was saying, my client was not provided effective care. Later in the night, his chest pains grew worse?—”

“He never mentioned any chest pains,” I cut in, but they ignore me.

“He then drove himself to Manhattan General, where he was promptly put under observation,” Smithers drones on. “An EKG revealed he was in the early stages of a heart attack.”

My face drains.“Heart attack?”

“Here.” Smithers provides both Adams and me with a copy of the EKG. “As you can see, he should have gotten immediate care. Luckily, the staff at Manhattan General took him seriously before the damage done by Nurse Winters here could become… irreparable.”

My hands are shaking as I hold up the EKG. Guilt swallows me whole. Arm pain—that’s textbook early heart attack. There are clear signs here, signs I shouldn’t have missed, signs that?—

Wait.Did he say hisleftarm?

“When you came here,” I say to Brad, “you said it was your right arm that hurt. Specifically, your wrist. Didn’t you?”

Brad opens his mouth, but Smithers cuts him off. “Don’t answer that.”

“Why not?” I retort. “He’s the patient. He should remember what brought him into the ER. Better than that, it will be in our records.”

Brad’s eyes widen in realization. “It’s possible I misspoke at the triage desk,” he says briskly. “But when I saw Nurse Winters, I am certain I informed her of exactly where the pain was.”

No shit. You forced me to cop a feel, too.

“There’s a smudge on this EKG,” I point out. “Right here, next to the patient name. And this data isn’t consistent with a man of your age and?—”