You are leaving Saint Jude Hospital with your medical license revoked and your career in ashes, my uncle declared before the ethics panel, standing beside his daughter with an arrogant smile.
The revelation hit me like a physical blow. The same valve. The same protocol. My mother.
I left the supply closet, my head spinning, and walked straight to the hospital’s public terminal in the resident lounge. The screen glowed with the archived medical directory. My hands trembled slightly as I typed in “DeWitt, Clara-Louise.”
Her name appeared. Next to her death record, a small, red administrative vault code blinked. An internal marker, not a public one. It was a lock, not a label.
My mother’s official cause of death had always been listed as “complications related to novel cardiac device failure.” Vague, clinical, and completely devoid of accountability. Now, I saw a pattern forming, chillingly precise. Arthur was repeating history.
I scrolled through the public-facing details of her case, noting the dates, the procedure, the experimental valve listed as “DeWitt Cardiac Prototype, Model A.” It was the exact same model number etched onto the implant tray I’d seen Arthur prepare for Tuesday night’s patient.
The lounge door opened, and Evelyn breezed in, a perfectly coiffed blonde bob and a bright, professional smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She carried a stack of patient charts, her movements crisp and efficient.
“Still here, Iris?” she said, her tone dripping with mock concern. “I thought Dr. Croft gave you clear instructions to prepare your resignation.”
I turned from the terminal, my jaw tight. “Evelyn, the patient from Tuesday night, the experimental valve—”
She cut me off, her smile vanishing. “Don’t you dare bring that up again. You’re compromised.”
“It’s the same prototype,” I pressed, ignoring her. “The same one Mother died from. Arthur is repeating his past mistakes.”
Evelyn’s face hardened, the bright veneer cracking. Her eyes, usually so calculating, now held a flash of something ugly.
“Our mother’s death was her own fault,” she spat, her voice low and venomous. “She was weak. Mentally unstable. Arthur tried to save her, but she just… couldn’t handle the recovery.”
A cold shock ran through me. Evelyn had always been Arthur’s golden child, but I never knew she harbored such contempt for her own aunt, my mother. It wasn’t just a cover-up; it was a deeply ingrained family narrative of blame.
“Don’t you dare blame her,” I said, my voice rising.
“I’m warning you, Iris,” Evelyn said, stepping closer, her hand slamming flat on the terminal desk, making the screen wobble. “You touch another hospital computer, you say another word about ‘past mistakes,’ and I will have security escort you off the premises. Permanently. You’re barely holding onto your license as it is.”
Her words were ice. The threat was real. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, but she stood there, watching me, her eyes narrowed, daring me to type. The security camera in the corner whirred softly. I knew she meant it. I backed away from the terminal, my mind racing, the image of that vault code burned into my memory.
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