Chapter 11: Nowhere to Hide

"Monday morning, nine o'clock," said Pembrey, at the atrium doors.

He said it.

"A small ethics panel. I do hope you'll come, Dr. Fairweather."

"What's it about?"

"Culture," he said, and finished his champagne.

I walked out of the gala in my green dress with my heart slamming against my ribs.

I made it three blocks before I started to shake.

Kurt found me on a bench in front of a closed bakery, with my shoes in my hand.

He sat down beside me and put his jacket around my shoulders.

It smelled like cedar and soap, and it came down to my knees.

"I'm going to resign," I said.

"No."

"If I resign tonight, they have nothing to hold the panel about."

"Gretchen."

"I'm serious. I'll take the blame. I'll tell them I did it, and you didn't know..."

"Fairweather."

He took my chin and turned my face toward him.

His eyes were steady and dark, with a strange calm in them that I couldn't read.

"Trust me," he said.

"That isn't an answer."

"I know. It's the only one I've got."

"Why are you so calm? He's going to fire me. He's going to report me to the board of medicine, and I'll never operate again."

"He will not do that."

"You can't promise that."

"I can promise you'll be in the OR on Tuesday," he said.

There was something in his voice that I should have noticed.

I was too frightened to hear it.

He drove me to his apartment because I would not go to mine.

It was a third-floor flat in a brick building in Shadyside, with long windows and a view of the rooftops.

I had never been there.

I had never seen him anywhere but the hospital.

It was almost empty.

A couch, a table with one chair, a shelf of books, and in the corner a cello with a chipped neck.