L.W. transferred to private medical network after inquiry dropped.
Emily stared at the initials.
L.W.
Linda Whitaker.
Her father had sunk into the kitchen chair. Both hands covered his face.
“Dad,” Emily whispered.
“I failed her.”
“No.”
“I told her to let it go.” His voice cracked under the weight of seventeen years. “I told her we didn’t have enough proof. I told her making accusations could destroy families, careers, our future. She kept saying something was wrong. I kept saying we needed to be careful.”
Emily lowered herself into the chair beside him. “You were trying to protect your family.”
“I was trying to protect the life I understood.” He looked at her then, eyes wet. “Your mother was trying to protect people.”
The old anger Emily had carried after her mother’s death softened into something more complicated. As a child, she had been angry at the icy road, at the doctors who could not save her, at God, at her father for surviving when her mother did not. As an adult, she had folded that anger into silence.
