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2
The next morning I was in the department at seven, same as always.
A few people at the nurses' station saw me and their faces went strange; one of them reflexively locked their phone screen.
I acted like I hadn't noticed, put on my coat, and went to do rounds.
At eight thirty, Byron came in.
He was carrying a bowl of porridge.
Century-egg and pork porridge.
Three years at this hospital, and he didn't even know I don't eat century egg.
Or maybe he did know.
He just never bothered to remember.
"Zoe, the ER was slammed last night. Grabbed this for you on my way in this morning."
He had the standard good-fiancé look on his face...
Except that smear of lipstick on his collar was impossible to miss.
I reached out and took the porridge.
Then, right in front of him, I dropped the bowl straight into the medical waste bin.
The whispering at the nurses' station cut off for a beat.
Byron's expression crumbled.
"Zoe, what's your problem? In front of all these people—"
"In front of all these people, what?"
I turned and looked at him.
"Dr. Gilbert, this emergency surgery last night—which patient? What procedure? What time did you scrub in, what time did you finish?"
Byron's lips moved, but nothing came out.
"Or would you rather talk about how comfortable the VIP seats were at that concert one city over?"
His eyes started darting away.
"What are you talking about... I really was—"
"You really did take my cousin to a concert, and then lied to me about an emergency."
"Byron, do you want me to blow up the screenshot of Stella's post from last night for everyone to see? The cheek-to-cheek photo of you two is pretty sweet."
A few colleagues who'd been pretending to read charts turned to look.
Byron's face went ashen, jaw clenched tight.
Finally he forced out:
"Zoe, can't you be a little more gracious? Stella's basically your little sister. I took her to one concert, so what? Do you really have to make such a huge deal out of it?"
Before I could say anything, a crisp female voice came from the far end of the hall.
"Byron..."
Stella had arrived.
She came over smiling, carrying two dainty afternoon coffees.
And right in front of everyone, she slid her arm through Byron's like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Zoe, are you mad? Don't blame Byron, okay? I'm the one who dragged him along yesterday."
She tilted her head up at him.
Byron didn't pull his arm away.
If anything, he leaned a little toward her.
I took one deep breath, pulled out my phone, and dialed a number.
"Lawyer James, could you come up here, please?"
A few minutes later a middle-aged man in a suit walked into the department, briefcase in hand.
Stella's smile froze.
"This is my lawyer,"
I looked at Byron.
"And he brought a copy of your bank statements while he was at it."
"I thought you were just cheating on me behind my back. Turns out you were stealing too."
I took the printed statements from the lawyer and turned through them, page by page, for everyone in the room.
"July sixteenth, transfer of four thousand nine hundred eighty—two VIP concert tickets."
"July third, twelve thousand eight hundred charged at a luxury boutique, recipient Stella Fox."
"June twenty-first, transfer of eight thousand six hundred, Stella's birthday—a suite at a high-end hotel."
I read them out one by one, my voice steady.
"Every one of these payments came from the joint renovation-fund account in my name and yours."
"Byron, you're not the primary cardholder. Making large purchases without my authorization—the law calls that theft."
Byron went white.
"Zoe, are you insane? That's our money—"
"The primary card is in my name. Ninety percent of the funds came from my salary. All you put in was eight hundred a month, automatic transfer."
I handed my phone to the lawyer.
"Call the police for me."
Stella panicked, let go of Byron's arm and backed up two steps.
"Zoe, Zoe, don't do this, we can talk this out—"
"I've got nothing to say to a thief."
Ten minutes later, two officers in uniform walked into the department.
The whole floor spilled into the hallway to watch.
When Byron was asked to come in for questioning, his legs were shaking.
He looked back at me, lips fumbling, like he wanted to plead for something.
I turned, walked into the exam room, and shut the door.
