Chapter 3 - Ambush in the Hallway
Dinner wrapped up with Dad raising a toast to “the family’s brilliant healer,” completely ignoring my recent appointment to the governor’s state literacy task force. I stood up quietly, excused myself, and took my laptop bag into the hallway corridor leading toward the guest rooms. I needed five minutes of absolute stillness away from the clatter of porcelain and the suffocating arrogance radiating from the dining room. But before I could reach the bathroom, the floorboards creaked behind me.
A hand gripped my forearm with bruising force. I spun around to find Nathan standing inches away, his face flushed red from wine and suppressed panic. The charming, witty professional was gone; in his place stood a trembling man with sweat beading across his temples.
“What the hell were you playing at in there, Rachel?” he hissed, his voice dropping to a harsh, gravelly whisper so our parents wouldn't hear. “Making cryptic little jokes about credential verification and academic ethics? What kind of petty, jealous game are you playing?”
I slowly pulled my arm out of his grasp, stepping back until my shoulders touched the hallway wainscoting. “I wasn’t playing a game, Nathan. I was simply making an observation about the importance of legitimate qualifications. Why does that make you so defensive?”
“Because you’ve been acting weird all night!” he snapped, jabbing a finger toward my laptop bag. “Sitting there with your computer open, looking at me like you’re waiting for an explosion. You’ve always resented me. You’ve always hated that Mom and Dad recognize real talent when they see it, while you’re stuck teaching kindergarteners how to draw within the lines!”
“Is that what you tell yourself?” I asked, keeping my voice deadpan, completely refusing to match his hysterical energy. “That I’m jealous of you? Nathan, I earned every single credential I possess through fifteen years of midnight study, peer-reviewed publications, and ethical service. I don’t have to lie about where I went to school. I don’t have to use another man’s medical license to con wealthy patients into handing over their life savings.”
The hallway went dead silent. The air seemed to vanish from between us. Nathan’s pupils contracted into tiny black pinpricks. His jaw fell slack, and for several seconds, he literally forgot to inhale. The color drained from his cheeks until he looked like a ghost standing in our childhood home.
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“You... what did you say?” he whispered, his voice cracking down the middle.
“You heard me,” I said softly, unzipping the outer compartment of my briefcase just enough for him to see the distinctive gold seals and embossed letterheads of the university verification offices. “Westbridge has no record of you. Columbia Ridge has no record of you. And Dr. Nathan Edward Bennett up in Portland has no idea that his identity is currently hanging on a brass plate outside an office downtown. You’re practicing medicine without a license, Nathan. That’s not a sibling rivalry. That’s a prison sentence.”
