Malpractice Makes Perfect

Vicki unhooked the IV with a practiced snap of the tube. Dead blood backed into the line and settled, thick as wine. Sinn’s shoulders locked. “We have to call it.” No answer. The doctor peeled off her gloves, letting them drop at Sinn’s feet. “We have to document this now.” Sinn’s voice stayed steady. Inside, everything jammed. Vicki took one step closer, eyes level. “Or I do,” Sinn added. Vicki lifted a hand, brushed a stray thread from Sinn’s scrubs. Fingers grazed collarbone. Heat replaced pressure. “You’ll file nothing,” she said, quiet, certain. Sinn stepped back into the wall-mounted chart rack. Its metal lip dug at her spine. “That patient had a name. We skip the truth, we erase the person.” A small, knowing smile flickered across Vicki’s mouth. She closed the space again, hips meeting Sinn’s, knee sliding between her thighs just enough to remind. “You already signed my chart this morning. Pretty handwriting. Pretty lie.” Sinn swallowed. “People saw you override the dose.” “People saw what I let them see.” Vicki’s palm flattened over Sinn’s sternum, thumb stroking once, twice, a silent dare. Her other hand dropped lower, knuckles brushing denim fly. “I know how long you’ve watched me. How your pulse jumps when my gloves snap. Write the truth, and that pulse stops being mine to quicken.” The silence stretched, sticky and close. Sinn’s breathing hitched. Vicki leaned in, teeth grazing earlobe. “Stay. Shut your mouth. Let me show you what I do with pretty, obedient nurses who forget protocol when it suits them.”