Wasn’t it bad enough the director hadn’t believed the evidence she’d sent him? Wesley Hendrix must covered his tracks, eliminating the data had tried to use against him. Or had the director simply chosen to ignore the obvious, preferring to call her paranoid, instead? Given the looks of loathing she’d received today from Dr. Hendrix and the whispered comments of the staff, the director had made no secret of her complaints. No doubt he’d also divulged her documented struggles with PTSD—perhaps hoping Hendrix would be forgiving toward her if he knew. Hah! The bastard had made certain she’d gotten grounds in her coffee this morning; he’d stolen her prescription pad and given her the most irascible patients. What a hell of a day! With her long strides eating up the sidewalk, Dylan reminded herself that she would have justice in the end. In a bid to soothe her agitation, she lifted her face to the warm October sun and breathed the sweet mountain air as she headed toward the parking lot.
