Chapter 17 - The Table Between Us
Mediation took place in a plain conference suite, without chandeliers or flowers. Sloan sat across from me in a blue sweater, older-looking than the woman who had laughed on the staircase. Blythe and Judson sat beside her. Thatcher wasn't there. His statement and the footage were already part of the record.
For hours we spoke through lawyers and a mediator. There were arguments over medical bills, earnings records, future therapy, and whether my injuries might limit field assignments permanently. Nobody could undo the harm by writing a check.
Near the end, Sloan asked to speak directly. I agreed, with both attorneys present.
“I didn't think you'd get hurt like that,” she said. “I wanted you out of the pictures. Bellamy said people would laugh. I thought you'd be embarrassed and go upstairs.”
I felt my hands tighten against the chair arms.
“You knew my surgeon said not to twist my knee.”
She looked down. “I knew.”
“Then you chose not to care.”
Blythe reached toward her. “Merritt, she's apologizing.”
“She is telling me what she wanted,” I said. “That's not the same thing.”
After a long silence, Sloan finally said, “I'm sorry I pushed you.”
I believed she regretted what had followed. I didn't yet know whether she understood the choice that caused it. Both things could be true.
The parties reached a settlement framework later that day. Payment terms would be finalized by counsel, and no term would restrict truthful cooperation with authorities or necessary conversations about my care. I accepted because my recovery needed time and resources more than it needed a public spectacle.
My father asked if this meant we could have Thanksgiving together.
May you like
“No,” I said.
He stared as if I had broken an agreement we had never made.
