Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
“Marcus Vance?” Karen asked, her eyes narrowing slightly as she looked over her glasses. “The boy who lives down near the creek?”
“Yes,” I said. “He said David is paying him three hundred dollars a week. He is supposed to watch where I go.”
Karen tapped the tip of her pen against the pad. The click was sharp in the quiet room, a steady rhythm that matched the ticking clock on her bookshelf. “Three hundred dollars. If David is withdrawing three hundred and fifty, where is the other fifty going?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But he has a new brass lock on his study door. I found the key in the pantry basket this morning.”
“Do not go back in there,” Karen said quickly, her hand stopping. “If he realizes you have the key, he will move whatever he is hiding.”
“What is he hiding, Karen?” I asked.
She laid her pen down, her fingers smoothing the edge of the yellow paper. “Let us go into the conference room. I want to show you how this works.”
