Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
I unlocked my phone and handed it to him, watching his face in the pale green light of the gas canopy. He did not dial a number, but instead pointed toward the large metal ice machine at the corner of the station.
“Walk over there with me,” he whispered, his eyes darting to a car passing on the road. “Please.”
We stepped out of the light of the pumps, behind the rusted blue ice chest where the security cameras could not see us. The highway hummed in the distance with the sound of evening semi-trucks.
Marcus handed the phone back to me, his fingers cold and slightly dirty against my hand.
“He is paying me three hundred dollars a week to watch where you go,” Marcus said, his voice barely louder than the hum of the ice machine.
My hand went completely still. “What did you say, Marcus?”
“Your husband,” Marcus said, pulling his sleeves down further over his wrists. “Dr. Vance. He wants to know everywhere you drive, especially when you go out to the lake cabin.”
My thumb pressed against the lock button of my phone, the screen going dark between us.
