Court Papers in the Locked Drawer of a Community Doctor
“A doctor has to carry all sorts of resources, Rachel,” he said, sliding the card into his shirt pocket. “You know how forgetful the elderly can get when their families start asking questions.”
He smiled, a small, reassuring curve of his lips that had kept me steady for over twenty years. For a second, the quiet safety of our kitchen made Marcus’s words in the dark seem like a mistake.
“Of course,” I said.
He went back to his chair, and I stood by the sink, watching the reflection of the hallway light on the windowpane. The house felt larger than it had an hour ago, the corners darker.
At half past eleven, the rhythmic sound of David’s breathing came from our bedroom. I crept down the carpeted hallway toward the small room at the end of the house.
His study had always been a place of open doors and messy piles of medical journals. I reached out in the dark and touched the brass doorknob.
I turned it, but the metal did not budge.
