William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
“I printed Sue’s suspension record from the state database,” I said, pointing to the official seal on the page.
Marsha looked at the document, then let out a short, dry laugh that sounded like dry leaves scraping pavement.
“You actually spent your lunch hour printing out a clerical mistake from an old military clinic,” she said.
“It is not a clerical mistake,” I said, adjusting my wire-rimmed glasses. “The board suspended her license for medical neglect in two thousand eighteen.”
“A clinic in Georgia filed the wrong code during her retirement transition,” she said, leaning back and crossing her arms. “My mother has a drawer full of commendations, William, but you prefer to hunt for dirt.”
“I want to know why she cannot practice nursing anymore,” I said.
“She does not need to practice nursing,” Marsha said, her voice dropping into that quiet, cutting register. “She is sixty-eight and she is helping us raise our son.”
I looked at the small wooden bench by the front door where Barnaby, Owen’s stuffed dog, usually sat waiting for him. The bench was empty.
