The Girl from Widow Hills - Megan Miranda Page 0,65
peered down the hall. Expecting maybe someone lingering, waiting to talk to me. But it was empty from the stairwell entrance on the left to the locked double doors on the right. Whoever had been out there was gone.
My ringing office phone drew me back inside.
“This is Olivia,” I answered, heart still racing.
“Olivia, it’s Dr. Cal. Can you please swing by my office this evening before you head out?”
I was caught off guard, wondering why he was calling, whether I’d gotten my schedule wrong. “Oh, um, I didn’t think we had an appointment this soon . . .” I pulled up my calendar, didn’t see anything in there.
“It’s important. A few items we need to discuss. Some paperwork I forgot to take care of. So. Five-thirty?”
“Sure,” I said.
This time I locked my office door behind me on the way out.
RETURN TO SENDER
No Forwarding Address
POSTMARKED: LEXINGTON, KY
MAY 21, 2011
How much did they give you for that new brick house, for that white picket fence, for that nice black car? What’s the going rate for that fake life you’re living?
How much do you owe the people who made this life for you?
How much do you have left?
I know the answer to that one. More than you deserve.
If you’re not careful, you’ll get what you really deserve.
CHAPTER 17
Monday, 5:30 p.m.
HELLO?” I CALLED, STEPPING into Dr. Cal’s outer office. His secretary seemed to have left for the day already. Maybe there’d been some wires crossed. Maybe I wasn’t on the final calendar. Maybe the mistake with the appointment was his and not mine.
“Come on in!” Dr. Cal’s smooth voice called from his inner office, door partly ajar once more. “Sit, sit,” he said, with his too-wide smile and too-white teeth. He crossed his ankle over his leg, in that same chair, and I checked his socks. Orange. Pumpkins, maybe? It was still August.
“I know it’s a little early for the season,” he said, shaking his foot, “but fall is always my favorite time of year.”
I had no idea what I was doing here, and he wasn’t giving me any hints. “Um, I wasn’t sure why you needed to see me, and I’m on my way out, have to be somewhere soon . . .”
“Right,” he said, planting both feet firmly on the ground. He grabbed a folder beside him, opened it up, twisted it my way.
He held himself very still. His demeanor was making me nervous.
The form appeared to be a disclaimer, with my name and birth date already filled in. Something about a sleep study, best practice recommendations, a release of liability—
He cleared his throat. “I forgot to have you sign this when you were here, when you opted out of doing a sleep study.”
I tilted my head. Had I? He’d mentioned one, and I’d put it off, saying I didn’t have the time right then—I wouldn’t have said my response was official in any way.
“It’s standard,” he said, handing me a pen.
“Sure,” I said, adding my signature. He’d left the date open, and I hastily scribbled it in. I wasn’t sure why he was calling me in so urgently over this.
He flipped the folder closed, took a slow breath, shoulders relaxing. “Have you been keeping that journal, like we discussed?” he asked.
“Not yet. I’ve had a few rough nights.”
His face darkened, and then I knew for sure he’d heard. “My secretary told me there was an emergency the other night. Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” I said.
He looked down at my knee, at the way I held my leg out straight to keep the stitches from pulling. I could walk without a limp, but I was being cautious—not wanting to pull anything apart before it had fully healed.
“Is that from . . .” He let the thought trail.
“I tripped,” I said.
He drummed his pointer finger against his knee, the pace increasing. “Were you—did you—was it like you mentioned last time? That you woke up outside?”
“No,” I said firmly. “I tripped because I found a body in the dark.”
His face was impossible to read, no emotion behind it. “That must’ve been terrible,” he finally said, like he was trying on empathy for the first time.
“It was,” I said.
He sat back in his chair, the folder still in his lap. “Olivia, these things we were discussing, it’s hard to determine what the diagnosis is without a sleep study. Whether you could be a danger to yourself or those around you.”
I stared at him blankly until he cracked first, looking down, making some useless note.