The Girl from Widow Hills - Megan Miranda Page 0,66
anniversary approaching, the panic of being found and put on display for others to pick apart. The night terrors becoming something more . . . Anything I said now would indeed end up in some medical file. If it got to that, a detective asking for the records, subpoenaing them somehow, I wanted there to be a record of this, too.
“Must’ve been extra stress, like you said,” I offered.
He let out a slow sigh, like he was relieved. “Good, good.” He put the folder on his desk, patting it once.
I could’ve laughed. It was the first time I’d found him truly funny.
That paperwork was to cover his own ass. Dr. Cal had called me in here, worried about his liability. He’d heard the rumors, and he knew I’d been to see him beforehand, and, like Bennett, he’d made that leap. I’d come to him for help, and he’d brushed me off, and now he was scrambling.
Here Bennett had been worried about word getting out that I’d been seeing someone for sleepwalking and everyone would know—HIPAA laws be damned. When really Dr. Cal was terrified. Maybe not a sociopath after all. He was too nervous, too unnatural.
A narcissist, though, yes.
It wasn’t good for business if your patient woke standing over a dead body. Not a five-star recommendation. Not the type of press he’d want, either.
“I’m sorry to hear about . . . everything going on. It must be very stressful. How have you been coping?”
“It is,” I said. “You know Sydney Britton in the ER?”
“Yes, I’m familiar with the name,” he said.
“She gave me this pain pill/sleeping aid combo. Knocked me right out. I didn’t move all night.”
He blinked at me slowly. “Well, that’s good news, knowing you didn’t have an adverse reaction to it. Why don’t you email that name to me and I’ll get you a refill, should you need it.”
“Perfect,” I told him. Fucking perfect.
He’d feared he had made a mistake, and now he was swinging to the other extreme. Everyone wanted to save their own ass, present the perfect image. At the end of the day, we were all products to be consumed by the public, at their will.
“I’d like to keep working with you,” he said. “I think you’re a very interesting case.”
I almost didn’t respond, because he was, even now, trying to see how he could use this story for himself. So many careers had been made from the original event: the reporters who were there, watching it live; the doctors who looked over my case until my mom realized they were using me for their own case studies, something to help their public image and pad their résumés; the friends who had shared photos and anecdotes, inserting themselves into the story for their own momentary taste of fame.
But I had to keep him on my side. “I think I have an appointment with you on Thursday. Guess I’ll see you then?”
“Great, yes. And just so you know, you can talk to me, Olivia. I take privacy very seriously. I spoke with my secretary, too. She understands the sensitive nature.”
As evidenced by the fact that I was here after hours, that he’d called instead of emailing to set this up, that there was absolutely no record of my presence today.
Only Bennett knew the full truth—knew about my visit here and how it might connect to the case. And I had to believe he was on my side.
THE HALLWAY OUTSIDE DR. Cal’s office was mostly empty already. I’d checked my phone, looking for any contact from Elyse or Bennett. But I had no new messages.
It was late enough in the day that I knew Bennett shouldn’t be sleeping, especially if he hadn’t had a shift here today. I needed to ask him if he had suspected Elyse. I had called his cell, leaning against the wall, when the door to Dr. Cal’s office swung open again.
“Didn’t mean to spook you,” he said, looking at his watch, “but I’m heading out, too.”
The call switched over to voicemail, and there was nothing to do but fall into stride beside him, heading toward the elevators.
I didn’t want to mention that I wasn’t planning to take the elevator but was heading toward the fire stairwell instead—would take the five flights down, like I always did. With the doctor beside me, it was hard to break away without getting into all the reasons why a steel trap was not my ideal means of travel.