“Calvin stayed with you until the ambulance arrived, since his patient was still being prepped. Then I came in the ambulance with you and he took the car. You’ve been unconscious for at least two hours.”
She left while I was still processing the fact that I’d passed out from a migraine, and when she returned, it was with a nurse. Who was promptly followed by another. When they began to check my pulse and blood pressure, I didn’t protest.
Then Dr. Binchy turned up. It took me a second to recognize him out of his signature suits. He could’ve been just another guy at the bar in his jeans and old University of Otago sweatshirt, his jaw bristly with stubble. “What the hell are you doing here, Doc?”
He gave the nurses a look and the two men melted away. “Mrs. Liu,” he said, “if I could have a few minutes with Aarav.”
“Oh, of course.” Diana patted my hand, her touch soft and warm. “I’ll be right outside, honey.”
It was only when Dr. Binchy shut the door behind her that it dawned on me: though I was in a public hospital, I had a room to myself. “What’s wrong with me that I merit a solo room?”
Dr. Binchy’s lips kicked up for a second. “No sinister reason—you just got lucky.” He sat down in the chair Diana had just vacated. “We have to talk.”
Great big knots up my spine. “Give it to me straight.”
“The hospital ran a full blood panel when you were brought in, and to put it bluntly—the level and variety of meds in your blood is a shit-show.” He pinned me with a grim gaze. “You’re overdosing on some, not taking others, and your body can’t deal.”
I had nothing to say to that. I knew full well I hadn’t been taking my meds properly. Hadn’t thought I was overdosing on anything . . . but that migraine medication hadn’t disappeared by itself. “It’s been a weird week,” I said at last.
Taking off his black-framed specs, Dr. Binchy pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re beyond pat words, Aarav. Mrs. Liu is very loyal to you, but I managed to impress on her that I needed a full picture of your mental health.”
My abdomen grew hard.
“She finally told me that she invited you over for coffee yesterday”—a glance at his watch—“no, it’ll be two days ago now. You realize it’s after midnight?”
“I figured. Diana said I’d been out for a couple of hours.” I licked my dry lips. “What did she tell you?”
He slid his glasses back on, the hazel of his eyes acutely penetrating. “That you repeatedly asked her the same question, seeming to forget the answer every time.”
My hands dug into the sheets.
I remembered having coffee and cake with Diana, remembered looking at photographs, but I didn’t remember that. “What question?”
“Pardon?”
“What question did I ask her?”
“Oh.” Scratching at his jaw, he leaned back in his chair. “You kept asking her about a neighbor called Alice, and if Diana knew—but she never worked out what you were referring to.”
No. NO. I wouldn’t have run my mouth like that.
This was bullshit.
“I never asked that question.”
Legs sprawled out in apparent ease, Dr. Binchy stared at me. “When was the last time you sent me an email?”
“I dunno. A couple of weeks ago.”
“You’ve sent me multiple emails in the past forty-eight hours.” Reaching into the folder he’d carried into the hospital room, Dr. Binchy picked up a piece of paper and passed it across. In the sender field was the name Aarav Rai, but it was linked to an email address I’d never used.
The subject was:
Investigation.
The text was short:
I think my father killed my mother. He hated her and he’s a bastard. I just need to catch him out.
Below that was another message with the same subject header, but this time, the text was focused on Hemi:
He did it. I know it. Smug, pompous ass who pretends to be holier-than-thou while cheating regularly on his wife. It was him.
The third message was cut off on the printout, but it seemed to blame Elei for everything.
Face flushed, I thrust the page back at the doctor. “That’s not my email address.” Having spotted my phone on a nearby table, I picked it up and brought up my inbox. “This is my email address.”
Dr. Binchy pressed his lips together. “You realize that if you’ve forgotten an entire conversation with another person, you’re fully capable of forgetting the act of setting