The advocate waiting outside takes her upstairs to one of the family rooms. She glances over her shoulder before they reach the stairwell.
Nobody follows.
I close the examination-room door and find my husband leaning against the opposite wall. He carries a paper bag in one hand and an envelope in the other.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough.”
“That answer usually precedes interference.”
“You missed dinner.”
“It is six thirty.”
“Dinner was at six.”
“You run a motorcycle club. I treat injured people. Neither profession is known for respecting schedules.”
Grim holds out the paper bag.
The smell of chicken soup reaches me, and my stomach turns.
I take the bag without breathing through my nose.
His silver eyes narrow.
Danger has many forms. Some carry weapons. Some stand in clinic hallways and notice nausea.
I walk into my office before he can begin asking questions.
The original shelter was already overcrowded when I arrived in Roseburn Falls. This second location opened last spring with twelve family rooms, childcare, a legal office, and the medical wing I supervise. Razor covers Tuesdays and comes when a patient needs more than a nurse can provide. He complains about my timing. I remind him that emergencies rarely consult his calendar.
Grim used part of the fortune his mother left him to pay for the new building through an independent trust. Her money once kept the St. Valecourt family from bankruptcy. Grim decided the part she left him should give women somewhere safe to begin again.
No family name appears on the walls.
The Damned Sinners built almost everything inside the new shelter.
Striker calls threatening suppliers project management. Nobody has been brave enough to correct him.
Grim follows me into the office and places the envelope on my desk.
Anthony’s attorney sends one every three months.
“Another report?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
“You read it?”
“No.”
“You carried it through the rain.”
“I care where the money goes.”
The distinction matters to him.