Page 84 of The Temptation of Roan Island

“Why didn’t they tell us?” Shemaiah says, sounding far away. There’s something disbelieving in his voice, skeptical, pulling me from my own spiral. I wouldn’t notice it if I didn’t know him so well. Shemaiah doesn’t think Dr. Reter is telling the truth either.

“It seems some of their records weren’t well kept.” Dr. Reter shrugs, dismissive. It isn’t his problem. It’s theirs. But something about this doesn’t feel right.

“The same could be said of your records, it seems,” Shemaiah answers with all the cold calculation of a man accustomed to power.

“What do you mean?” Dr. Reter sits up straighter, defensiveness stiffening his shoulders.

“There’s no account of my wife’s son ever having visited The Sanatorium. But both she and the other women in my care attest to the fact that it happened. He was here.”

“You know how receptionists can be.” Dr. Reter waves his hand through the air with a short laugh. “Some of them aren’t always strict about signing everyone in.” He turns his attention to me. “Was the boy accompanied by a nurse?”

“Of course,” I reply.

“Well, there you have it.” He leans back as if everything’s been solved, but I don’t follow his reasoning. “Nurses don’t need to sign in,” he adds as if speaking to a child. “And I’m certain they wouldn’t have required a three-year-old to do so either.”

It strikes me as odd that he would know the exact age of my son when I’ve never met him before. Doctors of his caliber don’t stoop to treat the lowly women of the Vastatio wards. Perhaps the children’s home told him.

“Besides, it doesn’t matter much now.” He stands and comes around the desk to lean at the corner beside me. He pats my shoulder in a gesture that I think is supposed to be fatherly, but manages to be patronizing instead. “The boy has gone to a better place.”

All the air caught in my lungs expels in a single breath of pain and panic. No. No. No. That isn’t right. I want to scream. But I can’t. All I can do is tense my muscles and fight the rising hysteria.

Shemaiah pulls me to my feet, away from Dr. Reter, tucking me into his side. I ball my fists in his coat, fighting the tears that threaten my eyes.

“How is it that you’re looking so well, Mrs. Roan?” Dr. Reter says, oblivious to the turmoil inside me. Cold. Calculating.

Shemaiah bristles at the question. “My brother is an excellent physician.”

The jab is subtle, but Dr. Reter flinches. He rubs his chin and makes a humming sound deep in his throat. “Ah. Yes. I’m aware of Noah Roan’s skills. As a scientist. I just didn’t think they extended this far.” His eyes jump to me, and there’s an underlying look I can’t pinpoint in their depths. “You know, even if she’s doing well now, the disease will progress. It might be best for her to stay here. Vastatio comes in flare-ups. Not to speak ill of Dr. Roan, but she may just be in a good season, which is often followed by a bad. It would be best if she return⁠—”

“She is right here,” I snap. “You can speak to me directly. And if I’m to die, I’ll be the one to choose where.”

Dr. Reter gives me an arrogant smile that I’d like to tear off his face. He has the gall to tell me about my son’s death, pat my shoulder as if it’s nothing more than a passing inconvenience, and then in the next breath, argue that I should be recommitted to a place that did nothing to treat me. How dare he!

“Of course, dear,” he says. “I only suggest it because we could examine the effects of your treatment, since you’re doing so well, and perhaps help⁠—”

“You will not use my wife as a test subject.” Shemaiah turns his back to the other man and offers me his hand. “We’ll be going now.”

Numbly, I take it. The gravity of my son’s death settles on my shoulders like dirt covering a grave. He was so young and healthy the last time I saw him. Everything about it feels wrong. I can’t believe it. But where else could he be? We’ve already searched everywhere. This would explain so much. A sob lodges its way in my throat, but I don’t let it out.

“Of course.” Dr. Reter motions toward the door. “I have another appointment now as well.”

Shemaiah wraps his arm around me as we leave, offering the support I need. My legs shake, knees threatening to give out. After all this searching and effort, it all comes to naught. My boy is gone. The sob I’ve been holding back steals my breath, and Shemaiah squeezes me close, an attempt to comfort that I barely register.

“I’m truly sorry for your loss,” Dr. Reter says, following us to the door. “You should know, though, Vastatio is a silent killer and can strike at any moment. Even if she appears healthy. A shock like this could send her into a flare-up she can’t recover from. If she’s not in the care of a doctor who knows how to deal with such attacks…” He shakes his head. “It would be best for her to be back here at The Sanatorium. We’re her best chance at prolonging her life.”

His insistence breaks through my grief like alarm bells, but only for a moment.

“She stays with me,” Shemaiah says in a tone that brooks no argument. He guides me through the door before turning back. “Oh, and thank you for your hospitality in hosting Mrs. Darning last month.”

“We didn’t—” His denial dies as he meets Shemaiah’s gaze, his eyes taking on a more calculating quality. “Oh. Yes. Of course, she’s a lovely woman, very knowledgeable. We were grateful for her insight.”

Shemaiah studies the man like a hawk ready to swoop in for the kill. I can even see the sweat on Dr. Reter’s brow.

“Remind me, what exactly was it she was helping you with?” Shemaiah asks, hand still on the doorknob.

Dr. Reter’s gaze swings around the room. “Well, it was… those newfangled washing machines. You know, the new contraptions. Our housekeepers just couldn’t figure them out.”

“Clearly, if it took an entire month to do so.”