Page 3 of The Lipstick Flip

“No,” Amanda said with another husky laugh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you the wrong idea. I’m simply updating some paperwork for the trust, and I needed some additional information from you.” With what sounded like the faintest hint of irritation, she said, “As I explained to Noah when I asked him to have you call me.”

I leaned against one of the plastic-wrapped kitchen cabinets. In the next room, the kerosene heater made a hissing sound.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why do you need information from me?”

“It’s standard practice to make sure all the information for the trust is up to date.”

Which was probably true; lawyers had to make their money somehow. “No, I mean, why me?”

“Well, because you’re named in the trust.”

It took me about three seconds to say, “I am?”

A trace of…something entered Amanda’s voice. Concern, maybe. Or doubt. “Mr. Cartwright, you signed the paperwork.”

“Yeah, but that was—” I changed what I’d been about to say. “—years ago.”

“Hence the need to make sure all your information is still up-to-date. Now, is this the best phone number—”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t understand. I’m still in the trust? Jonathan didn’t—I don’t know what it’s called. He didn’t take me out?”

Now the concern or doubt or whatever it was shaded Amanda’s voice in layers. “I spoke with Mr. Reynolds just last week about the organization of the trust. He was very clear that the trust should include you as his son’s husband.”

I didn’t say anything.

From downstairs came a thump, Si’s laughter, and then muffled words as she played it off for the camera.

The kerosene heater was still hissing.

Across the call came the sound of papers shuffling as Amanda searched for something. Then, with a pleased little note in her voice, she said, “Hey, congrats on the four-year anniversary!”

2

MagnaCare was a single-story brick building with curtains in every window. If you didn’t see the sign—SKILLED NURSING AND REHABILITATION—you might have mistaken it for a government office, or a nondenominational church, or maybe even a motel. Two old-fashioned lights burned on lampposts near the front entrance, and beyond the double doors, a faint grayish patch suggested activity deeper in the building. But at this hour, most of the windows were dark, and the parking lot was nearly empty.

Noah’s Mini Cooper was parked in back.

I parked next to him. I sat in my truck. The engine rumbled, and the faint vibrations in the steering wheel made me aware of the ache in my hands. I kept trying to think. Kept trying to work my way through it. But my head was this big red emptiness, and all I could do was sit there, clutching the steering wheel.

Finally, it was like something let go of me. I took a deeper breath. The world came into focus. I was staring at an expanse of brick wall picked out by the headlights. A strip of winter-dead grass. A sidewalk where someone had spray-painted the uneven edges yellow because they were a fall hazard.

The doors would be locked.

They wouldn’t let me inside.

I took out my phone and called.

It went to voicemail, of course. Not that Noah had bothered to record a message—it was the default mailbox. I didn’t bother leaving a message.

The next call went to MagnaCare. It rang several times before a tired-sounding woman answered.

“I need to speak to Noah Reynolds,” I said. “This is his father. It’s a family emergency.”

“Oh honey,” the woman said. “One second.”

It wasn’t one second. It was closer to thirty. I counted each and every one of them. Now that my head was clear, I felt like I was moving in slow-motion, each second stretched out until it snapped, and then the next one began.

“Dad?” Noah said.