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His sigh stretches out between us. “Ms. Marks, I’m a healer. I took an oath to do no harm. However, you have to understand that sometimes, the line of what constitutes as harm can blur.” He waves his hand, ushering me toward a bank of seats.
When we’re out of earshot from the hospital staff, he continues. “After your parents consulted with a psychologist, they felt it was in your best interest, for your state of mind, not to know the details of the pregnancy right away.”
The pregnancy… Fear confirmed, my lungs cease to accept air for a brief moment.
“As you weren’t far along,” he says, “I presumed you may not have even known about the baby. But—” he stresses “—I was told that you’d be made aware during rehabilitation. So yes, I went along with another doctor’s recommendation based on your mental sate and recovery. But I did not doctor your file, nor did I recommend that your parents keep this from you.”
I shake my head. “But Detective Dutton? Wouldn’t he have to know the truth? For the investigation?”
His kind eyes darken. “As you were my patient, the only details the case workers were privy to were the ones we discussed beforehand.”
Hell. Doctors are not law enforcement. They don’t think in terms of motive. Without the knowledge of my pregnancy, I couldn’t agree to the detective learning of the baby.
It’s a deplorable catch twenty-two banded in red tape.
Dr. Lawrence cups my shoulder. “I can have your original file sent to you via email, if you’d like. Just fill out a request form with Julia at reception.”
My parents impeded the investigation. By keeping the pregnancy from Detective Dutton, they inadvertently hid a motive for my murder.
But no matter how upset I am with them, when I leave Silver Lake Memorial, there’s only one person I want answers from.
The rental car idles in the hotel parking lot. The heater vents on low, fogging the windows, as rain sheets down the windshield. Outside is dismal and gray, masking the sky in an inky cloud coverage that makes it feel later than the clock reads: 7:24 p.m.
I’m afraid to leave the safe confines of the car. So much has transpired, has been revealed… Has it really only been a day?
Again, time seems to mock me.
Rhys has called three times. Left three messages. I haven’t checked them, fearful that the familiar, trustful sound of his voice will weaken me further. Somewhere between the drive from the hospital to the hotel, the anger—completely justified anger—I felt toward him ebbed, as if the storm stole my thunder.
Now I’m damp, cold, hungry, and just…exhausted.
I want to curl up in the hotel bed sheets and blot out the world and all its misery—but that means facing Rhys.
And I’m just not that strong right now.
I turn off the engine and recline the seat, deciding to sleep right here in the car. Only my mind churns details of my case like the raging storm outside the car, keeping me awake.
This is the reality I didn’t want to confront yet. I haven’t reconciled the loss of a child I will never again be able to have. Not only did my killer take that baby away, they took away any future chance of being a mother.
That pain is far too acute to feel in this moment.
I’m scared I’ll stop breathing.
Instead, I pull from the depth of my anger, latch on to that spite, and dig in my heels. Anger is the easiest emotion to govern when reaching for control. I think of the murder board I covered, of the names branched from the event.
I want to believe that a secret this monumental would be impossible to keep—and yet, I know that to be untrue. The darkest, most shattering secrets are the ones that are begged to be kept, even when they’re slowly killing you.
So, who all knew? Who was able to keep a secret like this?
My parents. The ones who convinced my doctor to honor doctor-patient confidentiality.
Drew. Who would not breathe a word of the pregnancy. Makes sense. Most likely his lawyers instructed him that a forgotten pregnancy was the best thing that could’ve happened to him.
Chelsea. Who, in order to support her future husband, would have no qualms in denying any rumors of a pregnancy. Less scandal to contend with.
Cameron. Did she know?
I search my memory bank. The hours surrounding my death are still fuzzy, and I can’t trust any recovered memories.
