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Lifting my phone, I hold my breath… Is it him?
It’s not Spencer. My chest sinks, but it quickly rises when I see it’s my first appointment at Palmetto.
They send me a cool little client dossier. Mrs. Wolfe is a geriatric patient recovering from a hip replacement. Her upper body and shoulders are tense from the physical therapy…
So nice not to have to collect all this information myself. I can plan my course of treatment and be ready when I see her Monday.
Momentary disappointment forgotten… sort of…
I choose to focus on the positive angle of preparing for a new client. Mrs. Wolfe sounds like a nice old lady and not a maniac who’ll chase me into a women’s restroom then down twenty-two flights of stairs. The memory gives me a shiver.
Hopping out of bed, I quickly put on leggings and a sweatshirt. Stopping at the mirror, I sweep my hair into a ponytail. The bruise on my cheek is a faint yellow now, and t
he cut is healed. Courtney stopped bandaging it shortly after we came here.
Perhaps that’s why he could leave without a second thought. With the visible reminder of what happened gone, he forgot why he was so concerned in the first place.
“Nope,” I say out loud to my reflection. “Still not going there.”
“Going where?” Ollie’s voice is a whine from across the room. “Aunt Sly, my stomach hurts.”
I go quickly to put my hand on his forehead. “You don’t have a fever. Do you feel nauseated? Crampy?”
He rolls to his side with his little brow tight. “I want my mom.”
“Your mom had to work this morning, babe.” Dropping to my knees, I try to smooth his bangs off his face, but he turns his face to the pillow. “She’ll be back after lunch. Want me to see if I can find you something?”
“I’m not hungry.”
Chewing my lip, I want to say it’s because he ate all the junk food in the world yesterday, starting with breakfast, but I don’t. If he really is sick, I’ll be eating those words later and feeling like an asshole.
“Just stay in bed, and I’ll try to find something to help. Do you like ginger tea?” He makes a groaning sound, and I guess he’d be an extra special seven-year-old if he did. “I know, let me find some Sprite.”
I manage to track down a sleeve of saltines and a warm Coke. Scooching in the bed beside him, I put the nature show he likes on the big television in our room.
His head is in my lap and my phone is beside me as we watch hour after hour of wildebeests running across the African prairie or neon schools of fish swirling in the ocean or his favorite tree frogs hiding in green leaves or climbing limbs.
I’m getting bored when I hear his little-boy snore and realize he’s asleep. Sliding my hand under his torso, I ease out of the bed and quietly into the hall. Checking my phone, it’s almost one. Courtney should be here soon.
The house is dark and empty, and I guess Tom went to escort her from work.
Walking through the elegant home, I stop at a built-in bookshelf. A round switch is beside it, and I twist it to turn on the recessed lights. A soft yellow glow illuminates a collection of antique trinkets.
A large and shiny brass clock sits under a glass dome. A round spinner in the back seems to serve as the battery, and on the side is a plate reading Simon Willard.
The shelf above holds a glowing purple vase with hobnails all down the sides. The lip curves dramatically and it’s strangely beautiful. On the bottom shelf is a leather notebook, and when I open it, I see it’s actually a ledger. Beside it is a lapis blue cloisonne pen. It’s like a Mont Blanc, but with brass filigree and pale pink and green flowers etched in the sides.
I know from Daisy’s work this stuff is valuable. Considering what Spencer told me, it’s probably worth several thousand dollars or more.
Leaning my head to the side, I pick up the pen and turn it in my fingers. I wonder if he’s ever even written with it or if it even works. Taking a step away, I walk along the hall to the stairs leading up to the master suite.
Climbing slowly, I pass the small sitting area to the left with its balcony facing the river. The enormous, navy king-sized bed is perfectly made. No sign I was ever even here.
I go to the bedside table that holds a blue and white porcelain lamp covered in Chinese lettering. I slide my finger along the top of the polished mahogany when I realize…
He doesn’t have a single picture.
Lifting my chin, I look all around the bedroom, to the dresser, the nightstand on the other side of the bed, not even on the credenza in the sitting room.
