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“This is all a delicate subject as Mr. Long is still alive. But we have to plan for the inevitable, since it will affect Padgett’s care somewhat.”
“I understand.”
“Hubert’s been informed of Brady’s death, and he has a request.”
“About Padgett?”
“Yes.”
Hauling all three manila-bound files, Jalicia rolled her chair back to the desk, opening the most recent information on her patient. She then clicked onto her computer to gather information in the database, where most of the intelligence was kept.
“Padgett Long will be Hubert Long’s sole survivor now. His sole heir.”
So there were no other living relatives to the es-
CHOSEN TO DIE
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tate, and Tinneman was sorting through an unexpected turn.
“There’s a trust set up for Padgett, of course,” he went on, “And as she’s—infirm—the estate will always see that she’s cared for. But there is another area that needs to be addressed . . .”
“What is that?” she asked when his pause stretched into uncomfortable silence.
“If you check through your files, the old ones, where it shows when Padgett was admitted, you’ll see, I believe, that she spent a little time—just about four months—at another institution.”
“Okay.” She pushed the two most recent documents aside and concentrated on the one that was fifteen years old. Some of the pages had yellowed and had that musty smell of disuse. Cradling the phone between her shoulder and ear, she carefully turned through the pages in the oldest folders. “I’ve got her records in front of me.”
“Good. That institution is Cahill House in San Francisco.”
“I’m looking, Mr. Tinneman, but I don’t see anything.”
“I’m sure you have a copy.”
“There are
a lot of pages. I might need some time to peruse the file closely. Oh, wait . . .” She ran her finger down a yellowed page and there, in faded letters, she read: Transfer from Cahill House. The notation was buried deep in the first three typed pages of Padgett’s admission form. Jalicia rechecked the computer and frowned. This same information had seemingly been omitted when it was transferred to the database. “I’ve got it. Cahill House in San Francisco?” The address was barely 266
Lisa Jackson
legible. “Is that a private hospital? I’ve never heard of it.”
“No, not a hospital. Not really.” His voice was a little strained, as if his collar were suddenly too tight. “It’s owned by the Cahill family and has been for generations. It’s a place where girls can stay who find themselves—in trouble.”
Jalicia squinted at the phone. “You mean pregnant?” First she’d heard the strain of Brady Long’s unexpected death in his voice, now he’d started tiptoeing through the words. Embarrassment over an unwanted pregnancy? Was he reflecting Hubert Long’s viewpoint?
“Yes, she was pregnant.”
“Did she go full term?” Dr. Ramsby asked, when Tinneman shut himself down again.
“She gave the child—a boy—up for adoption.”
Jalicia leaned back in her chair, absorbing. Her gaze looked out the window to the pale winter sunlight filtering through the clouds, and she thought of the woman in room 126 with the blue, blue eyes, the hidden intelligence that lurked there. “Willingly?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“The woman who hasn’t spoken a word since she’s been here, she agreed to give up her baby?”
