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Sam shook Whitfield’s hand when they left the house, then waved to a pair of twin boys running from a car that had just parked in the driveway as Sam was putting Siggy in the cargo hold. A final look as he drove away revealed Whitfield still standing on his front porch, holding a hand of each boy.
“That was nice,” Sam said quietly. “I’m glad we visited.”
“Me too,” Georgia agreed. “Thank you, Sam.”
“You’re more than welcome. I should be taking you girls out more often.”
“Eloise would get such a kick out of that. Can we go to the hospice now? I want to talk to Sharon.”
Sam hesitated, because she looked exhausted. “If you’re sure you’re up to it.”
Georgia nodded once. “I’m sure.”
“Then that’s where we’ll go.”
Restful Heart Hospice, Lincoln Park, San Diego, California
Thursday, November 10, 6:00 p.m.
“You’re sure you’re up for this?” Sam asked one more time as he helped a visibly weary Georgia into the hospice facility. As if understanding that Georgia needed to go slowly, Siggy paced them, not pulling even a little bit.
Such a good dog.
He hoped the hospice would permit Siggy to come in. It wasn’t too warm for him to stay in the car, but Sam didn’t like to risk it. “I can drive you back here tomorrow if you’re too tired.”
Georgia clutched his arm a little tighter. “No, I need to do it now. But thank you for asking, Sam.”
The lobby of the hospice was decorated for Thanksgiving, which lent a little cheer to what was an otherwise sad place. There was no one at the desk, but there was a bell with a small sign saying to ring for help.
Sam guided Georgia to the desk where there was a visitor sign-in book filled with scrawled signatures accompanied by dates and times in and out. Curious, Sam paged through the sign-in book, smiling when he saw Henry Whitfield’s spiky scrawl. Henry had visited this past Saturday afternoon. Beneath Henry’s name was the name of his grandson. Sam was glad the old man was being well cared for.
He paged back to Wednesday’s guests and caught his breath. “Georgia, look.”
She did and she exhaled quietly. “Joe Friday. That’s Frankie’s handwriting. I’d know it anywhere.”
“So he was here. I’m glad.” Taking out his phone, Sam typed out a quick text to Kit. At the hospice visiting Frankie’s ex-wife. Frankie was here on Wednesday. Used the name of Joe Friday—his old partner said that was his nickname on the force. He hit send, then flipped the book back to today’s entries when the receptionist returned.
“I’m so sorry. I hope you two weren’t waiting long. May I see your IDs?”
“Of course,” Georgia said and signed her name to the book. “We’re here to see Sharon White.”
Sam signed the book next. “Is it okay to visit her now?”
The receptionist’s smile was generous and kind. “You can certainly try. I know she loves visitors. It’s room 406. Her son is in there with her now. He’ll know best if she’s up to a visit.”
Oh dear, Sam thought, hoping the son who hated Frankie wouldn’t make them leave. “We brought our dog,” he said. “Sharon likes dogs.” Or so Henry had said. “He’s a regular at the continuing care center where I volunteer. Is it okay if he visits, too?”
“Of course. But if he gets aggressive at all, you’ll have to take him outside.”
“I understand. Thank you.” He guided Georgia to Sharon’s room, frowning when he felt her trembling. “Are you okay, Georgia?”
“I’m fine. Just…nervous.”
“Me too. If the son says no, we’ll come back, okay?”
“Okay.”
Sharon’s room was bright and sunny with a half-dozen vases overflowing with colorful flowers. And one vase with white roses that were a bit past their peak.
