Unbelievable. “This is effective immediately?”
“That might be best, yes. Tie up any loose ends directly with Robert. Now, do you have someone to look in on you every day, after the operation?”
“My family lives nearby,” I muttered through clenched teeth.
“Très bien. I’ll visit you as well. We are neighbors, you know. Voisines. Jean-Pierre and I live on R Street.”
Oh, great. That was all I needed, to have my boss popping over for coffee. The social custom of calling on people when they are unwell has always mystified me. By definition, you’re not feeling or looking your best. Why on earth do people assume you might want visitors? That you would enjoy nothing more than to play hostess and chitchat? I could picture the scene: Madame Aubuchon, perfumed and pristine in full Hermès splendor; me, sore and sedated and still in my nightie.
I forced a weak smile and stood to go.
Madame Aubuchon watched me cross the room. “I read the article in the Atlanta newspaper. I pulled it up online. Your parents’ murder was never solved.”
“No.” I stopped with my hand on the doorknob. “It wasn’t.”
“Will the police want to interview you? Formally, I mean?”
“I don’t know. I was so young—I don’t remember anything.”
“But the bullet in your neck might be evidence, n’est-ce pas?” The perfect eyebrows shot up. “Merde. Quel bordel. C’est dingue.”
My jaw dropped. Madame Aubuchon had just uttered a vulgarity that, loosely translated, meant something along the lines of “Shit, what a goddamn mess.”
“Hélène?” I had never addressed her by her first name, but this seemed a reasonable time to start. “Did you just say—”
“Wouldn’t it be incredible if they found something? After all these years? J’espère qu’ils arrêtent le salaud.”
Good Lord. Not again. Still, she had a point. I hoped they caught the bastard, too.
? ? ?
AT LUNCHTIME, MARSHALL Gellert called from Sibley. “No need for alarm, but I wanted to let you know about a security incident that took place here over the weekend.”
“Oh. Okay. What kind of incident?”
“Unauthorized entry. Somebody gained access to the medical building yesterday morning. Building security is still checking things out, but the lock on our office door was definitely tampered with.”
I tried to think why anyone would bother breaking into a doctor’s office. “Was it somebody after prescription drugs, do you think? Narcotics?”
“That’s a possibility. There’s a pharmacy on the ground floor, as you may have noticed. And various samples and supplies locked up in cabinets all over the building. The good news is, it doesn’t look like any of our computers were compromised. But I’ve got my receptionists calling around to patients, so they can watch out for unusual activity on the credit cards we keep on file for billing purposes.”
“Right. Well, thanks for the heads-up.”
Dr. Gellert coughed. “I’m reaching out to you myself because of . . . uh . . . an additional irregularity. Your chart seems to have disappeared.”
“My chart?”
“That purple folder that I was taking notes in. You didn’t happen to take it with you, did you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Weirdest thing. I’m sure I left it on my desk, so I could review my notes and follow up today. Not to worry. Your test results are backed up online, and I can re-create everything else.”
“Maybe one of the nurses filed it?”
“They say they didn’t. They all know not to touch papers on my desk. Anyway, sorry to have disturbed you. I’ll be in touch in the next few days. Everything’s on track for your surgery next week.”
I sat thinking. “You’ll let me know if my file turns up?”
“Absolutely.”
“And if they find the guy who broke in?”
“Sure, if you like. Security thinks they caught him on a CC camera as he exited through the parking garage. Heavyset guy with dark, curly hair. Couldn’t see his face.”
? ? ?
AT HOME THAT evening, I kicked off my shoes and collapsed on the sofa. It would be hard to pinpoint which of the day’s events I found most unsettling. The news that Dr. Gellert’s office had illegally been entered and my chart was missing? The revelation that my elderly boss could outcurse a Marseilles dockworker?
It was infuriating, meanwhile, to admit that Madame Aubuchon’s judgment in ordering me to take time off was probably sound. I was in pain. My wrist hurt steadily, exhaustingly. The throbbing in my neck was less reliable but more frightening when it came. Even if the surgery went beautifully, I would need weeks to heal. And there was no denying that I was emotionally drained.
I made it upstairs to my bedroom and was changing into my oldest jeans and a soft, dove-gray cardigan when a knock sounded at the front door. I frowned. One of my brothers, stopping by for a drink on his way home from work? I peeked out the window, expecting to spot the blond head of either Tony or Martin.
It was Will Zartman.
I had not seen him since we’d parted ways at National Airport on Friday. I swiped a brush through my hair and ran downstairs. Neither of us spoke right away. We stood a few feet apart, me in my front hall, just inside the door, Will still out on the front step. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, and on his face was the same mix of sheepishness and defiance that I remembered from the last time he’d shown up un-announced, in the hotel lobby in Atlanta.
“This is a nice surprise. I would have changed if I’d known you were coming.” I tugged the sweater tighter around my faded jeans. “I was about to open some wine, if you wanted to—”
“You would have changed if you’d known I was coming? If you’d known I was coming?”
“Well, yes, I would have put on—”
“Check your phone.”
“My phone?”
“Check it.”