Chapter 5 - The Call I Shouldn't Have Made
The person at the downstairs door was the landlord's nephew, arriving to repair a broken stair light. He had every right to be there. I still felt my shoulders lock when his shadow crossed the frosted glass.
Fear had made a stranger of me.
"You called him," Nora said.
I did not pretend otherwise.
"Why?"
"I thought he might answer a question if I caught him off guard."
"You mean you thought you could control him."
The correction was exact. It would have been easier if she'd shouted.
We photographed the pouch in place, made a list of its contents, and placed it in a clean envelope without altering the original papers. Nora called Isabel's estate attorney, who connected us with an independent lawyer experienced in whistleblower and commercial-fraud matters. The lawyer told us not to circulate the drive, not to confront potential witnesses, and not to mistake our suspicions for proven crimes. She arranged for a protected transfer of the materials and advised us to report the attempted hospital inquiry through ordinary security channels.
I had the means to call ten people and demand action. For the first time, I followed the advice of someone who told me to slow down.
On the drive back, Nora sat in the passenger seat with her arms wrapped around her canvas bag. She didn't trust Michael. She didn't trust my car. I couldn't fault either judgment.
"Adrian had your eyes," she said suddenly.
"People tell me that."
"He used to get this look when he thought he was the smartest person in the room. Then he'd discover he'd been cruel and wouldn't know how to apologize."
I almost smiled. "I taught him something, then."
"He wanted you to teach him how to be different."
That hurt more.
At the hospital, Dana met us near the elevators. She had reported the suspicious telephone inquiry to her supervisor. A unit clerk had documented what the caller said. There had been no breach of Emmy's chart, Dana assured us, and the hospital was reviewing access logs as a precaution. The security desk had been instructed to verify visitors with Nora rather than rely on anyone's claim of family relationship.
I thanked her.
"There is something else," she said.
Emmy's counts were drifting downward. The hematology team had intensified treatment for the underlying disease, and the transfusion service had contacted rare-donor networks in several states. Compatible units had been identified for confirmatory testing, but none was yet cleared and in the building. The physicians were balancing the risks of waiting against the risks of transfusing blood that might be incompatible.
"Could she die?" Nora asked.
Dana didn't give us false comfort. "She's seriously ill. Dr. Pierce will explain the decisions as they develop."
Inside the room, Emmy watched an old cartoon without laughing. Her bear rested upright against the pillow. When she saw me, she moved it toward the empty chair.
"He can sit there," she said. "If he promises not to take Benny."
"I promise," I said.
"Daddy used to hold him when he was scared."
"I know. I gave Benny to your daddy when he was three."
Emmy's eyes widened. "Really?"
"He wanted a bear from the toy store. We couldn't afford it then, so a neighbor gave us this one. The ear came loose. I tried to fix it and did a terrible job."
She studied the blue stitching. "I like it. It means somebody loved him enough to sew him."
There were days during Adrian's childhood when love had been as simple as that. I wondered at which point I had started confusing it with control.
I stayed in the chair while Nora spoke to Dr. Pierce. When Emmy slept, I stood to leave and heard her say my name without opening her eyes.
"Grandpa Luca?"
I turned.
"If Daddy comes back, will he be in trouble?"
I felt the old instinct rising: tell her nobody would be in trouble, promise an outcome I couldn't deliver, choose a comforting lie because the truth required courage.
Instead, I said, "I don't know where he is. But if I find him, I'll listen before I say anything else."
She nodded, apparently satisfied by something smaller than certainty.
My phone vibrated again. An unfamiliar number had sent a photograph of the outside of 19 Rowe Street, taken less than an hour earlier. Across the image someone had written:
May you like
STOP LOOKING WHERE HE LEFT THINGS.
LOOK WHERE HE WAS SENT.
