Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Sagan

Rather than let her sleep through her weekly appointment with her physician, I accompany Esme downstairs at 3 p.m.

We meet Dr. White in the library, and I already don’t like him.

He talks down to Esme as if she’s a little girl.

“I’m still not sleeping, Dr. White,” she says, wincing as the doctor takes her blood pressure.

“Hmm,” he says, eyeing the number on the screen, “Hallucinating again?”

She clears her throat. “Still. Not again. Still.”

“You must try harder to tell yourself it’s not real,” Dr. White advises. “You must sleep, and I promise it will work itself out.”

“But…”

Dr. White raises a thin finger skyward and says, “‘Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fear to attempt.’ William Shakespeare.”

I don’t know what the fuck this guy is talking about, but I know I read that somewhere. My hand automatically goes to the back of Esme’s shoulder. “What hallucinations, baby?”

Dr. White barely acknowledges me, except to frown at the hand that touches his patient. “Now, what did I tell you about dating? You’ll drive yourself into an early grave.”

It seems to me that Esme has a lot of old men in her life telling her what to do.

The irony isn’t lost on me.

But there’s a difference. I seem to be the only one with a critical thought between his ears. I think Esme recognizes that, too, down deep somewhere, buried under years of bad advice, if my hunch is correct.

“We’re not dating,” she says quickly. “Sagan is an old friend.”

The doctor is smart and can see right through it. His suspicion of me pours off him. “Now remember, Esmerelda. No vigorous activity. We have to be careful of your heart condition.” His eyes cut to me, and I know what he’s implying. The way he sneers is disgusting.

Wait…

“You have a heart condition?” I ask.

Esme turns to me and nods, her face sad and childlike. I do not like how she acts around this doctor. She’s totally cowed. “It’s hereditary.”

I put my hand over my mouth, panicking. Vigorous activity…was what Esme and I did earlier considered vigorous activity? What does she have, the heart of a 75-year-old red meat eater?

She sees the look on my face and shakes her head. “Don’t worry. See? I’m fine.”

Esme is not fine. Not at all. And I’m the jerk who got her heart racing when it wasn’t supposed to.

“You should not talk about medical information in front of strangers,” the doctor tells her.

“If I was worried about that, he wouldn’t be here. I trust him. In fact, I’d like to add Mr. Fisher as my emergency contact.”

He seems taken aback at Esme’s animated demeanor.

“What’s up, Doc? Not used to seeing her so alert?”

Esme squeezes my hand. The doctor rounds on me. “And what do you know about my patient, exactly?”

I reel in the urge to put this man in his place. “If I could offer my medical opinion. Esme is dealing with some serious executive dysfunction. When I found her this morning, she was barely communicative, and she hadn’t eaten a full meal in days.”

“Medical opinion?” says the doctor.

“He’s a nurse,” Esme interjects.

I’m not a nurse anymore, but sure, let’s go with that.

“How interesting. Well, I’ll ask you to keep your opinions to yourself, Nurse Fisher.”

That’s about the reaction I expected.

“Still, you can refer her for testing. She’s clearly suffering from depression as well.”

The doctor ignores me now and moves on. “I’d like to increase your sleep medicine,” he says, scribbling on a notepad, which I find weird. Most doctors type everything directly into a secured laptop these days. “And don’t forget your heart medicine. And I’m adding something for the hallucinations. Something for anxiety, but I caution you to keep yourself calm. I know how stressful the holidays can be.”

I’ve never heard a doctor prescribe less movement to deal with anxiety and depression. I need to investigate this heart issue further.

“Where’d you go to medical school?” I ask.

The temperature in the room seems to drop by ten degrees, as if it weren’t cold enough in this joint.

“Pardon me?”

“Where’d you get your medical degree? Where did you do your residency? These are simple questions.”

The doctor’s eyes assess me.

Footsteps echo down the hall and then the other older man, the one who met me at the door, walks in, takes one look at me, and his jaw drops.

“Fisher! What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be working up a quote for the chimney repairs!”

No one since my military days has ever addressed me by my last name.

I let Esme speak. “I invited him to join me on my appointment.”

“Yes,” Dr. White simpers with all the fakery I would expect. “He’s been asking lots of questions on Ms. Bryant’s behalf. Inquisitive young man.”

Frye’s gaze shifts from me to Dr. White to Esme. “Ms. Bryant, may I ask why you invited a contractor to this appointment?”

Her eyes have a spark in them for the first time since we met last year. “He kindly helped me this morning, and we had a very nice…conversation.”

Esme’s cheeks flush. The small smile makes me itch to take her straight back up to her room and let her know what I think of her being coy.

But her heart? I can’t be doing anything of the sort. Not without investigating this whole thing.

“Ms. Bryant, this is highly concerning,” Frye says.

“I have to agree with Mr. Frye. Not everyone is entitled to your medical information,” Dr. White says.

“Especially complete strangers,” Frye says, wringing his hands.

Esme clucks. “But we’re not complete strangers. We’re old friends. That’s why I called him to come look at my chimney. Isn’t that right, Sagan?”

Her hand on my arm is making my cock twitch, and that’s saying something because these two dudes are massive buzzkills. And how does this woman make the word “chimney” feel so damn filthy?

I clear my throat, trying to will away the erection in my jeans. “That’s right. Old, old friends.”

Frye squints at me. “I have no record of you visiting Bryant Estate.”

Esme shrugs. “Well, now you do.”

The doctor clears his throat. “Here are your refills, dear,” he says, handing her a small white pharmacy bag.

Talk about unorthodox. “Don’t you have to call those in?”

“Excuse me?”

I explain how prescriptions work like he’s five, and I can’t believe I even have to. “You write a scrip, you call it in. Then the young lady and I toddle on down to Costco and pick the shit up. Right?”

“What’s Costco?” Esme asks.

Dr. White waves me off. “I’m licensed to refill things as needed,” he says, as if that makes any damn sense.

My hackles are all the way up already, and I intercept the bag and read the bottles. Inside the bag, there are a bunch of herbal remedies, vitamins, and a beta blocker.

I don’t like this. I don’t like a single thing about any of this.

“We’re going to get some fresh air,” I inform everyone.

“But her heart…” Dr. White cautions. “Nothing too strenuous.”

“A brisk walk is better than whatever the hell you’re pushing on her,” I mutter.

Frye calls after us, reminding us about some appointment with a guy named Cowen.

I ignore him.

I don’t look back as we head to the coat closet off the foyer, and I wrap Esme in a down puffer coat, woolen hat, and mittens.

Outside, the snow is starting to melt in the afternoon sun, and the path is in parts icy, snowy and muddy. We clasp hands, and I keep an eye on her condition as we walk through the trees, past the crumbling carriage house, and past an overgrown garden with statues covered in moss. I look over my shoulder back toward the house and see the doctor walking to his car, Frye following behind him. The two of them are having a heated discussion, which I care nothing about.

“Watch out. Sorry, this part of the trail needs some work,” Esme says. I turn to watch where I’m going just in time to avoid tripping over a fallen tree across the path.

I squeeze Esme’s hand as we walk, a silent promise that I’m going to take some house projects off her plate. I know she has the weight of the world on her shoulders, and I wouldn’t be one bit surprised if it’s making her shut down in the way that I found her this morning.

Esme seems happy to be out of the house, and the walk puts a healthy flush on her cheeks. God, she’s even more beautiful outside in the sunshine.

We cross a small stream deep in the woods and stop in the middle of a stone bridge covered in dead kudzu vines.

“Why are we stopping here?”

“Isn’t it pretty?” Esme asks.

“Yes, baby, it’s beautiful,” I say hurriedly, ready to get off this bridge before it collapses under my weight.

Esme leans into my chest, and I can’t resist drawing her close and kissing her pretty, cold lips.

“This is the exact spot where my great-great-grandfather George Bryant proposed to Elinor.”

I have to focus. As much as I want her to have a romantic moment with me, I brought her outside so we could talk with no one listening. I don’t actually give a shit about long-dead railroad barons and Gilded Age romances.

I change the subject abruptly. “Sorry, baby, but that guy is a quack.”

She blinks up at me. “Who? George Bryant?”

“No. The doctor,” I say, almost laughing.

Esme pauses and weaves her fingers through mine. “Why do you say that?”

“Does he even have an office? How is he carrying around your prescriptions? That’s not how real doctors work. And what he should be doing is ordering a sleep study, because…”

She closes her eyes. “I don’t have the answers to all these questions, Sagan. He’s been my family doctor for as long as I can remember.”

“Fire him.”

Her eyes fly open. “You can’t be serious. Where would I go?”

“Literally, to anyone else. Something is very crooked about that guy.”

She chews on her bottom lip, uncertainty in her eyes. “He may seem strange to you, but he knows my history. He’s very well respected.”

“By who?” I ask.

Esme blinks, taken aback. “I never thought about it before, but the Bryant Estate in general, for starters.”

She’s disturbed at how heated I am about this. I rest one hand on each of her upper arms, reassuringly. “OK. Just promise me you’ll do some homework about this guy.”

She smiles teasingly. “You’re being very paranoid. But okay.”

The two of us hike until the trail starts to descend more steeply down the mountain, then I decide we should turn around. I wouldn’t want to risk a strenuous uphill hike if she does indeed have a heart condition. Our walk takes about two hours over rutted paths strewn with fallen trees and overgrown brush. The trail provides some great views, but it’s generally unsafe for the casual hiker. I could help her fix that. In fact, I know plenty of people who could help Esme fix a lot of things.

The sky is dark as we make our return hike back up to the house.

I don’t mention to Esme that I’ll be doing my own homework on Dr. White. She doesn’t know I’ll be paying a certain friend to help me carry this out.

Back at the house, Esme darts off to the powder room down the hall behind the grand staircase. While I wait for her, I send $400 cash to my former coworker from the prison library. Stalker, who goes by 574LK3R online, initially helped me track Esme’s movements earlier this year. I know how this goes. He gets paid before he even considers doing a job for me. I follow up the payment with one text.

Dr. Rufus White. Need to know everything.

Sweet. He a pervert? Malpractice?

Quack. Possibly fucking with someone important to me.

No one is that important to you.

Things change.

Aw, I’m getting all misty over here.

Fuck you.

I’ll call you tomorrow. Delete this text thread and restart your phone.

For most people, deleting text messages only goes so far. If the cops want to know what you’re really up to, they can still subpoena your text messages and calls from the phone carrier.

In the case of Stalker, or 574LK3R, there are ways around that.

I’m thinking about how I’ll break the news to Esme once Stalker comes through with information—and I have no doubt in my mind that he will come back with something sketchy—when I’m startled by another presence nearby.

Frye appears out of the shadows, like a specter. He wears an apron and holds a bottle of wood polish in one hand and dirty rags in the other.

“Man, you scared the shit out of me,” I laugh.

His face remains tight.

“For the record, I don’t like you, Mr. Fisher. You came here under false pretenses, and I know what you’re doing.”

Instead of taking a defensive posture, I lean against the wall, my arms crossed over my chest. “And what am I doing?”

“Worming your way in,” he says. His fingers are gripping that dirty rag pretty damn hard. He’s agitated, and I have no interest in an argument right now. “Mr. Cowen, a licensed contractor, said he’s never heard of you.”

I pretend to inspect my fingernails, waiting for him to say more.

“I’ll tell you what’s more,” Frye goes on. “That girl may be an adult. But as long as I’m here, she’s my responsibility. You have no idea how many gold-digging suitors I’ve managed to scare off in my time employed at Bryant Estate, in the name of keeping her healthy and of sound mind.”

I let out a labored sigh. “I appreciate that. But I’m not interested in her money.”

The older man scoffs. “Everyone is interested in Bryant money.”

“You done getting that off your chest?”

Frye doesn’t answer verbally but gives a curt nod.

Calmly, too quietly for how I’m feeling, I reply, “If Esme wants me to go, I’ll go.”

She comes out of the powder room, all smiles. “That was the best hike ever. Next time, come with us, Frye!” Esme says. “Now come on, I need some hot cocoa.”

She grabs my hand and pulls me along, down the hall toward the kitchen. I turn and follow her, and Frye watches us go.

I make sure each step loudly underlines the fact that she hasn’t asked me to leave yet.

And that Frye is going to have to work pretty fucking hard to scare me away.