My hands are clammy on the desk when a sharp knock jolts me. I stand too quickly, my chair scraping tile.
The clinic door creaks open, spilling in the last streaks of twilight. A tall man steps inside—mid-thirties maybe, broad-shouldered, sun-browned, dark hair tucked under a sweat-stained cap. He has kind eyes—warm brown, crinkling at the corners—and an easy, unforced smile.
Fear slides through me.
“Yes?” I pull on a façade of calm.
“Dr. Kirk?” His voice is low, even, touched with a drawl. “Name’s Gilbert Perry. I’m working with Dr. Bodie Tiller. Thought I’d come by and introduce myself.”
For a beat, I can’t find my voice. I force a smile, tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Oh—yes. Of course. Nice to meet you.”
We shake hands. He stands back, thumbs hooked in his belt, and looks around. “This is a nice place.”
“Thanks.”
“Ah…you don’t have an assistant?” he asks.
That brings a small smile to my face. “I’m not as busy as Dr. Tiller.”
My phone beeps then, and I see it’s a message from Marnie.
His gaze follows for a second, then he clears his throat. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything. Sounded like you were on a call.”
My stomach knots.Did he hear my conversation with Marnie?
“I was,” I say noncommittally.
He smiles warmly, and it’s genuine enough that it takes the edge off my nerves.
“Glad to be here,” he continues. “Folks talk about your dad like he was a cross between Dr. Dolittle and James Herriott.”
That image shakes off the last of my anxiety. I laugh softly.
“Seems to me, Dr. Kirk, you’re carrying that torch just fine.”
The compliment lands where I miss Daddy most. “I’ve always fancied being a cross between Wonder Woman and Dr. Jane Hinton.”
“Now, that’s a much prettier combo.”
After Gilbert leaves, I pack up and head home. First thing I do is check the locks on the doors—twice.
Habit, compulsion, survival.
I crack open a bottle of bourbon. Daddy’s old stash—mine now, like everything else in this house that still feels like his shadow. I sit in his office, surrounded by the smell of leather and old books, and pour a finger. Then another. Then three. The burn is sharp at first, then warm, then nothing.
By the time I finish close to half thebottle, I can’t feel the ache in my chest. Can’t feel much at all. I drag myself to bed and let the dark take me.
When I wake, the morning light is brutal, splitting my skull in two.
My mouth tastes like ash, my stomach rolls, and the pounding in my head feels like a hammer.
Sarah, you’re havin’ an epic hangover, babe.
I’ll take it.
The alcohol kept the monsters out of my dreams—at least, for one night, and that makes it worth it.
CHAPTER 19
