The street address of the medical office that I’ve already memorized flashes across the screen. I scan the reviews of Dr. Wagner and pour over the copy of his most recent business license with the city of Greenwood.
Tonight, I will head into the city to get answers to the questions that have been chasing me. Tonight, I will confront at least one of the demons that haunts me.
My foot taps with nerves and anticipation.
Let’s fucking go.
10
RUN
KAT
My fist hammers on the polished wood of the office door. I got here as soon as I could after Josh’s session, but it’s after six now. Surely nearing the end of typical office hours if not already past them.But I don’t care. My fist pounds over and over into the door of the private medical office.
And finally, blessedly, the door creaks open. A short, bald, and bespectacled man stands before me with a scandalized expression on his pinched face.
“Dr. Wagner?” I ask breathlessly, my fist still poised in the air mid-knock.
“Yes. What is the meaning of this?” the man asks.
“Dr. Wagner, my name is Katherine Pearson. My father was Lachlan Pearson, and I need to speak with you,” I say, rushing to explain.
Dr. Wagner frowns and nods his head, stating, “I’m sorry young lady, my office is closed for the day. You can contact me tomorrow morning starting at eight-thirty.”
And he goes to close the door.
My hand flies up to hold it open.
“Wait,” I say.
And I unfold the piece of paper clasped in my hand. It’s crumpled and slightly damp from the clamminess of my palm. I hold it up and show the man, throwing down my ace card.
“I know his death wasn’t a regular suicide.”
Dr. Wagner meets my eyes, a vague expression of sadness and regret mingling with his obvious frustration. He hesitates just a moment, before stepping aside to let me in.
“Very well. Come in.”
“Thank you,” I say as I lower the toxicology report and move into the swanky space.Jesus.Of course, this was the doctor my father had chosen. It looked more like a billionaire’s lawyer’s office, rather than an average MD.
Dr. Wagner closes the door and rounds to face me, looking cautious.
“Dr. Wagner, I need to ask you—is this your handwriting?” I hold up the scrap of paper, and point to his name and credentials.
“Heavens, no,” Dr. Wagner answers blankly, “I’m a medical doctor, Ms. Pearson. My writing is barely legible chicken scratch. It’s probably your father’s.”
I frown as I fold the report back up and slide it into my coat pocket.It was not Dad’s.
“Okay,” I reply, not sure if I believe him or not. “But youweremy father’s doctor,” I press on, resolute in my need for answers.
“Yes, I was.”
“And what were you treating him for?” I demand.
“Ms. Pearson, I’m—I’m not entirely sure that I can release that information to you.”
“He’s dead!” I chirp. “And I’m his only remaining family,” I quickly add.
