She turns toward the door, stops, but doesn't turn. She mumbles, "You'll regret this, Dr. Mercer. This can't end well for you."
"Maybe." I shrug even though she can't see it. "But not today."
She shakes her head and disappears behind the door. It closes with a soft, final click that echoes longer than it should in the suddenly empty space.
I stand motionless for several heartbeats, staring at the spot where she disappeared. The air feels thinner without her rose perfume and the faint rustle of her movements.
My pulse continues to thrum high and steady, keeping a thrill curling tighter in my gut where it refuses to fade. And a new realization hits me. I never chased power and control until Blue taught me how sweet it tastes when everything else is slipping away.
Laughing to myself, I round the desk slowly. Shirley's chair sits at an angle, seat cushion still holding the faint depression of her weight. I drop into it without thinking. The warmth seeps through my slacks.
My hands move on autopilot. I drag the appointment book toward me. Bright red Xs glare from every canceled slot like fresh wounds. The ink bleeds slightly into the paper, satisfying in its permanence.
"Time to get my life back," I mutter.
I take the book into my office, sit at my desk, and reach for the phone. I dial the first number before the hesitation can creep in.
Mrs. Delgado answers on the second ring. Her voice starts cautiously, then cracks with relief the moment she recognizes me. "Dr. Mercer? Oh, thank God. We thought… Well, we didn't know if you were coming back."
"I'm back," I say, keeping my tone even, professional. "Your daughter's slot is still hers. Tomorrow at ten."
Gratitude pours through the line like cool water on scorched skin. She thanks me three times before hanging up. Adrenaline rushes through me and I dial the next.
Call after call, I apologize for the disruption and offer reassurances, confirming that my family emergency is over.
Voices brighten on the other end. Mothers exhale. Fathers grunt thanks. Teenagers in the background sound less hollow. Each conversation chips away at the hollow place Shirley left behind until it's smaller, sharper, almost bearable.
Between the fifth and sixth call, I pause. My gaze drifts to the small shelf beside the monitor.
The hourglass Blue gave me beams, the stand still and untouched since the last time it was turned.
I reach for it, and the gold caps catch the overhead light. Swirling patterns carved into the metal shimmer when I tilt my head, waking under the fluorescents like secrets stirring. The glass between the crowns curves into a perfect, sleek hourglass. It's polished, immaculate, so clear it almost disappears.
Inside, the sand glows electric blue, the exact shade of Blue's hair when the sun hits it, the same brilliance in her eyes when she's pleading or coming undone. The granules hang suspended in a steady, radiant ribbon, glowing against the surrounding dark.
Crimson bracing coils around the middle like a thick, unbreakable vine. The red is violent and raw. The thick tendrils grip the gold plates with unyielding force, holding everything upright.
The colors don't clash. They fuse into a calm blue promise pinned in place by a red threat that holds it all upright.
It's just like Blue and me.
I have to stop these thoughts.
I turn the heavy hourglass over in my hands. Sand rushes down in a soft, relentless hiss. Blue grains spill and pile at the bottom, each one carrying her laugh that starts low and breaks high, her trembling fingers on my skin, the way she whispered my name against my throat like a prayer and a curse at the same time.
My thumb brushes the engraving on the flat top.
Broken, yet still yours.
The words burn under my skin. I flip it again. The bottom plate readsForever in time.
God, I miss her.
I set the hourglass down carefully on the desk blotter. The sand keeps moving. Slow. Inevitable. A tiny avalanche that never stops.
I glance over at the door and into the lobby. Shirley's pale face, her trembling hands, the way she stumbled before she left, pop up in my mind. She won't let this go. I know her. Pride, conscience, or simple spite could push her to whisper to someone on the board.
Loose ends like Shirley don't stay tied on their own.
