“But you were born, weren’t you, Nora?” Philip rests his gaze on me. “You remember him, don’t you?”
Of course, I remember him. I was eleven years old when the police discovered what was in our basement. “A little. It was a long time ago.”
“He killed like twenty women,” he says. Actually, eighteen verified. But likely more than thirty. “And he would keep their hands as a souvenir. What a nut job.”
“Mmm,” I say.
“I think he was from Oregon.” Philip strokes his chin thoughtfully. “Aren’t you from Oregon, Nora?”
“No.”
“Didn’t you go to Oregon State? I remember it from your resume.”
I take a deep, calming breath. I wanted to leave the state for college, but there was no money. The best deal was at the state university. Especially because I knew I would be facing a mountain of debt when I went to medical school.
“You’re remembering wrong,” I say.
He raises his eyebrows. “Whatever you say…”
Of course, it would be easy enough for Philip to find out where I went to college and call me on my bullshit. I don’t know why I didn’t just admit it. There’s nothing criminal about having lived in Oregon.
“I’m going to go check my messages,” I mumble, before I leave Harper and Philip to God only knows what they’re up to. I’m not going to let myself get upset over it. At least if Harper is around Philip, he can keep her safe from whatever psychopath is stalking my patients.
Back in my office, I bring up the list of messages on my computer. Mostly, they are from patients and doctors’ offices. Some of these Sheila has checked off as having taken care of. But two messages stand out among the others.
One is from Brady Mitchell.
He googled me to figure out where I work. And then he called here, hoping to get in touch with me.
All the message says is that I should call him. And it gives his phone number, just in case I erased it from my phone. Which I was tempted to do, but I didn’t. If I wantedto call Brady, I could call him. But I don’t want to call him.
The other message is much more disturbing. It’s from Detective Barber.
Much like Brady’s message, it doesn’t have any real information. All it says is that I should call him.Right away.
Why does the detective want to talk to me? I’ve told him everything that I know.
But it couldn’t be anything that bad. I mean, if it were, he would have come down here. Or to my home. This is just a phone call. Maybe he needs some medical information on Amber or Shelby. If that’s the case, I’ll need to see a warrant. I’m not just turning over private healthcare information, even on a deceased patient.
I’ve got a jam-packed schedule for the afternoon, mostly follow-up patients. I try not to think about either of the dead girls or where their severed hands might have ended up. Is there a chest in somebody’s basement containing their bones?
I can’t think about it. It’s too horrible.
My four o’clock patient is a new consult named Gloria Lane. It looks like she’s a fifty-eight-year-old woman who is here for consideration of gallbladder removal. I take her chart off the door, reviewing the notes that Sheila wrote. Then I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“Just so you know,” Sheila says, “there’s something a little fishy about this woman.”
“Fishy?”
She nods. “She listed her PCP, but not only do we not have a referral for the surgery, but the doctor has never heard of her. A little strange, don’t you think so?”
“Yes…” I tighten my fist around the papers in my hand. “So what do you think is going on?”
“My honest opinion?” She glances at the door. “Maybe a reporter? You’re not going to be able to keep it quiet for much longer that both these girls who were killed came to this practice.”
I make a face. “Philip is ready to go to the news station himself. He thinks it’s good publicity.”
Sheila’s expression is stony. “He’s an idiot then. This isnotgood for us. If it’s a reporter, we should get her out of here right away.”
