Page 46 of His

She blinks, startled. She hadn’t even seen me. How is that possible?

I offer a crooked smile and wave.

She responds with the most awkward wave I’ve ever seen, then spins on her heel and disappears.

I surge up and push through the front door.

“Brittney?”

I catch her just as she’s about to go into the master bedroom.

“Can I speak to you outside for a moment, please?”

She hesitates, then drops her hand from the doorknob and follows me outside.

She looks paler than yesterday. Her eyes are puffy and red as if she’s either been crying, or didn’t sleep last night.

“You okay?”

“Yes,” she nods feverishly. “Yes, sir.”

“Okay. Let me know if you need some time off.”

“I don’t. Thank you.”

“Okay. . . . Yesterday, when I came into the bedroom after you brought Valerie in from the patio, was she speaking to you?”

Brittney frowns, searching her memory.

Jesus, what is it about this place and people forgetting things?

“Um, I can’t—I don’t think so.”

“So, no? She wasn’t speaking to you?”

“No.”

“ . . . Okay, so, to confirm, you two weren’t speaking.”

“I don’t think so. Sometimes she mumbles, but . . . no, I don’t think so.”

Her cheeks look like they are about to explode into flames so I let her go, feeling zero percent better.

Dr. Squire pulls into the driveway in a dusty SUV with two kayaks secured to the top and a bicycle strapped to the back.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt your vacation,” I say as we shake hands. His white hair sparkles in the early morning sunlight, his gaze warm and sharp. If not for the slight limp in his gait, you’d never know the man was pushing eighty years old.

“Anything for you, Astor. You know that.”

He pulls me in for a hug. His signature scent, Old Spice, tugs at memories. Squire has been my doctor for decades and became Valerie’s when she became ill, not long after our daughter, Chloe, died. A war veteran, Squire is the type of doctor who still believes in house calls, natural medicine, fitness to combat chronic illness, and a swift kick in the ass when needed. I have immense respect for him.

“I love this place,” he says, taking a seat on the porch swing while I settle in on the wicker chair next to it.

“It’s becoming haunted with bad memories.”

He sombers. “What’s going on?”

“Valerie isn’t doing well. Physically or mentally.”

---