Page 26 of A Guardian for Christmas

She closes her eyes. “I don’t have the answers to all these questions, Sagan. He’s been my family doctor for as long as I can remember.”

“Fire him.”

Her eyes fly open. “You can’t be serious. Where would I go?”

“Literally, to anyone else. Something is very crooked about that guy.”

She chews on her bottom lip, uncertainty in her eyes. “He may seem strange to you, but he knows my history. He’s very well respected.”

“By who?” I ask.

Esme blinks, taken aback. “I never thought about it before, but the Bryant Estate in general, for starters.”

She’s disturbed at how heated I am about this. I rest one hand on each of her upper arms, reassuringly. “OK. Just promise me you’ll do some homework about this guy.”

She smiles teasingly. “You’re being very paranoid. But okay.”

The two of us hike until the trail starts to descend more steeply down the mountain, then I decide we should turn around. I wouldn’t want to risk a strenuous uphill hike if she does indeed have a heart condition. Our walk takes about two hours over rutted paths strewn with fallen trees and overgrown brush. The trail provides some great views, but it’s generally unsafe for the casual hiker. I could help her fix that. In fact, I know plenty of people who could help Esme fix a lot of things.

The sky is dark as we make our return hike back up to the house.

I don’t mention to Esme that I’ll be doing my own homework on Dr. White. She doesn’t know I’ll be paying a certain friend to help me carry this out.

Back at the house, Esme darts off to the powder room down the hall behind the grand staircase. While I wait for her, I send $400 cash to my former coworker from the prison library. Stalker, who goes by 574LK3R online, initially helped me track Esme’s movements earlier this year. I know how this goes. Hegets paid before he even considers doing a job for me. I follow up the payment with one text.

Dr. Rufus White. Need to know everything.

Sweet. He a pervert? Malpractice?

Quack. Possibly fucking with someone important to me.

No one is that important to you.

Things change.

Aw, I’m getting all misty over here.

Fuck you.

I’ll call you tomorrow. Delete this text thread and restart your phone.

For most people, deleting text messages only goes so far. If the cops want to know what you’re really up to, they can still subpoena your text messages and calls from the phone carrier.

In the case of Stalker, or 574LK3R, there are ways around that.

I’m thinking about how I’ll break the news to Esme once Stalker comes through with information—and I have no doubt in my mind that he will come back with something sketchy—when I’m startled by another presence nearby.

Frye appears out of the shadows, like a specter. He wears an apron and holds a bottle of wood polish in one hand and dirty rags in the other.

“Man, you scared the shit out of me,” I laugh.

His face remains tight.

“For the record, I don’t like you, Mr. Fisher. You came here under false pretenses, and I know what you’re doing.”

Instead of taking a defensive posture, I lean against the wall, my arms crossed over my chest. “And what am I doing?”

“Worming your way in,” he says. His fingers are gripping that dirty rag pretty damn hard. He’s agitated, and I have no interest in an argument right now. “Mr. Cowen, a licensed contractor, said he’s never heard of you.”

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