Page 131 of Boiling Point
It’s urgent, Cal. Call me.
Dr. Singh narrowed her eyes. “Are we keeping you from something?”
I flashed the lock screen. “My sister is asking me to call. She says it’s urgent. Do you mind?”
“Not at all. We’re done here. You have until the end of the day to collect anything from campus. Then your administrative leave will resume. You’ll be contacted when you are needed.”
I nodded, stood, and walked out. In the waiting area, I called Isabel. She answered, voice strained.
“What took you so bloody long?”
“I was in a meeting. What’s going on? I thought you were on honeymoon.”
“I was, but we’re heading home.”
My stomach tightened. “Tired of each other already?”
She ignored that. “It’s Father.”
“Go on.”
“He passed away overnight.”
I raked a hand through my hair. My headache flared. I stepped to the window and looked out over the sunbaked campus. “What do you mean, he passed away? I thought he had months.”
“So did we. But Mother said he went to bed knackered last night and never woke up.”
I pressed my lips together. “Right,” I said, voice flat. “Thank you for telling me.”
“I know you were just here last month, but you should probably come back. I don’t know details yet, but you know how these things are.”
I nodded even though she couldn’t see me. “I’ll book my flight and send you the details.”
We ended the call without pleasantries. None were needed.
With a deep breath, I knocked on Dr. Singh’s door.
“Yes?”
I opened it and stepped inside.
“Was there something else?” she asked.
I held up my phone. “I just got off the phone with my sister. My father died this morning.”
Dr. Lemke sprang to his feet—more agile than his broad frame would suggest—his face washed in genuine concern. “Oh God, Cal. I’m so sorry.”
I nodded. “So you understand—I need to return to England for a bit. I trust that won’t be a problem.”
“Of course not,” Dr. Singh obliged. “Please take whatever time you need. I’ll email you with any developments.” She paused for a beat. “Safe travels.”
Gabrielle glanced up from her book as I walked into the living room. She took one look at me, and concern spread across her face. Whatever mask I’d managed in the car, on the walk to the door—it was gone now. I must have looked absolutely wrecked.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, already on her feet, her book discarded on the sofa.
“Page. My career. My father.” I met her eyes. “Everything.”
She wrapped her arms around me.
