Page 29 of Already Lost

“Where were you yesterday?” she asked,just to have an alibi they could check, just in case.

“Bridge club,” Frankie shot backimmediately. “Followed by a rather stirring auction in the next town over. Ididn’t manage to buy anything – I was outbid a fair few times. But you couldtalk to the auctioneer. I’m sure he’d remember me. After that, I had dinnerwith a friend and retired back here to bed.”

It was comprehensive, as far as an alibiwent. It sounded like her whole day was accounted for. Like she had a busiersocial life than Laura did. In fairness, that wasn’t difficult.

“I’m sorry to have taken up your time,”Laura said, knowing it was time to wrap things up. “If you do happen to hear ofanyone who is buying up copies of this record, you’ll let us know, won’t you?It sounds like it would be an unusual event.”

“Of course,” Frankie said, refolding herhands in her lap. “I think I might try and buy a few myself.”

“You just said it was worthless,” Natesaid, standing up ready to leave as Laura did the same.

“It is,” Frankie said, with a cunning twinklein her eye. “But if the FBI are asking me about that record in particular, thenI think the smart move might be to get a few extra copies in case the pricegoes up sometime soon.”

“I won’t comment on that,” Nate said, withthe particular roguish grin that usually seemed to make him a favorite of olderwomen.

They walked to the door with Frankie’slaughter ringing out behind them, and Laura found herself seizing onto a newdetermination despite the disappointment.

Frankie Davidson wasn’t their killer. Infact, she wasn’t even close. But she’d given them something to think about –and, Laura thought now, a new direction that might just give them the answersthey were looking for.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

He was walking down the hall, squeak ofshoe soles on polished floors, trying not to feel sickened by that smell thatalways seemed to be everywhere here. Cleaning fluid. Medicine. Something fartoo sterile to be nice. Maybe it was the knowledge that the cleaning was doneto take care of vomit and blood and other bodily fluids, and the kind of germsthat could kill.

He was just reaching the doors of the wardwhen he heard someone call his name from the side, and looked up to see hisgrandmother’s doctor flagging him down.

“Hey,” the doctor said when he caught upto him. “I was waiting for you to come in. You’re on your way for a visit?”

He nodded. His fingers clutched tighteraround the handle of the plastic bag full of treats that he’d brought for her.Magazines and books and some of the foods she was allowed to eat.

“Can we take a moment to talk before yougo in?” the doctor asked. “We have some results to discuss.”

He nodded. “Okay.” There was a pit in hisstomach that had started when the doctor called out for him, and it was growingwider by the second.

“Alright, follow me,” the doctor said,turning on his heel and heading to the left, away from the ward. He hurried tokeep up. They dodged past nurses and through doorways and around stations,until he was totally lost. He was never going to find his way back to the wardalone. Finally, the doctor stopped outside a door, pushed in a keycode, andopened it, leading him into an office.

“Is it serious?” he asked. There was areasonable basis for the assumption. He guessed the doctor didn’t take peopleinto his office to tell them that everything had come back fine.

“I’m afraid it is,” the doctor said,sitting and smoothing down his tie. He gestured to a chair in front of thedesk. “Please, sit down.”

He sat; he waited.

“From the tests we’ve been conducting,we’ve built up quite a picture of your grandmother’s mental health,” the doctorsaid. “I’m afraid it’s not good news. I suspect that she suffers from a form ofundiagnosed schizophrenia; she would have benefited greatly from treatmentearlier in life, but unfortunately it wasn’t caught until now.”

There was a pause, like the doctor wasgiving him a chance to digest the news. “Okay,” he said.

“The reason I say I suspect it, ratherthan being able to give you a diagnosis, is that there’s a complication,” thedoctor said. “Your grandmother also has early stage dementia. Unfortunately,there’s no way to reverse the damage that has already been done or to stop itfrom spreading. Frankly speaking, the prognosis is not good.”

He nodded slowly. Inside, though, he waswondering where this doctor got his medical degree from. Didn’t they have to gothrough checks to make sure they were suitable for employment at the hospital?Wasn’t this a reputable kind of place?

“I’ll give you some leaflets which tellyou about your options,” the doctor said, reaching for a stack on his desk andpassing them across. He took them mechanically, even though he knew he didn’tneed them. “I do need you to understand that, sooner rather than later, yourgrandmother is going to be incapable of making her own decisions. You’re goingto need to start making them for her.”

“Right,” he said, nodding. He put theleaflets into the plastic bag with a rustle. He could throw them away when hegot home. He just had to try to make sure he remembered not to hand them overto her when he saw her in a moment. He stood up from the chair. “I’ll go seeher now.”

The doctor frowned at him slightly. “Ithink that’s a good idea,” he said. “But do make sure you read up on thoseleaflets. They’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

“I will,” he promised, which was a lie. Therewas just no need.

He was already doing everything he couldto save her. The leaflets would be useless once she was healed. Once she wasback to normal. It would all be over then, and she would come home, and theywould live the way they always had.

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