Page 89 of Dr. CEO (The Doctors)

I run upstairs and rummage through my bedside table. I definitely put it in here. I feel it before I see it—the smooth, cold edges. I scoop it up and take it from the drawer. That the memento I have to remember our time together is a heart made of stone feels ironic, but I tuck the thought away and instead focus on the weight of it in my palm. How solid it is. I trace the veins of white quartz against the dark gray rock. It’s beautiful—the best present anyone ever gave me. The triptych of pictures of Crompton I left beside Vincent’s bed the night before he left is a very close second, but this…when we found it, this stone felt like it was made for us. At the time, I thought I was the white quartz that had unexpectedly twined my way into Vincent’s impenetrable heart, or maybe it was the other way around.

I turn the heart over and over in my palm.

If Vincent asked me to go to London, I would.

I’d do anything for him.

I managed to go to Norfolk with him and ended up having the time of my life. Was it just that I wanted to be with him? Or that he believed in me?

If I imagined I was going to London to meet Vincent, would just the thought of him get me on that train?

THIRTY-NINE

Kate

I focus on Vincent and the memories we made—replaying every conversation and kiss—all the way to London.

Walking up to the house with my case to get into the minivan, I thought of the first time he came into the tea shop.

Heading out of Crompton’s gates, I remembered him catching me before I hit the ground at the pub.

The train journey down to London was our picnic by the lake.

The tube ride across the city? Him kissing me.

Checking in at the hotel, I replayed the way he looked at me on the beach in Norfolk.

I pretend I am doing this for him.

Maybe I am.

Now, alone in my hotel room, my anxiety levels start to rise again. I look at myself in the bathroom mirror. “You can do this,” I say. “It’s twenty-four hours and then you’re heading back to Crompton.” Knowing my fellow department heads are here makes it a little easier to breathe, but only just.

I wipe away the smudge of mascara under my eye and head back into the bedroom to unpack. The porter put my case on the luggage rack and even offered to unzip it. Olga asked us to make notes about what particularly impresses us during our stay. I should write down the detail about unzipping my bag before I unpack, so I don’t forget. I kick off my shoes and pull my notebook from my bag. Stepping back, I sink into the comfy navy armchair facing the room.

I scribble down the thing about the porter. How polite he was but at the same time, friendly and warm. He was interested, asking me my plans for the day without appearing nosy. And the check-in experience—they already seemed to know me.

I glance around. What do I particularly like about the room? Something on my bedside table catches my eye—a triptych photo frame, just like the one Vincent gave me on the way to Norfolk.

That’s a coincidence. Maybe he got the idea to gift me the pictures from his stay at a fancy hotel?

I stand and cross the room, squinting at the frame. From a distance, it looks like pictures I took of the Crompton Estate. As I get closer, I see it’s the exact frame, the exact pictures I took to Norfolk.

My heart thunders in my chest. Who put these here? Who knew? I pick up the frame and study it closely. There’s no doubt—it’s the same one. A second frame in the same triptych style stands behind the first.

My stomach swoops then hits the floor. Three different photographs: one of Crompton House, one of my house and one of Granny’s.

I collapse onto the bed.

Vincent did this. There’s no other explanation.

But how?

I pick up the phone and dial zero.

“Good morning, Miss Saunders, how can we help you?”

“Hi. Thanks. Erm. There are photographs by my bed. Who put them there?”

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