Chapter 4
My apartment was on the fourth floor of a narrow brick building overlooking Grayhaven’s eastern rail line.
Lily and I had rented it together.
After she died, I couldn’t bring myself to leave.
Her chipped blue mug still sat behind mine in the cupboard.
Her winter coat still hung in the hall closet.
Her books remained arranged by color because she said arranging them alphabetically was “an act of emotional surrender.”
For almost two years, I had treated the apartment like a place waiting for someone who wasn’t coming home.
I set my cleaning bag on the kitchen table.
Then I took out the envelope.
Harbor Mutual.
The lighthouse logo stared up at me.
Declan’s words returned.
Read every page they gave you.
I had read them.
Hadn’t I?
I went to the bedroom closet and pulled down the gray storage box that contained Lily’s hospital paperwork.
It landed on the floor with a soft thump.
I sat beside it.
For almost an hour, I sorted documents.
Insurance notices.
Prescription receipts.
Parking stubs.
Hospital statements.
A sympathy card from one of Lily’s nurses.
Then the loan agreement.
Forty-eight thousand dollars.
Borrower: Clara Bennett.
Purpose: Emergency medical treatment.
Lender: Harbor Mutual Assistance Group.
Disbursement: Direct payment to St. Agnes Medical Center.
I read that line twice.
Direct payment.
I searched through the hospital invoices.
My hands began to shake.
The final major statement from St. Agnes showed a balance of forty-seven thousand, eight hundred and twelve dollars.
Below it, in red:
PENDING FINANCIAL ASSISTANCE REVIEW.
I remembered that.
A nurse had helped me fill out an application.
Lily had laughed because I kept misspelling our own street address from exhaustion.
I found the next statement.
Balance: zero.
I stopped breathing.
At the bottom were six words.
PAID — EILEEN WALSH PATIENT RELIEF FUND.
I read them again.
Walsh.
My phone rang.
I nearly dropped the paper.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Bennett?”
A man’s voice.
Professional.
Polite.
“This is Finn Walsh.”
Of course.
Because apparently every road in Grayhaven now led back to that family.
“What do you want?”
“Declan asked me to contact you.”
“I didn’t ask Declan for anything.”
“I know.”
That slowed me.
Finn continued.
“He asked me to tell you something, not ask you for something.”
I looked at the hospital statement.
“What?”
“If Harbor Mutual lists St. Agnes as the recipient of your loan, the hospital can confirm whether it received those funds.”
My fingers tightened around the page.
“How would he know what my contract says?”
“He doesn’t.”
“Then why are you calling?”
A pause.
“Because twenty years ago, Declan’s mother created a fund to cover emergency treatment for patients who had exhausted ordinary assistance.”
I looked down.
Eileen Walsh.
“She died nine years ago,” Finn said. “The fund still operates.”
“I have a statement here.”
Silence.
“What does it say?”
I didn’t answer.
Finn didn’t press.
Finally I whispered, “It says the Walsh fund paid Lily’s balance.”
Another silence.
Longer this time.
“When?”
“The date is February fourteenth.”
“Which year?”
I told him.
There was a faint sound on the other end.
Paper moving.
A keyboard.
Then Finn asked quietly, “When did you sign the Harbor Mutual loan?”
My eyes moved to the contract lying beside me.
February seventeenth.
Three days later.
My mouth went dry.
“Clara?”
“Three days after.”
Finn exhaled slowly.
“Don’t pay anyone today.”
My spine stiffened.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
“You’re right.”
His answer came immediately.
No defensiveness.
No authority.
Just agreement.
“Then let me rephrase it. Before you make another payment, call St. Agnes. Ask for the patient accounts office. Ask them for a complete ledger showing every payment connected to Lily Bennett’s account.”
I stared at the documents spread across the floor.
“And then?”
“Then you decide what happens.”
I slept for four hours.
It was the longest uninterrupted sleep I had gotten in months.
When I woke, snow had started falling.
Grayhaven looked softer under snow.
Even the warehouses near the river seemed peaceful from a distance.
I made toast.
Then another piece.
Dr. Patel would have been pleased.
At four seventeen, I called St. Agnes.
The woman in patient accounts was named Denise.
She spoke slowly when she realized why I was calling.
“Yes, Ms. Bennett. I see the account.”
“My sister’s treatment.”
“Yes.”
“There was a balance in February.”
“There was.”
“Was it paid?”
Keyboard clicks.
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
Another pause.
“The Eileen Walsh Patient Relief Fund.”
“Did Harbor Mutual pay anything?”
More clicking.
“No payment under that name appears.”
“Could it have been listed differently?”
“It’s possible.”
My heart beat faster.
“Can you check the amount?”
“What amount?”
“Forty-eight thousand dollars.”
Denise searched.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I can only tell you what’s in our records.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“I signed a loan agreement stating forty-eight thousand dollars would be paid directly to St. Agnes.”
Denise went quiet.
When she spoke again, her professional tone had changed.
It became careful.
“Ms. Bennett, I think you should request the certified account history.”
“How?”
“I can send you the form.”
“Please.”
“I can also flag the account for review by our patient advocacy office.”
“Why?”
“Because if a third party represented that funds were being sent here and our records show otherwise, someone needs to examine that.”
I stared at Lily’s blue mug.
“What if I misunderstood?”
“Then the review will show that.”
“And if I didn’t?”
May you like
Denise’s voice softened.
“Then you deserve to know that too.”
