Chapter 3
There was a record. Half an hour later, my father walked into the waiting room with Sarah's husband, Chris, right behind him. Chris looked confused until he saw Noah through the curtain with an IV in his arm. Then the color drained out of his face. "What happened?" my father asked. Sarah opened her mouth. "He got sick and I—" "She locked him in the basement," I said. Chris sat down like his knees had quit working. My father looked at Sarah for a long, quiet second. Then he said, "I was going to set up a trust for my two children and my two grandchildren. But after this, Sarah, you will not—"
“...you will not receive a single dollar from me.”
Sarah stared at him.
For the first time that afternoon, she stopped defending herself.
“What?”
My father’s voice stayed low.
That made it worse.
“I said I was going to establish a trust for my children and grandchildren. I met with the attorney last month. I had not signed the final documents yet.”
Sarah took one step toward him.
“Dad, you’re emotional.”
He looked through the hospital curtain at Noah.
My son was eight years old.
Eight.
A clear tube ran into his arm.
His face looked gray against the pillow.
“I am,” my father said. “That is what happens when you find out your daughter locked your sick grandson in a freezing basement because he interfered with a birthday party.”
“I didn’t lock him in.”
I turned so quickly Emily caught my wrist.
Sarah saw it.
She immediately corrected herself.
“I mean—I closed the door.”
“Noah said he couldn’t open it.”
“He was confused.”
“Then why was his phone upstairs?”
Silence.
Chris looked at her.
“What phone?”
Sarah’s mouth tightened.
I already knew.
I had known from the moment Noah said he had asked her to call us.
But knowing something emotionally and hearing it confirmed in a hospital waiting room are two different things.
The nurse had put Noah’s backpack in a plastic belongings bag.
When Emily checked it, the small emergency phone wasn’t there.
I faced Sarah.
“Where is his phone?”
She crossed her arms.
“I took it away because he wouldn’t stop trying to call you.”
Chris stood up.
Slowly.
“You took his phone?”
“It was your son’s birthday,” she snapped at him. “He was ruining everything.”
Chris looked like she had slapped him.
“Our son?”
“Yes, our son. Matthew had twelve kids there. His grandparents were there. The cake cost almost two hundred dollars. I planned that party for six weeks, and Noah started crying and saying his stomach hurt right when we were doing presents.”
Emily whispered, “Oh my God.”
Sarah pointed at her.
“Don’t.”
Emily stepped closer.
“No. You don’t get to say that to me. My child was calling for me.”
“He was being dramatic.”
“He was vomiting.”
“I cleaned it.”
That sentence landed strangely.
Too quickly.
Too specifically.
I looked at her.
“What did you clean?”
Sarah froze.
My father noticed it too.
So did Chris.
Sarah blinked.
“The floor.”
“In the basement?”
“Yes.”
“Before we arrived?”
“No.”
“You said you didn’t know how sick he was.”
“I didn’t.”
“But you cleaned his vomit?”
Her eyes moved.
Not toward us.
Toward the automatic doors.
And suddenly I understood something.
She wanted to leave.
I stepped between her and the exit.
“Where is Noah’s phone?”
“Michael, move.”
“Where is it?”
“Probably at the house.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
Chris pulled out his keys.
“I do.”
She turned on him.
“Chris.”
He stared at his wife like he had never seen her before.
“You always put confiscated electronics in the top drawer beside the microwave.”
“Chris, don’t do this here.”
“Do what?”
“Take his side.”
His face twisted.
“His son is in the hospital.”
“He’s fine.”
A voice came from behind the curtain.
“He is not fine.”
The physician stepped out.
Dr. Patel.
May you like
He was probably in his forties, tired eyes behind rectangular glasses, calm in the way doctors become calm because other people are allowed to panic.
He looked directly at Emily and me.
