Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94687 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 473(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
CHAPTER 8
Henry’s body stiffens beside me. “When?”
“The day before yesterday. She went peacefully, at least.”
The two men who carried out the bed trot up the stairs, murmuring, “Excuse me.”
“Just the last bit over there in the corner,” the woman tells them, pointing to somewhere unseen, before returning her attention to us. “I’m Rhonda. I was Audrey’s hospice caregiver.”
Henry looks like someone’s slapped him.
I step in. “Hi, I’m Abbi and this is Henry. If you don’t mind me asking, what did Audrey pass away from?” Hospice only ever means one thing.
“I guess it’s no secret, given the obituary,” Rhonda says, more to herself. “Audrey had ALS.”
“Oh my gosh.” My eyes flitter to Henry and find a stony expression.
“One of the youngest patients I’ve had pass from it.” Rhonda’s face pinches. “How did you know Audrey?”
“She was an acquaintance of mine,” Henry says, finding his voice. “I haven’t seen her in a very long time.”
“Oh.” Rhonda nods. “She was only diagnosed a few years ago. It progressed quickly. I’m sorry you didn’t get a chance to reacquaint yourself with her.”
Henry’s eyes dart past her, into the house. “Where is Violet?”
“With her grandparents. They moved the last of her things out yesterday morning.”
“And where is that?”
Rhonda hesitates. “I don’t have the address handy.”
Henry crosses his arms. “You don’t have it, or you don’t want to give it to me?”
Rhonda clears her throat. “I’m not permitted to share my patient’s personal information.”
“Audrey’s no longer your patient,” he says calmly.
“Or their family’s information,” Rhonda adds, throwing him a look of disgust.
Henry’s jaw clenches. “Do her grandparents allow her to travel to Manhattan by herself at night?”
“Heavens, no, they wouldn’t allow that. She’s only fifteen!”
“And yet it happened,” he snaps, his patience vanishing. He’s so used to people asking how high when he demands they jump. “I have concerns over Violet’s care, and I need to find her. Now.”
“I can’t just—”
I cut in before Henry erupts. “If you have a way to reach her grandparents and ask for permission to pass along their address, that would be okay, wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose,” she admits reluctantly but doesn’t seem too eager to help.
“Violet showed up at our place in Manhattan last night and then took off. She was upset,” I explain. “We would like to meet her grandparents and make sure Violet is okay.”
“I have people who can get me the address within the hour, but if Violet is in any danger and we’ve wasted time finding her …” Henry lets the unspoken threat hang in the air, his teeth clenched with frustration.
I give his biceps a warning squeeze. He’s usually smoother than this.
Rhonda’s wary gaze flickers between the two of us, then to the shiny black SUV parked at the curb, Victor sitting in the driver’s seat.
I see the instant her resistance fades. “Give me a moment.”
Audrey’s parents live three blocks away, their street equally quiet and quaint.
“Don’t have the address handy, my ass,” Henry grumbles as we approach the porch. “I could have had this address with one phone call to Dyson.”
“She was just doing her job.”
“By risking the girl’s safety?” Henry is rattled—by Audrey’s death, by Violet’s existence, by all of this, who knows—but he certainly isn’t himself.
“But she gave it to us and now we’re here.” I collect his hand. “These people just lost their daughter, and you have no idea what story Violet gave them about where she was last night, so be nice.”
“I’m always nice.” He shoots me a look of exasperation before he raps his knuckles against the door.
The blinds in the front window move and a moment later the door opens with a creak. A shrunken woman with snow-white hair hides behind the glass storm door, gripping her cane. “Rhonda told us you’d be coming,” she says by way of greeting. “You were old friends of Audrey’s?”
I plaster on as wide a smile as I can to make up for Henry’s stony face. “I’m Abbi. This is Henry.”
“Hello, I’m Gayle.” The woman’s aged eyes flitter over us both as if sizing us up a moment. “Please, come inside. It’s chilly out there.” She hobbles out of the way.
Henry and I step into the cramped foyer. It’s what one might expect of an elderly couple’s home—cozy and lived in, with decades-old furniture, a small television in the corner of the living room, walls that were painted sage at the height of the color’s popularity and not painted since. Nothing that says they have plenty of disposable income or that they care about the latest decorating craze.
There’s no doubt someone died recently. Arrangements of fragrant white lilies and red roses of varying size clutter the table surfaces, each bouquet with a little card poking out to express condolences.
“We’re very sorry for your loss.” I may have arrived on Acorn Way with ire bubbling in my veins, but it has quickly fizzled, replaced by a melancholy—for a girl who has lost her mother, for an elderly couple who have to bury their child. Even for Audrey, who may have done something terribly wrong but didn’t deserve a cruel death because of it.