Chapter 8: Visiting Hours

Sybil arrived forty minutes later.

I heard her heels in the hallway before I saw her.

She walked into the ICU in her good gray coat with her pearls on, and she did not look at the nurses.

She looked at her son.

Winslow sat by the bed, still holding my hand.

"Winslow," she said. "There you are. I've been calling you."

He did not turn around.

"You knew," he said.

"Darling, you're exhausted. Come home and sleep."

"You knew she was here. You knew since Tuesday."

Sybil put a hand to her chest.

"I knew she was in a hospital, yes. I found out only yesterday. I didn't want to frighten you."

The nurse, who was standing at the foot of the bed with a chart, did not move.

"Mrs. Holloway," she said. "You called this unit Wednesday night. You called it again last night. You told me my patient's husband was overseas."

Sybil's smile held.

"You misunderstood me."

"I wrote it down."

"Then you wrote it down wrong."

Dorinda, by the window, folded her arms.

"The voicemail," Dorinda said. "St. Mary's left Winslow a voicemail Thursday morning. Where is it?"

Winslow's head came up.

"There was a voicemail," he said slowly.

"It must have been spam, dear," Sybil said.

"The red number one," he said. "It was on my phone all day. Then it was gone."

He pulled out his phone and looked at it.

Then he looked at his mother.

"You were in the hall when I came out of the shower," he said. "My phone was not where I left it."

"Winslow."

"What was on it?"

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