Chapter 18: Dinner in Westchester

The house in Westchester had not changed in nine days.

The same wreath hung on the door.

The same light shone in the hall where I had lived three years without once feeling at home.

Declan waited in the car at the end of the drive with Maggie.

His hand stayed on the door handle the whole time I walked up the path.

"Twenty minutes," he said.

"I know."

"Or I'm coming in."

"And do what?"

"Stand there. Look intimidating."

I rang the bell.

Patricia opened the door in a navy dress and her pearls.

"Hannah," she said, very warm. "Come in, dear. You look tired."

I walked into the dining room.

There was a table set for five.

Trent sat at the head, in his open-collar shirt, with a glass of wine.

Skylar sat at his left in a loose green sweater, with her hands folded over her stomach.

A man in his sixties in a tweed jacket sat across from her, with a leather bag beside his chair.

"This is our family doctor," Patricia said. "An old friend."

"What kind of doctor?" I said.

"A kind one."

"Of what?"

"Nerves," said the man in tweed, with a gentle smile.

I sat down.

Nobody touched the food.

"Hannah," Trent said, in his soft voice. "We're not here to fight. We're here because we're worried."

"About what?"

"You've lost weight. You've been sleeping at strangers' houses."

He tilted his head.

"You told a diner full of people you wrote my song at twenty-two. Dear, you can hear how that sounds."

"I can hear how it sounds when you say it."

The doctor opened his bag and took out a clipboard.

"I only want a conversation," he said. "And then a short rest, at a very nice place upstate."

"For how long?"

"A few weeks. Voluntary, Mrs. Mercer. It helps if the family signs as well."

Patricia slid a document across the table with two fingers.

It had a line at the bottom, with a yellow tab beside it.

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