Chapter 4: Room 401

Blood from Margo's palm dripped on the white tablecloth.

She didn't look at it.

"Father, ignore her. She's a hysterical girl with a story."

"What is in Room 401?" the old man said to his son.

Tate set his scotch down very carefully.

"A client's wife. I stopped in to see her. Margo can tell you."

"I'd like to hear it from the girl," said his father.

So I turned my phone over and pressed play.

I held it up toward the board member's wife on my left, because she was the one closest and the least afraid.

She took it with both hands.

The video was twenty seconds long.

A woman on an exam table, her shirt rolled up over a full belly.

A man's hand spread on it, and a watch I had fixed in March.

"There she is," said the technician. "That's your daughter's heartbeat, Mrs. Winfield."

"Look at her, Lin," said Tate's voice. "Look how strong she is."

The board member's wife stopped the video and looked at the old man.

Nobody at that table said a word.

Behind me, I heard the wood of my chair creak.

Jerome had his hand around the top rail, and his knuckles were white.

He was staring at the frozen picture of the woman on the table.

He was angry for me, I thought. Nobody had been angry for me in a long time.

"Mrs. Winfield," said the old man. "Whose?"

"Father," Margo started.

"Margo. Whose?"

"Mine," Tate said.

He said it flat, with nothing left to try.

"Her name is Linnea. We were married fifteen months ago. I was going to tell you after the quarter."

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