Chapter 10: Pharmacy

"A charity," I said. "It's a hospital charity. They sponsor stroke patients."

Vaughn looked at me.

"Which charity?" he asked.

"I don't remember the name."

"Tara."

"I don't remember, Vaughn."

The nurse looked from one of us to the other, murmured something about paperwork and left.

He stood there for a long moment with his hands at his sides.

Then he said, "All right," and stepped back.

It was worse than if he had pushed.

He went in to say goodbye to my mother.

I went out to the car and sat in the driver's seat with the doors locked.

My second phone rang.

In three years it had only ever buzzed.

I answered.

"Tara, dear," said Richard Draycott. His voice was soft, patient and kind. "I'm sorry to call on a Sunday."

"What do you want?"

"Only to say well done. Vaughn looked well in that photograph."

"You hired the photographer."

"I was worried. A father worries." He paused. "Is that where you dance?"

My throat closed. "Who told you that?"

"Nobody. I put it together. A girl who needs money, and a club with a back room." He sighed. "I'm not judging, dear."

"I want out," I said.

The line went quiet.

"I want out, Richard. I'll find another way to pay for Harbor House," I said.

"I'll sell my car. I'll take another job. I don't want to send you any more messages."

"Ah."

"I mean it."

"I know you do." He did not sound angry. He sounded sad, which was worse. "Do you remember the week of your mother's stroke?"

"Yes."

"I called you at the hospital. I said I only wanted to know that my son was eating."

"And I said, 'It's only a text.'"

"You did. And I helped you. Nine thousand two hundred a month, for thirty-seven months." He paused. "I don't think that's a small thing, dear."

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