Chapter 11: The Old Doctor

I did not sleep that night.

At five in the morning I sat up in Nolan's bed with the sonogram in my hand.

He was already awake, lying on his back with one palm over his heart.

"I want to see the doctor," I said.

He turned his head.

"Tate's story is a lie or it isn't," I said.

"If it isn't, you deserve to know that, and so do I.

"If it is, someone told you for nine years that you were dead inside.

"I want to look at him when he explains it."

Nolan sat up slowly.

"He retired four years ago," he said.

"He lives in a care home in Dublin."

"Then we'll drive to Dublin," I said.

The care home was low and clean, with a lawn and a flagpole.

An aide led us to a sunroom where a thin old man in a cardigan sat by the window with a blanket across his knees.

He had white hair, a trembling hand and the face of someone who had once been very sure of himself.

He saw Nolan, and his eyes widened and went to the floor.

"Mr. Whitaker," he said.

"It's been a long time."

"Nine years," Nolan said, from the doorway.

He didn't come any closer.

He stood with his hands at his sides, and I saw his jaw working.

I pulled up a chair and sat down in front of the old doctor.

"My name is Hattie Moser," I said.

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