Chapter 12: Not That Arm

I pulled the folder into my lap and opened it.

The first page was a summary on cream paper, typed, with a date at the top.

Subject N. Ellingwood, it said. County hospital admission confirmed for the night in question, 11:41 p.m.

The burn to her right forearm was consistent with a hot vehicle door.

Subject C. Ellingwood, it went on. Scar on right forearm photographed at the Kensington Foundation spring luncheon.

Pattern and depth are inconsistent with a vehicle burn.

Consistent with a curling iron or similar tool. Estimated age of injury: six years, minus nine days.

I turned the page.

There was a photograph of me, taken from across a street, in my scrubs with a coffee in my hand.

Another of Camille at a hair salon, laughing.

Behind them was a single sheet in Anthony's handwriting. I knew it from six years of foundation thank-you cards.

Announce Saturday. Ask C. how she got the scar. Put the county log on the screen behind her. N. NOT to attend. N. attends anyway?

Below that, in a different pen, he had added a line.

If N. stands, remove her gently. Right arm is the scar. Do not touch it.

The shower shut off down the hall.

I sat on the edge of his bed with the folder open on my knees.

I read the date on the invoice again.

Five weeks.

For five weeks he had known.

He had known when he sent me the gala invitation by messenger. He had known when Camille took my phone and zipped my dress.

He had known when I sat at table nineteen with the kitchen door bumping my chair.

The bathroom door opened.

Anthony came out in a towel with his hair wet, rubbing a second one over his neck, and he stopped on the threshold.

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