Chapter 13: Handled

Nobody in the elevator moved, and neither did I.

The deputy looked at the clipboard, then at my face, then at Constance.

"Ma'am, you said the patient was deceased and then you said she was missing."

"I said she was unwell," Constance said. "She has been unwell for years."

Camille put a hand over her mouth and made a small, wet sound.

"Ciara, sweetheart, we only want you safe," she said. "Please. Everyone's been so frightened."

The stairwell door at the end of the hall banged open.

The family doctor came through it with his leather bag and a clipboard of his own, a little out of breath.

He had been waiting on the stairs, then. They had planned for the elevator to be the quick way and for the stairs to be the way I did not get out.

"Here," he said to the deputy. "I have the certificate. Seventy-two hours for her own protection."

I stepped back into the hall.

I put my hand into the tote bag and took out the fourth letter.

The pale blue envelope had been slit along the top by Camille's thumbnail, and the Foundation's stamp sat on the corner.

Under the stamp, in red pen, someone had written: Handled.

I laid it on the narrow table beside Anthony's door, under the mirror, where everyone could see it.

"Mrs. Kensington, that's the Foundation's stamp," I said. "It's on the mail room's copy of every letter I wrote to your son."

"I don't know what that is," Constance said.

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