Chapter 9: Liar

It was after two when Dr. Kerrigan got me through my front door.

I was soaked to the skin on one side, because the umbrella had only ever covered one of us.

"Get that coat off," he said. "Wet wool on cracked ribs is miserable."

"I can do it."

"You can't lift your arm past your shoulder."

He was right, and I hated it.

I stood in the hallway while he eased the sleeve down my left arm, then my right, one careful inch at a time.

His knuckles brushed the tape under my shirt.

"Does this hurt?"

"A little."

"Breathe in."

I did, and he laid his hand flat on my side, just under the bandage, and counted through it.

It was a medical hand. It was steady and dry and exact.

But he stood a second too long after he had his answer, and he cleared his throat twice.

"The ribs are fine," he said.

"Then you can move your hand."

"I can."

He didn't, for one more breath.

Then he stepped back and looked at the ceiling.

"I should go," he said.

"You should."

"Lock the door behind me."

"Dr. Kerrigan."

"Nolan," he said. "I'm not your doctor at two in the morning."

"Nolan."

It sounded different in my mouth than I expected.

He heard that too.

He left, and I turned the deadbolt and leaned on the door and stayed there for a long time.

At nine the next morning someone pounded on it.

I looked through the peephole.

Mrs. Brackett stood on my mat in a camel coat with her hair done, and Heidi was behind her in a long gray cardigan, her face wet.

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