Chapter 23: Room Twelve

Colin packed on Christmas morning.

He did it in an hour, with two suitcases and a banker's box, and I stood in the hall and watched him do it.

"I'll sign whatever the lawyer sends," he said. "I won't contest anything."

"I know."

"The Medina closing's off. I told the escrow office yesterday."

"Good."

He set the box down at the front door and stood there with his hand on the knob.

His left eye was cloudy in the gray light, and I looked at it for a long moment.

I had looked at that eye every day for three years and felt guilty every time.

I didn't feel guilty now.

"I'm sorry," Colin said.

"I believe you."

"That's not the same as forgiving me."

"No," I said. "It isn't."

He nodded.

"I'll be at the office if the lawyer needs me."

"Colin."

"What?"

"Go and see someone. A real doctor, not your brother."

He almost smiled.

"Merry Christmas, Jean," he said, and he left.

His car backed out of the garage, and I listened to it turn the corner and disappear.

The house was very quiet.

It was the first time in eight years it had been entirely mine.

On the twenty-sixth Colin texted me a photo of a lab report.

The paternity probability was 0.00 percent.

Under it he had typed: "Her words from the hospital hall were true. I didn't need the paper."

I didn't answer.

I drove to Bellevue anyway, with the report folded in my coat pocket.

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