Chapter 11: The Clipboard

"Don't open the door," I said into the phone. "Don't say anything to him. I'm coming."

Brogan already had his keys in his hand.

He drove the whole way across town with both hands on the wheel and said nothing, and I held my phone against my chest.

Colleen's building was a squat brick walk-up, with outdoor stairs up the side to the second floor.

Neil stood on the landing in his good coat.

Lucille was beside him, small and stiff, with her handbag in both hands.

Behind them, a man in a tweed jacket was holding a clipboard against his stomach and looking at his shoes.

Two of Colleen's neighbors had opened their doors a crack on the landing, in their robes.

"Mara," Neil said, in the voice you'd use for a frightened horse. "Thank God. We were so worried."

"It's eleven o'clock at night."

"I know, honey. I'm sorry. This is a doctor, an old friend of the family. He's kind enough to stop by and say hello."

"Hello," the man said, to the floor.

"He'd like to have a quick conversation with you," Neil said. "Just to see how you're doing. It's completely voluntary."

Colleen's chain was still on the door, and her eye was in the gap.

"I'm calling the cops again," she said.

"Let them in," I said.

"Mara."

"Let everybody in. I want every one of them to see this."

She unhooked the chain.

Colleen's living room held a couch, a coffee table, two armchairs and a one-eyed cat on the radiator.

It was not built for five adults.

The neighbors' doors stayed open on the landing, and I left the front door wide, too.

Neil took the armchair, and Lucille perched on the edge of the other one.

The doctor sat on the arm of the couch, with the clipboard on his knee.

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