Chapter 8: Cassia

"It looks exactly like you," Ivy said.

We were in the supply room on the pediatric ward, with the door shut and my phone propped against a box of tongue depressors.

On the screen, the gift letter glowed.

"I never wrote that."

"I know you didn't. You can't make a lowercase 't' that pretty. Look at it. It's practically a flower."

"He copied it from something."

"Then he had something to copy it from."

I stared at the page.

The date was two years ago, the week I'd handed Colin my father's money in a cashier's check.

A week I remembered because I'd cried in the parking lot of the bank.

"Ivy, I wrote my name on the loan napkin. And my wedding certificate. And the lease."

"So he has three samples and a forger."

"He doesn't have a forger. He has a lawyer."

"Same thing," said Ivy, "with a bigger bill."

The door opened.

A woman in a camel coat stood in the doorway with her hands knotted in front of her.

Dark hair in a low ponytail, brown eyes, a pretty face gone gray around the mouth.

I knew her from the receipts and from one photograph on Colin's phone I'd never been supposed to see.

"Ms. Quinlan," she said. "I'm Cassia."

Ivy picked up a stainless steel bedpan from the shelf and held it.

"I know who you are," I said.

"I'm not here to fight."

"You're in my supply room."

"The security guard said you were on break." Her voice shook. "Please. Five minutes."

"You had six months," I said.

She flinched.

She didn't argue, she didn't smile, and she didn't say it was complicated.

She just stood there and took it.

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