Chapter 7: Welfare Check

At ten to two that night I was cleaning up Orin's booking spreadsheet by lamplight when someone pounded on the loft door.

Two police officers stood on the landing with their hands on their belts.

"Ma'am, we're doing a welfare check," the woman said. "We had a report that you might be a danger to yourself."

My coffee cup went cold in my hand.

"Who reported it?"

"A family member. A Toby Keane."

My brother. The brother who had stood in the parking lot that evening and said *I'm sorry*.

"I'm fine," I said. "I'm working."

"He said you've been having episodes, and that you might not be safe alone."

"Do I look like I'm not safe?"

The male officer looked past me into the lit loft: a laptop, a half-eaten sandwich, a drafting table.

"Ma'am, we're required to ask. Are you thinking of hurting yourself?"

"No. I'm thinking of hurting my brother, and only with paperwork."

Boots thumped on the back stairs. Orin came up two at a time in sweatpants and a T-shirt.

"Evening, officers. I own this building. What's going on?"

They told him.

His face did not change, but the muscles in his jaw did.

"Come in," he said. "Please. There's something you should see."

He opened a tablet on the drafting table and played the Yard footage from Friday.

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