My first instinct was to throw open the car door.
My hand actually touched the handle.
Then Ava’s words came back.
Just follow him one day.
Don’t tell him.
Just watch.
So I stayed where I was.
Calvin handed Melissa the cup. She said something I could not hear, and he laughed softly. Then he took several documents from a folder and showed them to her.
There was nothing secretive in the way he behaved.
Nothing romantic or sinister.
He looked tired.
Melissa looked tired too.
After a few minutes, they disappeared through the glass doors beneath a sign I had been too stunned to read.
HAVENWOOD NEUROLOGICAL RECOVERY CENTER.
I stared at those words until they blurred.
A recovery center.
I reached for my phone.
I could call Calvin.
I could call the police.
I could call somebody and demand that the last seven years of my life be explained to me immediately.
Instead, I sat with both hands on the steering wheel.
Seven years.
Seven birthdays.
Seven Christmases.
Seven January transfers.
I had spoken to my daughter at her grave.
I had left flowers beside a stone carrying her name.
I had spent nights sitting alone in my kitchen wishing I could hear her call me Dad one more time.
And she had been forty minutes away.
I don’t know how long I sat there.
Eventually Calvin came outside alone.
He stood beside his SUV for a moment, rubbing his eyes before driving away.
I waited until his taillights disappeared.
Then I crossed the parking lot.
Inside, Havenwood looked nothing like the frightening institution my imagination had invented during those few minutes in the car. It was quiet and bright, with paintings of fields and lakes along the walls. A receptionist sat behind a curved desk.
“Can I help you?”
My voice almost failed me.
“I’m looking for someone.”
“Of course. May I have the resident’s name?”
I swallowed.
“Melissa Brooks.”
The receptionist’s expression changed slightly.
Not suspicion.
Professional caution.
“And you are?”
“Her father.”
She studied me for a second.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t confirm information about residents without authorization.”
“I saw her.”
“I understand.”
“My daughter died seven years ago.”
The woman’s face softened.
“I’m very sorry.”
“No.” I gripped the edge of the desk. “You don’t understand. I just saw her walking through those doors.”
