Silence.
Then, carefully: “Michael… your mother contacted me earlier today.”
My eyes snapped open.
“What?”
“She asked for a copy of the results,” Dr. Crane said. “She claimed she was helping coordinate care.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“No,” the doctor agreed quietly. “It doesn’t.”
Time stretched.
Minutes felt like hours.
I sat. I stood. I paced.
And then my phone buzzed again.
Not my mother this time.
Dr. Melissa Crane.
I laughed once. It sounded wrong.
“She’s in surgery.”
Silence.
Just for a second.
Then: “That’s unfortunate.”
Unfortunate.
My grip tightened on the phone.
“What did you take from her purse?”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t do that,” I said, my voice dropping. “Not right now. Not when she’s—” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
I swallowed hard.
“She said you took an envelope. What was in it?”
