Dead Letters(65)

He nods again, making a note in the chart. “And alcohol?”

“I’d love some.” I grin. He doesn’t smile back.

“How much has she been drinking.” It’s not really spoken as a question.

“Too much. She gets uncooperative without it, and I figured these are exceptional circumstances.”

“She really shouldn’t be drinking at all,” he chides.

“Yes, Doctor,” I say, nodding along. He looks up, his head cocked to the side. “What?” I ask.

“It’s just…you’re very like your sister,” he says slowly, maintaining eye contact for too long.

“You knew Zelda—ooooh.” The pieces click into place: the way he’s been eyeing me, how strangely he’s behaving, the way he cringes whenever Zelda is mentioned. “You were fucking my sister. I should have guessed earlier.”

He looks stricken and glances uncomfortably at Nadine, but she seems not to have heard. “We were, uh, seeing each other, yes.”

“Isn’t that, like, unethical? Dating patients?”

“She wasn’t a patient. We did meet here, but she called me on my cell and asked if I wanted to get a drink with her. It was entirely aboveboard,” he sniffs defensively.

This guy does not seem like Zelda’s type. That Jason prick made sense to me, because of Zelda’s perverse desire for danger and mayhem, but Stu Whitcross is about as far from enticing as a man can be.

“Indeed,” I say unsympathetically. “Well, you must be very sad.”

“It’s been a bit of a shock, yes.”

I notice that there’s a drop of sweat on his upper lip and a patchy scruff below his chin where he missed a spot shaving. I can’t imagine Zelda sitting across from him at a table, sipping a glass of wine and making polite conversation with him. I didn’t really know her, I think suddenly. If she wasn’t always a stranger, she became one. The thought makes me unspeakably sad, and I am swamped with sudden despair, the kind that swoops in after a bout of drinking and settles over your neurochemicals like an impermeable sheath.

“Will there be a funeral?” Dr. Whitcross asks.

“I imagine there will be, yeah. But I guess we’re waiting on the murder investigation.”

He starts. “Yes, I’d heard—I mean, there was some discussion that the police might be—well, I’m just really shocked, is all.”

“Aren’t we all. But Nadine seems to be holding up pretty well,” I say cheerily, patting my mother’s knee. It is sharp and bony, and it feels unhealthy. “Of course, she has the benefit of thinking that I’m Zelda half the time, so no wonder she’s not reeling quite like the rest of us. Have you finished your checkup, Doctor?”

“Yes, and I’ll have a nurse print you out the medication schedule. Your mom seems like she’s doing fine, considering…” He pauses. “You will let me know if there’s to be a service?”

“Of course, of course. I’m sure I can find your phone number.” I’m pretty sure he’ll be in Zelda’s phone.

“Well, here’s my card, just in case. I’m, uh, really sorry for your loss.”

“I’m sorry too, buddy.” I stand up and, absurdly, shake his hand. “C’mon, Mom,” I say, waving at Nadine. She doesn’t stand up or acknowledge me, so I pull on her thin arm. It feels like it could snap between my fingers. Her dismount from the table is ungainly, and I steady her before she falls off the small stool beneath her feet. Dr. Whitcross—Stu—holds the door open for us and ushers us out. He seems like he’ll be glad to get us out of the building.

“Just stop at the front desk for the med sheet.” He points and turns around. I wave in amusement at his white-coated back. Really, Zelda? Him? I pull Nadine along and collect the paperwork. There’s a new prescription for me to pick up. Thankfully, I don’t bump into Carrie Brown again, and there don’t seem to be any other Watkins Glen graduates hard at work. We finally escape back to the truck. Inside the cab, I look through Zelda’s contacts. There he is. Stuey. Very cute, Zelda. I scroll back through her messages, but she has deleted almost the entire history. There’s only one exchange between them.


—Are we all set? All clear on the scenario, dear Dr. Whitcross?

—Yes, my sweet zany Zelda.



I gag. Christ, she must really have been stringing him along. And what could she have meant? I desperately hope this is not some creepy sex game, but with Zelda, one never knows. I look at the time and date of the messages: 8:07 P.M. on the night of the fire. Did they see each other that night? A slight niggling of unease stirs as I remember the locked chains on the barn doors. Was Whitcross there? An image of his shaking hands and his skittering eyes crosses my mind. Suddenly, I want to get away from the whole building.

I feel like an idiot, though, for not having looked for any messages from that night sooner. If I had any sense, it would have been the first thing I checked. But I was too busy worrying about Wyatt and Zelda and getting worked up into some jealous froth.

I pull out and head up the highway, toward Watkins Glen. I wonder if I’ll be making it through today without a drink. Glancing over at Nadine, I frown. I’m grateful for her uncharacteristic quiet submission, but it is rather disconcerting.