Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

said. “Said she could organize your medical files.”

I felt a sharp chill run down my spine, my fingers tightening against my apron.

“She works at the front desk for Dr. Sullivan,” I said.

“Saves us the trip,” Donald said. “She can print the results.”

I looked out the window toward the gravel driveway, realizing how quickly the net was closing around us.continue reading …