Instead, the psychiatrist was going to receive evidence against her.
As I reached the upstairs landing, a floorboard creaked.
I stopped.
For illustration purposes only
Our bedroom door was open.
Abigail stood at the opposite end of the hallway.
Marcus was behind her.
“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked.
“Jet lag.”
She studied me.
Then she raised Dad’s pill organizer.
“I forgot to prepare Arthur’s morning medication.”
I forced myself to yawn.
“Big day tomorrow.”
Her smile returned.
“Yes.”
“The evaluation.”
“I’ll drive,” I said.
The next morning, Dad looked exactly like the man Abigail wanted everyone to see.
Disheveled.
Vacant.
Weak.
Marcus stood over him while Abigail helped him into a mismatched cardigan.
I knelt to tie Dad’s shoe.
Then tapped twice against his ankle.
Ready.
