Chapter 2 - The Doctor Who Wasn't Supposed to Be There
My father's words traveled through the hallway like a warning.
But he wasn't speaking to the officers.
He was speaking to the men who had accompanied him downstairs.
I recognized one voice immediately.
"Understood, Vincent."
Marco Bellini.
He had worked beside my father for as long as I could remember.
When I was little, Marco brought me birthday presents and pretended he didn't know how to play board games so I could win.
At sixteen, I'd watched him walk into our house with blood on his shirt.
My father had sent me upstairs before I could ask questions.
Marco was older now.
His dark hair had turned silver.
But his presence outside my apartment told me something important.
Dad had not come alone.
Officer Mitchell stepped into the hallway.
"Mr. Moretti, no one is being detained by your people. My partner is handling the scene."
Dad's answer came calmly.
"Then tell your partner to handle it quickly."
I closed my eyes.
I loved my father.
But I knew what people said about him.
I knew the stories.
Some were exaggerated.
Some weren't.
And the last thing I wanted was for my unborn child to enter a world where violence was answered with more violence.
"Dad?"
He appeared in the doorway immediately.
"Sweetheart?"
"Please."
He crossed the room.
I took his hand.
"No fighting."
Something flickered in his eyes.
"Emily—"
"Promise me."
He looked at my bruises again.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he lowered himself beside the bed.
"I promise you won't have to be afraid of what I do next."
It wasn't quite the promise I had asked for.
But it was the closest my father had ever come to admitting that he needed to change.
Officer Mitchell returned.
"An ambulance is coming. We also need to know whether this Dr. Keller has treated you."
I nodded.
"Twice."
"Where?"
"Here."
My father frowned.
"You had a doctor making house calls?"
I stared at my hands.
"Ryan said the hospital was dangerous for me."
"Why?"
"He said I was having episodes."
"What kind of episodes?"
I swallowed.
"He said I was forgetting things. Losing track of time. Imagining conversations."
Officer Mitchell exchanged a glance with her partner.
"Did you actually experience those symptoms?"
"Sometimes."
My voice became very small.
"Especially after Linda brought me tea."
Dad's grip tightened around my hand.
I remembered those evenings.
Linda always insisted the tea would help me sleep.
Sometimes it tasted bitter.
Sometimes I woke the next morning unable to remember when I'd gone to bed.
Once, I found a deep bruise on my upper thigh and asked Ryan what had happened.
He said I'd walked into a table.
When I told him I didn't remember doing that, he smiled.
"That's exactly what I'm worried about, Em."
At the time, I believed him.
Now I wasn't sure what I believed.
Officer Mitchell wrote something in her notebook.
"Do you have any of that tea left?"
I nodded toward the kitchen.
"Blue tin. Behind the coffee maker."
The officer spoke quietly into her radio.
My father reached for his phone.
"Marco, call Elena."
I looked up.
"Elena?"
"Your cousin."
"She's a lawyer."
"Exactly."
"Dad, she's in New York."
"Then she'll find a flight."
I almost smiled.
For the first time in months, the idea of somebody fighting for me didn't feel impossible.
But then Ryan's voice erupted from the hallway.
"This is ridiculous!"
A door slammed.
"You're taking her word over mine?"
Officer Mitchell stood.
"Stay here."
Dad remained seated.
I could see the effort it took.
Then my husband appeared at the bedroom entrance, restrained by the younger officer's outstretched arm.
He looked directly at me.
And smiled.
Not a happy smile.
A warning.
"You want to do this, Emily?"
I couldn't answer.
Ryan nodded slowly.
"Fine."
He looked toward my father.
"Ask her what happened on February twelfth."
My father turned.
"What?"
Ryan's smile widened.
"Go ahead, Em. Tell Daddy what you did."
I felt my heart stop.
February twelfth.
The night I'd awakened in a hotel room with blood on my sleeve and absolutely no memory of how I'd gotten there.
The night Ryan had told me I'd nearly killed someone.
My father saw the terror on my face.
"Emily?"
I shook my head.
"Please don't make me—"
Ryan interrupted.
"She doesn't remember, right? Convenient."
Officer Mitchell ordered him out of the room.
But the damage was done.
Dad looked at me.
"Sweetheart, what happened that night?"
Before I could answer, his phone rang.
Marco.
Dad put it on speaker.
"Vincent, we found Keller's car."
"And?"
"He has a medical bag, a fake hospital ID, and something else."
"What?"
Marco hesitated.
"A photograph of Emily."
My father went still.
"Taken when?"
"Tonight."
I stared toward the bedroom window.
The curtains were closed.
They'd been closed all afternoon.
Marco continued.
"Someone photographed her through the window while she was sleeping."
Then he said the part that made my father rise from the chair.
"Vincent, there's a note written on the back."
May you like
"What does it say?"
"'If Moretti discovers the truth, move to Phase Two.'"
