I don’t love lying to Sam. She doesn’t deserve it. She’s the only person on this earth who would take a bullet for me, and that loyalty isn’t lost on me. But her moral compass was going to get in the way of this entire plan, and for that reason, I couldn’t have her in on it. I’m hopeful someday she’ll realize I did this all for her. And for us. So we could have the future we’ve only ever dreamed of. So we could rest our heads at night without a care in the world.
This week, “Eleanor” is visiting her brother and his family in Minnesota, which is why I’ve finally allowed Sam to set foot in this house.
I’ve managed to convince Sam that I’m rolling in the dough working for this fictional elderly lady, that I’m pulling in the equivalent of two generous full-time incomes.
Sam exhales as she stares ahead lost in thought, her shoulders falling. “It was fun being her.”
Cold sweat runs down my back. “Her?”
“Brienne,” Sam says. “That fake name you gave me. It was like I was living someone else’s life for a few months. And it was fun being someone else, you know? When I was her, people looked at me different. They treated me different. Better, I mean.”
“I’d take you over her any day of the week.” I go to Sam, cupping her chin in my hand and angling her mouth to mine. I lower my lips to hers and give her a sweet, moderated kiss this time. No blood, no biting.
A golden heart might be Sam’s weakness, but she happens to be mine.
Her mouth smiles against my kiss, and her posture relaxes—as it should. Life’s about to get very sweet very soon for her. The life I’ve always promised her is within arm’s reach, and she doesn’t even know it’s coming.
Over the next week, my elderly charge is going to tragically pass (peacefully and in her sleep, of course), and I’m going to feign shock when I tell Sam the dear old biddy left everything to me.
I won’t tell her an amount—just that she’s never going to have to work or want for anything another day in her life.
“Come on,” I say, nodding toward the TV room, or the “back parlor” as Brienne would say.
We cozy up on the couch, and I let her have the remote. My mind’s too busy to focus on TV anyway.
“You’re in a generous mood tonight,” she says as she tosses the clicker aside and climbs into my lap.
She hasn’t seen generous yet.
I’m seconds from moving her hand to the growing bulge in my sweats when the doorbell rings. Sam climbs off me, and I mute the TV.
It’s seven o’clock, and I’m not expecting anyone.
“Stay here,” I tell her, reaching for the remote and turning the volume up. I’m not sure who could possibly be stopping by unannounced, but the TV should drown out any conversation I might not want her to hear.
I step lightly down the hall until I get a clear shot of the front door.
Oh, good God.
It’s just Enid.
I’m in sweatpants and a white T-shirt, but she’s already seen me through the clear glass window—no time to change into something more befitting a prestigious doctor. I do have matching satin pajama sets with accented piping, but those were just for show, something to wear around Brienne. They cost a small fortune, too. Every time I wore them, I felt like a schmuck. A ridiculously comfortable schmuck, but still a schmuck.
“Enid, hi,” I say when I get the door. I make a passive-aggressive glance toward my watch, but the oblivious woman doesn’t notice. “Everything okay?”
“I was just coming by to ask you that very question,” she says, wrinkled lips pursed flat.
I chuckle. If you laugh at someone when they’re not trying to be funny, it gnaws away at their confidence just enough to make them doubt themselves—another something I picked up from Sonya years ago.
“I haven’t seen Brienne in days,” she says.
Leaning against the doorjamb, I rest my forehead against a balled fist. When delivering some news, a bit of melodrama goes a long way with people like this—people who feel entitled to the details of other people’s personal tragedy.
“What? What is it?” Enid asks, the impatient old dame. Her narrowed eyes search mine, and I’m pretty sure she’s holding her breath as she waits for my response.
“Please keep this between us,” I say, voice so low it’s almost a whisper. “But she had a bit of a breakdown last week.”
Enid sucks in a gasp. “Is she all right?”
“Yes, she’s fine. She’s getting the help she needs.”
“Is she close by?” she asks. “Can I visit? Send flowers at least? Oh, that poor thing. After everything she’s been through. And she seemed to be doing so well! She was coming and going more, chatting . . . I thought . . .”
“We all thought she was getting better,” I say, impressed with how convincing I sound. I’m laughing at myself on the inside. Dying laughing. “I think she might have pushed herself too fast. These things happen. I see it every day with my patients.”
Enid nods, toying with the intricate diamond cross pendant hanging from her neck. It doesn’t matter what you say; if people believe you’re a doctor, most of the time they won’t argue with you when you make sweeping generalizations that sound like they’re rooted in intelligence.
“She’s at a private facility in another state,” I tell Enid, hoping she assumes that Brienne wanted to recover in private. “But I’m going to see her this weekend. I can bring flowers for you if you’d like? I know she’d love that.”
“Would you?” she asks. “I’d appreciate that. I know she doesn’t have a lot of family . . .”
Oh, Enid.
If she only knew.
“Of course,” I say, making a mental note to stop for a five-dollar gas-station bouquet of carnations on the way next time.
“Please keep me posted, will you?” she asks, ever the typical retiree with loose lips and way too much time on her hands. She moved into her house only a month or so before I became Brienne’s tenant, but it didn’t take her long to start asking around and sticking her nose in everyone’s business.
Some people might say that makes her neighborly.
I say that makes her a liability.
CHAPTER 28
“You’re not eating.” I’m seated across from Brienne at a Podunk diner on the south side of Old Hundred Saturday morning. I managed to make her day by requesting a two-hour pass after our session with Schneider. Figured it’s the least I can do, and I need to leave here today on a high note. Can’t have her hope and determination flatlining this early in the game. “Is it the food? You want to order something else?”
She picks at her rubbery yellow scrambled eggs with the thin tines of her water-spotted fork.
“I haven’t had much of an appetite since I’ve been here,” she says. “Everything just tastes . . . different.”
Yep. Mass-produced food usually does.
“Would you like pancakes instead, dear?” I lift my arm, like I’m trying to catch our waitress’s attention.
“No, no. It’s fine.” She sets her fork down and picks up a triangle of buttered wheat toast. The crumbs stick to the sides of her mouth as she chews, but she manages to smile. She’s trying to show me she’s in good spirits.