Two days before the hearing, Doctor Nina Prescott called.
Dorothy stood at the hotel window while listening, one hand resting on the glass.
“I need to tell you something,” the doctor said.
Her voice carried the controlled strain of someone who had replayed a memory too many times.
“Colleen spoke to me the week before delivery. She asked several questions about emergency complications, which isn’t unusual with a high-risk pregnancy. But before she left, she said—if something goes wrong, make sure my mother gets the babies. Not Grant. My mother.”
Dorothy shut her eyes.
“I told her nothing would go wrong,” Doctor Prescott said. “I was wrong. I can’t fix that, but I can testify to what she told me.”
Dorothy swallowed hard. “Thank you.”
After the call, she sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the carpet until Fletch knocked and came in without waiting for permission, the way brothers do and grieving sons learn to tolerate.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said.
“Not a ghost,” Dorothy replied. “A witness.”
Fletch sat beside her heavily. “Tell me.”
She did.