Page 116 of Endgame

I scan the darkness to make sure it’s not some kind of trap.

When a Ruby-shaped boogeyman doesn’t come jumping out at me, I breathe a quick sigh of relief, snatch the keys, and head for the dungeon of nightmares.

There are so many damn keys on the ring it takes me five of them and seven panic attacks before I find the right one (I just know someone could walk down the hall at any moment), but when I do, it takes all the self-control within me to get through the door as cautiously and quietly as possible. Once I have it snicked into place, I brace myself with the handrail and catch my breath. Debate turning on the light.

I didn’t bring my phone, like an idiot, and there’s no way I’m going back for it now…nor am I bumbling around here in the dark with still-sobering legs. So, I take the risk and flick it on.

I’ll just need to make it quick.

I go straight for the filing cabinets on the other side of the room and leave the keys on the corner of the desk so I don’t forget them. Or make unnecessary noise by inevitably dropping them.

The top file drawers are family medical records. Nothing useful. The second file drawer belongs solely to Harris. I dig through these a little more carefully, my eyes searching for anything I think might be of use. They catch on a word I’m familiar with: Transient Ischemic Attack.

My father had one of those. The doctors called it a mini-stroke. Said it wasn’t as serious as a full on stoke, but they also said it could be a warning sign of a future one.

I then look at the date he was diagnosed—a year before his debilitating stroke.

I do some more digging. Find his diagnosis a year later. The Doctor on that diagnosis was Dr. Ruby Mitchell.

My stomach kicks.

I refer back to the TIA diagnosis. Looks like it was an Emergency Room Doctor.

I allow my hands holding the papers to fall limply against the files while I think. So, he had a TIA eleven years ago and was rushed to the Emergency Room. But he has a stroke a year later and there’s no record of a hospital visit for that one?

I flip through the papers again to make sure I’m not missing anything, but I’m not…that I can tell. A cold, icky feeling settles into my bones as I realize my hunches from earlier might not be too far off base. Could this second ‘stroke’ diagnosis have been a ruse to hide something? Or more pointedly, silence him?

But who would do that to someone, let alone their father? Her own flesh and blood?

A sociopath who wants to stay out of prison.

I close my eyes and think of Harris. Did what you did to poor Meaghan take its toll, and before you could do the right thing, before you could confess and blow the whole thing wide open, Magnolia and Ruby made sure you didn’t? Are they drugging you to keep you quiet?

And, just as importantly, is this why Rose felt like she had no other option? Either hold onto a secret that rots her from the inside out, or risk her family silencing her if she dare speak the truth. She didn’t want to end up like her father.

Something wet rolls along my cheek, and I reopen my eyes now burning with tears, fold the corner the of the papers, and slide them back into the drawer for later. I’ll come back down with my phone and take pictures of it all.

But first, I need to find what I came for. Something, anything, that matches Meaghan’s story.

The next couple of drawers give me nothing. They’re full of birth certificates, social security cards, passports, veterinarian bills, house and car titles, and other practical things that don’t help. It’s not until I reach the bottom drawer holding a single manilla folder that my hope starts to swell again. It’s a single orange envelope. Unsealed.

I carefully take it into my hands and stare at it, gauging its weight. It can’t contain more than a page or two of paper, but that’s all I would need.

My heart gains speed at the prospect, but I also chide myself for being too expectant. It could house any number of things. Any number…

I stare at it some more, then carefully, as if I might tear the edges, open the flap and feel around inside.

It’s empty.

Great.

I close it back and allow it to fall into the drawer. Fight the urge to slam it shut and sigh.

I then turn and eye the desk. Maybe there is something in its drawers. I start toward it, and a noise above me makes me go rigid.

Footsteps.

But not the slow, creeping kind like a butler leaving Ruby’s room at night. These footsteps are urgent. Heavy. And it wraps me in urgency and ice.

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