When I pulled into the gravel driveway of my brick ranch home, headlights flashed in my rearview mirror, illuminating the dry maple leaves scattered across the yard.
Martha’s blue sedan came to a stop right behind me, her engine idling with a low, familiar rattle.
She climbed out, her thick winter coat zipped to her chin, and walked over to my passenger side.
I pushed the door open, and she slid into the seat, smelling of cold air and peppermint lozenges.
“You look exhausted, Clara,” she said, checking her wristwatch before looking at me.
“It was a long day,” I said, leaning my head against the headrest.
“Did you talk to Gary about the hospital records?” she asked, her eyes searching mine.
“He is working on the request for the medical board,” I said. “He wants to make sure we have everything documented.”
Martha looked down at my lap, where the walnut jewelry box sat in its white tissue paper.
“What is that?” she asked, her eyebrows drawing together. “Did you buy something?”
“Ben gave it to me,” I said. “He apologized for how he acted yesterday.”
Martha scoffed, checking her watch again. “He always apologized after he ran out of options, didn’t he?”
I did not answer her as I lifted the lid of the box.
The rich scent of fresh cedar and varnish filled the small, cold car.
Inside, the velvet lining was bright red, fitted perfectly into the corners of the drawer, but as I touched the fabric, I felt a slight ridge.
A small piece of paper was tucked flat beneath the lining.
I pinched the corner and pulled it out, smoothing it against my knee under the dome light.
It was a cash register receipt from the artisan shop on the square, dated yesterday afternoon.
The total was three hundred and fifty dollars, paid in cash.
“What is it?” Martha asked, leaning closer to read the small print.
I stared at the date on the receipt, my chest tightening as the numbers registered.
Yesterday afternoon, Ben was supposedly confined to his bed, too weak to sit up without assistance from the nursing staff.
The receipt listed the customer name as Benjamin Cole.
“Clara?” Martha said, her hand reaching for my arm.
I did not answer her.
I dropped the wooden box onto my passenger seat with a hollow click.
I drove home in the dark, the wooden box sitting heavy on the seat beside me, but by eight the next morning I was back at St. Jude Hospital.
The air in the basement administration office smelled of stale coffee and the chemical floor wax they used to clean the long, windowless corridors. Gary, my estate attorney, met me near the copy machine, his leather briefcase tucked under his arm. With him was Mr. Henderson, the hospital’s chief internal investigator, a tall man who did not offer to shake hands.
“We have the digital audit trail ready,” Mr. Henderson said, tapping a key on his computer.
Gary took off his glasses, slowly wiping the lenses with the wide end of his blue silk tie. He always did that when he was about to deliver bad news.
