Chapter 2 - Three Knocks Behind a Locked Door
My father’s bedroom door was locked from the hallway.
I stopped so suddenly Caleb nearly walked into me.
There had always been a lock. I remembered turning it as a child when I hid in Dad’s room during thunderstorms. But I had never seen the key left outside.
Not until that afternoon.
I touched it.
“What are you doing?”
Lenora stood at the far end of the corridor.
“Dad knocked.”
“He has difficulty controlling his movements.”
“He knocked in sets of three.”
“You have always been determined to find meaning in everything.”
Caleb stepped forward.
“Mrs. Whitmore, I need to inspect the radiator.”
“You can inspect it tomorrow.”
“There may be a leak.”
She looked at the ceiling, calculating repair costs.
Then she walked over, turned the key, and opened the door.
My father sat in a wheelchair near the window.
Eleven months had thinned him, but his eyes were clear.
He looked at me.
Then at the key in Lenora’s hand.
Something inside my chest tightened.
“Hi, Dad.”
His mouth worked around a word.
“Av…ry.”
Lenora sighed.
“You see? Visits exhaust him.”
I crossed the room and knelt beside his chair.
His left hand closed around mine.
Hard.
Not accidentally.
Behind us, Caleb crouched near the radiator and loosened a harmless valve cover.
“Has his speech therapist been coming?” I asked.
“The schedule changed.”
“When?”
“Avery, please.”
Dad tapped my wrist.
Three times.
I looked into his eyes.
“Do you want me to stay?”
His fingers tightened.
Lenora moved toward us.
“He needs his medication.”
“What medication?”
“The medication prescribed by his doctor.”
“Which doctor?”
Her face changed.
Caleb stood.
“The radiator’s fine,” he said. “But that window seal needs attention. Cold air can be uncomfortable when someone sits still all day.”
He said it casually, giving me another few seconds.
I leaned close to Dad.
“I’ll come back.”
His hand resisted when I stood.
Outside, Lenora locked the door again.
“Why does he need that?”
“He wanders.”
“He’s in a wheelchair.”
“He tries to stand.”
“Then hire someone to help him.”
“We already employ a nurse.”
“A nurse who leaves at six.”
Lenora smiled thinly.
“You are welcome to contribute financially.”
That evening, I found Caleb in the laundry room.
“He understood everything,” I said.
“I think so.”
“I’ve spent months wondering whether I imagined it.”
“You didn’t.”
I leaned against a dryer, suddenly exhausted.
“He used to call every Thursday when I was in college. Even if he was overseas. Once he called from a factory floor in Germany because he’d promised.”
“What changed before the stroke?”
“Nothing.”
Then I remembered.
“He asked me to examine a group of supplier payments. Quietly. He said he didn’t want to accuse anyone before he understood them.”
Caleb’s expression became very still.
“Did he give you anything?”
“A flash drive. I couldn’t open it. Encrypted.”
“Where is it?”
“In a box of my mother’s things.”
“Keep it somewhere safe.”
“You sound remarkably interested in accounting for a houseman.”
“My sister worked for a company that collapsed because nobody asked where the money went.”
“What happened to her?”
“She lost her job. Then her insurance. By the time she found another position, she’d spent everything she had.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She’s doing well now.”
He folded a towel with unnecessary precision.
“But I remember what people at the top called it.”
“What?”
“An unfortunate adjustment.”
I understood his anger better than I understood his presence.
At six fifteen, the nurse, Mrs. Hale, came down carrying her coat.
I stopped her.
“Who prescribed Dad’s current medication?”
She hesitated.
“Dr. Mercer handles his care now.”
“What happened to Dr. Patel?”
“Mrs. Whitmore changed providers.”
“Has anyone assessed his progress recently?”
Her eyes flicked toward the hall.
“I only administer what’s listed.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
For a moment, she looked ashamed.
Then she whispered, “Check the appointment folder in the downstairs study.”
After dinner, while Lenora hosted friends in the drawing room, I opened the folder.
Three canceled rehabilitation appointments.
Two canceled speech assessments.
One unsigned recommendation for an independent neurological evaluation.
Across the last page, in Lenora’s handwriting, were four words.
Not necessary at present.
I photographed everything.
Then someone spoke behind me.
“Looking for a bedtime story?”
May you like
Pierce stood in the doorway.
His smile disappeared when he saw the papers.
