Текст книги "Convicted"
Автор книги: Aleatha Romig
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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 35 страниц)
Claire smiled. They’d discussed names a little bit—mostly, they seemed to discuss boy’s names. When they Googled the most popular names for the last year, Sophia came up for girls and Aiden for boys. Tony immediately nixed Sophia. When he explained his reasoning, Claire was shocked. She had no idea Catherine had a daughter. The story was especially wild when he explained that Sophia was the artist who painted Claire’s wedding portrait. Apparently, he’d been watching her since Nathaniel died. It wasn’t done for vengeance—Tony’s voyeurism of Sophia was the fulfillment of a promise to Nathaniel—to watch over Catherine’s daughter. Tony didn’t know why Catherine didn’t want to see her, but the night he was taken into FBI custody, Tony was about to tell Sophia the truth about her mother. Obviously, he never got the chance.
Claire agreed. The name Sophia wasn’t in the running.
Neither one had a reason for not liking Aiden—they just didn’t. Tony didn’t want to use family names. As much as he had admired Nathaniel, he now realized that perhaps his grandfather wasn’t as good of an influence as he had once thought. Claire contemplated names from her family. She knew, without asking Emily, was a no. Her mother’s name—Shirley was very close to Tony’s grandmother Sharron. Claire’s grandmother Elizabeth was close to Emily. None of them seemed worth arguing for. So far—the only girl’s name that they were both receptive to—was Courtney.
When it came to boy names, for every suggestion Claire made—Tony had a counter. He liked names that could be shortened. He said, from experience, he believed it made a nice separation between business and personal. Claire didn’t ask if Tony assumed his son would follow him into business. After all, if—and that was a very big if—their public issues could be resolved, Anthony Rawlings was a man worthy of having a son follow in his footsteps; however, late at night, when Claire would wake and stare up to the ceiling while Tony slept soundly, she worried. Anthony Rawlings, businessman, had so many worries and concerns. Did she want that for her son or daughter? The larger looming concern was Tony’s predilection for perfection. Claire had no way of knowing the personality of the child within her, yet if he were anything like his father, would the combination in a professional setting be potentially combustible? Would it be different with a daughter? Claire didn’t know.
When the doctor entered, Tony stood near Claire’s head, kept his hand on her shoulder and listened. She loved his presence—just knowing he was near gave her more confidence. The doctor reassured Claire, her weight gain was within normal limits and expectations. When she complained about filling so fast, he recommended multiple small meals as opposed to three larger ones. She looked up to Tony’s knowing eyes and realized he wasn’t only filling the role of father and offering emotional support, but also acting as informant. Madeline would know the new meal requirements before Claire made it home.
After the exam, the nurse led them to a different room for the ultrasound. The doctor used the same machine he’d used during Claire’s last visit. She and Tony watched silently as the grainy image came to the screen. Again, he used lines and made measurements. They both breathed a sigh of relief to learn their baby was right on target for thirty weeks, measuring fifteen and a half inches long and weighing about three pounds.
“Three pounds”—Claire repeated—“Then why have I gained almost twenty?”
The doctor laughed and said, “Because, Claire, you aren’t just carrying a baby; there’s a whole lot more in there.”
She knew he was right.
“And”—the doctor continued—“your baby will continue to gain, about a half a pound a week from now until you deliver, so eating those small meals is important.”
Before Claire could respond, Tony answered, “Don’t worry, she will.”
The doctor moved the large wand around Claire’s abdomen. The coolness of the gel didn’t register as she watched the screen. Ever present in the background was the steady heartbeat of their child. As usual, it brought back memories of her lake. They watched in amazement as the doctor pointed out the baby’s nose in a profile. When he repositioned the wand, they were able to count fingers and toes—they weren’t able to see the gender.
“I’m sorry. Your baby’s being modest. I’d hoped if we continued, he or she’d move and reveal their secret. So far, that hasn’t happened.”
Though they were both disappointed, Tony and Claire understood. Tony replied, “That’s fine, doctor. The most important thing is that everything is going as it should.”
“Yes, Mr. Rawlings, everything is perfect.”
Claire smiled—she knew that perfect was exactly the way Tony liked it!
Let us not be content to wait and see what will happen, but give us the determination to make the right things happen .
—Horace Mann
Phil created a VPN, virtual private network, for both Tony and Claire. This allowed them access to websites and emails while virtually untraceable. When connected through a proxy and the multiple shell accounts he’d established, Phil believed their transactions were completely untraceable.
To communicate with one another, Phil, Tony, and Claire utilized email as well as occasional instant messaging. They could call; however, Phil still emphasized that calls needed to remain short. During the first week of November, Phil sent the Rawlings his second email:
To: Nouveau Alexanders
From: PR
Re: Current assignment
Date: November 7, 2013
Our initial meeting went well. I reminded Ms. L of her original directive—Ms. N’s location wasn’t to be divulged. She hasn’t pursued the subject. My assignment is to watch a woman named Sophia Burke. Her husband, Derek, is employed by Rawlings Industries and was recently transferred to corporate headquarters in Iowa City.
They recently moved to Iowa from California, and I’m gathering background information. Though this seems benign, I have a feeling there’s more to it. The name Burke concerns me. I don’t remember reading about a Derek in Ms. N’s research. Is there a connection to Jonathon? I’ll learn, but your assistance may speed my research.
Simultaneously, their iPads notified them of the email. Claire saw the icon and looked across the room. “It has to be from Phil. I’m nervous.”
“His last message wasn’t very enlightening”—Tony opened the message—“Tell me again why he’s addressing us as the New Alexanders?”
Claire shrugged. “I think he’s avoiding using our real names.” Was it wrong to have a private joke? She hoped not. There was no way to explain her and Phil’s relationship without inciting unwarranted concerns from Tony, and there was no reason for him to be concerned. There was nothing between her and Phil but trust and friendship. It was the kind of friendship that comes when trust has been tested by fire and survived.
She and Tony both read the email. The last time she’d heard the name Derek Burke, it was Brent who brought it to her attention. Although she and Tony pledged honesty and full disclosure, Claire didn’t believe their promise included harming his relationship with his closest friends. He was unaware of their support; it seemed best.
Claire had recently learned the story of Sophia. She looked up from her screen. “Tony, is this the same Sophia? Catherine’s daughter?”
She saw the darkness return to his eyes as they moved from the screen toward her. “Yes. How in the hell did she manipulate moving them to Iowa? Executor of my estate has no control at Rawlings Industries.”
Claire put down her tablet, walked to her husband, and touched his shoulder. “Why would she do that? Why, after all these years of not wanting to know her daughter, would she suddenly move her to Iowa?”
He covered her hand with his. “I don’t know, but I don’t like it.”
“What are you worried about?”
“Accidents.”
The word still caused the hair on the back of Claire’s neck to stand to attention. “What kind of accidents? You don’t think Catherine would harm her own daughter, do you?”
“I’m not sure she has boundaries. Look at what she’s done to us.”
Claire saw the restraint in his expression, exposed through the bulging veins of his neck. His jaws were clenched as he modulated his voice to its most accommodating tone. “It’s the middle of the afternoon and too hot for you to be out in the sun. You should rest and keep your feet up. I need to go for a walk.”
Claire wanted answers to her questions. How did Tony’s promise to Nathaniel influence his clandestine protectiveness of Sophia? What exactly were Catherine’s capabilities? Where were Tony’s boundaries? However, sensing his distress, she didn’t ask. They’d been down too many difficult roads lately. This situation wasn’t her battle, her family, or her promise. Tony needed to work it out for himself. She exhaled. “All right, I’ll rest in our room. Please come wake me when you get back.”
As he kissed her cheek, she saw something in his eyes, something that made her pulse race. “Tony, please don’t leave the island.”
Her plea pulled him from his thoughts. “What? How did you know I was thinking that?”
She held his hands. “I won’t be able to rest if I’m thinking about you out in the boat. I know Francis showed you how to drive it and has taken you out, but I can’t bear to lose you again.”
“Claire, I hate this feeling of helplessness.” He let go of her hands and paced near the open doors to the lanai. “This place is amazing, you’re amazing. I want to be here with you and our child; however, when I read about Rawlings Industries and now this—I feel like a caged animal. There are so many things I could be doing—if I were back home.”
“I hoped you’d consider yourself home.”
She saw his shoulders slump. His expression of amusement was short-lived. “How many times am I to hear my own words and phrases repeated to me?”
Claire shrugged. “I don’t have a definitive number. What can I say?” She stepped toward him and reached for his cheek. Brushing it gently, she allowed the afternoon stubble to abrade the tips of her fingers. “You’re a wise man, and I’ve learned a lot from you. You should consider it an honor—imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”
“I think there are others who you’d be better to imitate.”
Kissing his lips, she lingered on her tip toes and whispered, “Right now, I’m going to lay down. When I wake, I’ll trust that you haven’t disappointed me.”
As she turned toward the bedroom, Tony seized her arm and pulled her back into his embrace. His sudden surge of power would’ve frightened her in the past. Today, she found it more than mildly erotic. “Tell me”—his dark stare intensified with each second—“why it took an electronic lock to hold you captive and mere words are doing it to me? Because I’ll be honest, I want to get in that boat and talk to a pilot. I promised to look after Sophia. She has no idea what kind of a woman her birth mother is capable of being. I’m the only one who can explain, yet with a few words from these beautiful lips”—his finger gently traced her lips—“I’m again helpless.”
“Because you love me, and as committed as you are to Sophia, which is honorable, you’re more committed to me and our child.”
Tony nodded. “I do love you—more than life itself; nevertheless, I’m going for that walk. I feel trapped, and at this moment, I need to remind myself Catherine is the one responsible—not you. As much as I love you”—he seized her shoulders—“and never forget that I do; right now, I’m not fond of the control you seem to have.”
Claire nodded. She wanted honesty. That didn’t mean she liked everything she heard—she didn’t; however, wasn’t that the risk with honesty—accepting the truth no matter how it made you feel?
Besides, deep down, Claire completely understood his position—she’d been there herself.
Phil eased into the art gallery behind a twenty-something couple. It was the third one he’d visited in Davenport this afternoon. It looked similar to the others—art work highlighted by spot lights and three dimensional art showcased on stands. It wasn’t his thing. He wasn’t even sure how to pretend he liked any of it. Most of it didn’t look like art to him anyway. Who decided what constituted art, Phil wanted to know.
As he walked slowly, pretending to appreciate the paintings which looked like something a five-year-old child could create, he saw Sophia out of the corner of his eye. She was moving from painting to painting, taking a painstaking amount of time to devour each piece. This was the third Friday in a row she’d gone to Davenport to visit the galleries. Once he found her, his directive was clear; text Ms. London and let her know Sophia’s location.
Stepping into a side hallway, Phil did as he’d been told. He texted his employer:
“MRS BURKE IS AT THE JOHN BLOOM GALLERY ON 12 TH STREET.”
Next, he stood back and waited. As he stared at the canvas before him, he listened to two women discuss the use of color and shadowing. There were many things Phil knew. He could probably teach a course on surveillance—technology was his passion—he loved learning about new devices to make his job easier and more precise. When it came to computers, he could talk programming and hardware with the best of them; however, when it came to colors and shadowing, he didn’t have a clue!
His phone vibrated. The text was simple. His job for the day was done. Phil couldn’t have been happier. Trailing Claire had been a cake walk. Following Sophia was brain numbing. She spent most of her time at home. When she did venture out, it was either with her husband or to places like this. The gallery was filling with patrons—apparently, his lack of interest wasn’t shared by others. As he made his way toward the door, a waiter stopped him with a tray of champagne in tall glasses. He asked if Phil would like a glass. With the refusal on the tip of his tongue, he saw Catherine enter the gallery. She looked different than she had at any of their meetings. Her hair was shorter, her clothes stylish, and her face made-up.
Curiosity was his new downfall. It’s what had pulled him into Claire’s world. Many times, when Rawlings told him to end surveillance for the day, Phil would continue. Now, nodding and smiling at the waiter, he lifted a flute from the tray, worked his way into a crowd, and watched. It wasn’t the art that interested him—it was the woman who had been so determined to rid herself of Claire. Phil was anxious to learn more about the woman who thought she employed him.
Through the next few hours, Catherine mingled in Sophia’s vicinity. In time, they began discussing the pieces of art. He couldn’t hear their discussion; he could watch their body language. It was alarmingly similar—little mannerisms—the way they tilted their heads or crossed their arms. Phil wondered if they noticed the similarities or if it was more obvious from afar.
The two women were becoming friendly, laughing and talking, until a tall dark-haired man arrived. Phil recognized him from his research—it was Derek, Sophia’s husband. It appeared as though Sophia introduced Catherine to her husband, and then shortly thereafter, Catherine excused herself and left.
One last glass of champagne with a side of brie and Phil was done for the evening.
Claire was asleep on their bed when she felt Tony sit on the side of the mattress. His soft touch gently rubbing her back eased her concern. He wasn’t gone—he hadn’t disappointed her. Turning toward her husband, Claire smiled a sleepy smile. “Hi, Honey, how long have I been asleep?”
“A couple of hours.”
“And where did you go?”
“For a walk around the island. I also made a call.”
That last sentence held Claire’s attention. “A call—to whom?”
“I thought I was calling Baldwin.”
Claire sat up and scooted to the headboard. “Tony, why would you call Harry?”
“He’s our only FBI contact. The only one we know how to contact.”
Although the air had cooled over the last few hours, it still sat warm and heavy; nevertheless, as goose bumps cloaked her skin, Claire wrapped her arms around her chest. “Why did you need to speak with the FBI?”
“I told you the other night that I’m willing to make a deal.”
The sea was still blue, the sky was still clear, and the colorful flowers still filled the air with beautiful scents, yet Claire’s paradise disappeared—peace and contentment were gone. Tears filled her eyes as she fought the sudden pounding in her temples. She’d been asking questions for weeks. During that time, she’d also been getting answers—many she didn’t want. Before she could ask the question on the tip of her tongue, Claire pushed herself off the bed. The sudden movement made the room sway. She reached for the bedside stand, closed her eyes, and waited for it to stop.
Before the room ceased spinning, Tony was at her side. His distant tone was replaced with concern. “The doctor said you need to be careful; the bigger the baby gets, the harder it is for your blood to flow. He said that sudden standing can cause fainting spells. You need to move slower.” His strong arms encircled her body and stabilized her world during each word of his lecture.
Instead of leaning into him, Claire stood straight. “I’m fine. I stood fast because I couldn’t breathe. I needed to stand and have more room in my lungs—and I heard the doctor—I was there.”
“Laying down would accomplish the same thing.”
She wanted to argue, but the swaying room and headache had her stomach in knots, or perhaps it was the thought of Tony’s deal. No matter the cause, she chose to press her lips together and stare up into her husband’s eyes.
“You need to sit back down.”
Her tongue remembered to speak. “I need to use the bathroom,” she retorted, followed by a decline for Tony’s help. When she returned to the bedroom, he was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Before he could speak, she volunteered, “I don’t think I want to know about your call.”
“Baldwin isn’t our contact any longer.”
Claire exhaled. She didn’t have a choice—he was going to tell her anyway. Claire sat at the small table. The straight backed chairs helped her lower back. “He never should’ve been. It seems like an obvious conflict of interest.”
Tony nodded. “Are you feeling better?”
“Not really. Why would you make that call without talking to me about it first?”
“I had to do something.”
“Please, Tony, tell me what was said.”
“I thought you just said you didn’t want—”
“I don’t, all right?” her volume increased. “I don’t want you to make a deal—I don’t want you to confess anything to anyone—except to me”—Her voice cracked as tears rushed down her cheeks—“I don’t want to be without you—I don’t even care if it’s the right thing to do—I—I—we—need you!”
His resolve melted before her eyes as his defiant stance eased and his voice mellowed. “Claire, my God—this isn’t to hurt you or our baby—it’s to help you. Since I left Venice without contacting Baldwin, I’m officially a fugitive. In essence, you’re harboring a fugitive.”
“I—don’t care.”
Tony pulled Claire into his embrace. “I’m not leaving. I spoke to Agent Jackson. He’s the one I talked with in Boston. I told him that I’d make him a deal; I’d tell him about someone who I’ve helped over the years and confess my wrong doings—if the bureau would agree to allow me to turn myself in—in January of 2015.”
Claire pulled back and looked into Tony’s eyes. “2015—why?”
“We have a child coming in January. I asked for one year.”
“Did he agree?”
“He said it wasn’t in his power, but that he wanted to know what I knew.”
“Did you tell him?”
“Only the tip of the iceberg—I told him about Simon’s plane and that I knew for sure who killed my parents. I told him there was more, but I needed my deal first.”
Claire lifted her brow.
“I’m supposed to call back on Monday”—Tony added—“Today’s Saturday, but it’s still Friday in Boston.”
Claire grinned; it was difficult to keep track of days. She leaned into his chest and listened to the strong steady rhythm of his heart. “One year?”—She felt him nod—“I hope it goes very slowly.”
There is no greater misery than to recall a time when you were happy.
—Danté
September 12, 2016
Shit! It’s the only word that keeps coming to mind! I have a meeting in two days with the Vandersols! I’ve done everything to avoid this—minus quitting my job. I’ve had sick children, dead grandparents—none of it real. I think I’ve finally run out of personal tragedies. Ever since Claire started making progress, they’ve wanted to meet the “aide” who works “so well” with her. That’s according to Ms. Bali.
I’m about to go in for my shift, and Ms. Bali will be there. I’m sure she’ll ask if I’ll be there Thursday. The truth is—I’ve run out of ways to avoid it. I don’t want this to end. Lately, I’ve gone beyond mentioning Tony’s name. I’ve done homework; at night I’ve read—my book and my notes. I tried listening to audio recordings of Claire’s recollections. Hearing her voice, full of emotion, was too difficult; however, reading has helped refresh my memory of Claire’s life.
Then over the past month, whenever we’ve been alone, I’ve shared my research. I’ve recounted the stories she told me. I started with good memories, talking about her wedding and honeymoon. Over time, as I talked, I watched the stress leave her body. She’s even started eating by herself—as long as I talk. If I stop—so does she. I have no idea what results the doctors are getting.
After not liking Claire’s initial reaction to this new regime, I was afraid the Vandersol’s were going to stop the new protocol. Ms. Bali said they almost did. Apparently, there was some big blow-up between them and Dr. Fairfield. She said that Claire’s “wanting” to go outside with me was the small sliver of hope which persuaded them to allow the treatment to continue.
I don’t know if they’re seeing the same positive results as I am. She goes to therapy four days a week, and I have no idea what they do there. Whatever it is, when she returns, she’s tired. I’ve tried to learn what it entails; however, the answer I continually receive is, it’s a “need to know” thing. I’ve suggested her fatigue affects her eating; therefore, knowing would help me. Sometimes I forget my job description—aides aren’t supposed to question policy. Long story—short, I still don’t know what they do.
After Thursday—it won’t matter.
I don’t know if I should go to the meeting and let Emily call me out, or if I should jump ship. It’s no secret—I don’t want to quit. Well, I need to go. As the weather has continued to stay nice, I’m hoping for a little walk outside and time to tell Claire more stories.
Meredith told Ms. Bali she’d be in Thursday morning to meet with Ms. Nichols’ family. The woman looked like she was about to burst with relief. For the last month, at the end of each shift, Meredith has been required to complete a patient assessment. It’s a simple computer form asking what she did and what the patient did. Ms. Bali said the Vandersols and Dr. Fairfield wanted to discuss some of her entries.
Meredith suddenly wished she’d kept copies for herself. She knew she hadn’t been completely forthcoming. She also hadn’t padded her reports with false hopes. Everything she’d reported was true, minus the preceding stimuli.
Trying to keep the impending meeting out of her thoughts, Meredith went on with her daily duties. After Claire finished dinner, she helped her with a light jacket, and they went for an evening walk. Although each night seemed cooler than last, Claire didn’t seem to mind. As they traveled the paths of the facility, Meredith talked about the changing leaves. They were just beginning to turn with the start of golden and red hues infiltrating the normally green landscape. The air held the slightest scent of autumn filling Meredith with memories of Claire’s story. It was fall of 2010 when they had ran into each other in Chicago.
The meeting had been planned. The other reporters had posted pictures of Claire and Mr. Rawlings in Chicago. Even though Meredith lived in California at the time, she couldn’t pass the opportunity to get the story everyone wanted. At the time, she was so proud of using someone else’s story to further her quest. Another article had said Mr. Rawlings was spotted at Trump Tower with the mystery woman—Claire Nichols. It was sheer luck Claire decided to get coffee that evening. Meredith had been lurking with her photographer when they saw Claire enter—the rest was history.
Perhaps it was Meredith’s concern about the impending meeting that caused her to speak without a filter; whatever the cause, she did. Soaking in the impending autumn and feeling Claire’s hand on her arm, Meredith felt the unrelenting need to repeat the apology she’d voiced to Claire years ago in California. Of course, that time it was combined with shock at the consequences of her actions. Today, it was more heartfelt and thought out. After all, it’d been festering for years. “Claire, I know I’ve told you before, but I hope you know how sorry I am about your accident. I know you loved Tony, but what happened to you—because of me—I can never apologize for enough”—She didn’t expect a response. It felt good to say this out loud, and honestly, saying it to someone who may or may not understand, but wouldn’t interrupt, was comforting—“As a reporter I wanted nothing more than to get the big story. It’s no secret—you and Tony were big news. I hoped to use our familiarity to learn what you’d been so careful not to reveal”—Tears came to Meredith’s eyes as she realized her time with Claire was about to end—“I had no idea why you’d been so careful, and you didn’t say anything to me, but having you there—a picture of us—I could use the clues to infer what you wouldn’t say”—Sobs erupted from somewhere deep, somewhere that doesn’t exist in a truly hardened reporter—“How could anyone have suspected what you were living through? I mean, never could anyone know what was happening. Claire, he did such terrible things. I don’t know how you survived. I don’t know why you survived; most people couldn’t. I don’t think I could.”
They were deep into the wooded path, and the setting sun caused shadows to loom in every direction. Removing her sunglasses, Meredith wiped her eyes with her sleeve and pleaded, “I hope someday you can forgive me, as you forgave him. You may not realize it”—she snickered at herself—“I’m sure you don’t, but your ability to love him after all of that—well, it has been inspirational. I mean, my God Claire, the man almost killed you!”
“Stop.”
Meredith’s feet stopped moving by command. As if on cue, so did Claire’s. Inhaling her emotion, Meredith stood still, wondering if she’d imagined the one word. When she heard only the sound of leaves rustling in the gentle twilight breeze, Meredith questioned, “Did you just talk?”
Still wearing Meredith’s sunglasses, Claire’s face was downcast. Meredith couldn’t resist. She removed the sunglasses and lifted her friends chin, revealing tears streaming down Claire’s cheeks, overflowing her unfocused eyes. “You spoke,” Meredith whispered. “I heard it. Oh God! Claire, tell me I didn’t just imagine that!”
The silence grew. With each second, each minute, Meredith’s excitement diminished. She was so upset about the meeting and losing this connection to Claire, she must have imagined the whole thing. Finally, she reached in her pocket, produced a tissue, and wiped Claire’s tears. The sky was now closer to dark than light. Surely, someone would reprimand Meredith for having a patient out past dark. She smirked again, it won’t matter—I’m getting fired in two days anyway.
Lightening her voice, Meredith continued her monologue. The apology was done—she’d talk—because, until they fired her—that was her job. “Let’s get you back to your room. I’m sure they won’t be very happy that I kept you out so late.” Waiting for Claire to turn around, she continued, “I’m sure I’ll hear about it.”
Securing Claire’s elbow, Meredith felt her tremble. “Claire, are you cold? I’m sorry. Let’s get you back.” While Claire stayed steadfast, Meredith remembered the night of Claire’s accident. She’d been out at the lake, and it got dark. “Oh shit, I’m making this worse. You’re fine—no one will be upset with you. Don’t worry—there won’t be any problems—no accidents.”
“Stop.” Claire’s whisper was so low that Meredith had to strain to hear her above the sounds of the country night. Keeping her eyes downcast, Claire continued, “I lived it.” “I don’t want to hear it.” “I want to hear the good times.”
It was against protocol, but what the hell—at this point, what harm was there in breaking another facility rule? Throwing caution to the wind, Meredith wrapped her arms around her long-time friend and cried. The sobs of earlier, the anguish over the last six years, the fear of losing her job—everything came out.
Slowly, Claire’s arms encircled Meredith, and she whispered, “Shhh, I’m sorry.” “Please don’t cry.”
The absurdity of Claire consoling her hit hard. Meredith’s tears turned to laughter.
At first, Claire thought she was imagining it. Then again, she wasn’t sure what was real. Tony’s visits were becoming less frequent. The bland room with one window was becoming more real, and she didn’t want it to be. With Tony, life was filled with colors of varying intensities. This reality was not only colorless, it was lifeless. She yearned for more time with him and longed for his touch; however, day in and day out, the drab room and the people who talked about nothing filled more and more of her hours.
Sometimes she’d focus and see her sister. It was Emily—although, she looked much older. Then again, so did Claire. The people with plain faces and colorless eyes often combed her hair into a ponytail. It was the hairstyle of a young girl—Claire didn’t feel young. The reflection she saw—if she focused in the mirror—didn’t look young. As a matter of fact, her hair was wrong. There was a time it was blonde—because, he wanted it to be. Now the highlights weren’t blonde, they were white. How could she possibly have graying hair? The last thing she remembered was...
