Dr.

Marcus Thorne pulled the armless vinyl visitor’s chair up beside the high hospital bed and sat down slowly, his knees popping under his dark blue trousers.

“She told the county probate judge I walked out on a rainy Tuesday in October,” Marcus said, his voice raspy and deliberate.

“I came home from my residency shift at the emergency clinic, and the brass locks on the front door had been changed.”

I shifted Noah a little higher on my shoulder so I could reach the plastic pitcher of ice water on the bedside tray.