He slammed his broad palm down on the quartz reception counter, rattling the plastic brochure stand and the morning appointment binder.

“Where’s Dr.

Bennett?” Seth demanded, his voice bouncing off the high plaster ceiling of the waiting room.

Brenda, our senior receptionist, reached for her desk phone, her fingers hovering over the buttons.

Four elderly patients sitting in the corner chairs with clipboards pulled back into their vinyl cushions.

I stepped around the front desk and stopped three feet from him, keeping my hands steady at my sides.

“Seth, you need to step outside and leave the building right now,” I said in a quiet, precise voice.