Page 75 of Wrong Number Right Doctor

Nate: You okay?

I close my eyes for a second.

Me: Yes. Promise.

Nate: You say promise when you’re hiding stuff.

My throat tightens.

Of course he knows that. He’s my brother. He has spent his entire life collecting the parts of me I think I keep out of sight.

Me: I’m okay. Rain check on food?

A pause.

Nate: Fine. But you owe me fries.

Me: I always owe you fries.

Nate: Correct.

I lock the phone and put it in my bag before I can say more.

At nine fifteen, the car arrives. The driver is polite, quiet, and already knows where we’re going, which I dislike on principle. I slide into the back seat and check the address on the confirmation Petra sent. I lean back and watch Boston pass outside the window.

For ten minutes, everything is normal. Then the car takes a turn it should not take.

I sit up. Maybe there’s traffic. Maybe the driver knows another route. Maybe I’m being paranoid because my entire life now involves too many people knowing where I’m supposed to be.

Another turn. Definitely wrong.

“Excuse me,” I say.

The driver glances at me through the mirror. “Yes, ma’am?”

“This isn’t the way to the clinic.”

He looks back at the road. “I have the updated address.”

My stomach drops. “Updated by whom?”

“Ms. Lindqvist’s office.”

I take out my phone and call Petra.

She answers on the second ring. “Ms. Hanes.”

“The car is taking me somewhere else.”

“Yes.”

I wait.

She doesn’t continue.

I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose. “Petra.”

“Your appointment has been moved.”