Chapter 8: What the Doctor Said
The urgent care physician's name was Dr.
Anand, and he was the kind of doctor who spoke directly to children rather than over them.
"This is going to need three stitches," he told Sophie.
"Small ones.
You'll barely see them in a week."
"Will it hurt?"
"A little.
But you've already had the hard part today, from what your mum tells me.
I think you can handle three stitches."
Sophie considered this seriously.
"Okay."
She held my hand while he worked, and she didn't cry.
She made a small sound once, and her grip tightened, and then it was over.
"She's very steady," Dr.
Anand said to me quietly while Sophie examined the bandage in a hand mirror.
"She always has been," I said.
He documented the injury carefully — the location, the cause as I described it, the dimensions of the wound.
He asked twice whether I wanted him to flag it for a formal medical report.
I said yes both times.
He printed two copies and handed them to me in a sealed envelope.
"For your records," he said.
"And for anyone else who needs them."
We sat in the waiting area afterward while Sophie ate a packet of crackers from the vending machine and I called my attorney.
Her name was Petra Voss.
She had handled compliance disputes for the Harrington Group twice before, and she picked up on the second ring.
I told her everything.
It took twelve minutes.
She didn't interrupt.
When I finished, she said: "Send me the footage link, the screenshots, the medical report, and the text message.
Tonight."
"Already compiling."
"The federal involvement changes the shape of this.
You're a witness now, not just a complainant.
That's actually a stronger position than you might think." She paused.
"Did Preston name the regulatory panels specifically?"
"He said he knew people on two of the Harrington Group's pending reviews."
A beat of silence.
"He threatened a compliance officer in front of witnesses," Petra said, "while under observation by a federal investigator."
"Yes."
"Claire.
He has essentially gift-wrapped his own case."
"I know."
"How is Sophie?"
I looked at her across the waiting room.
She had finished the crackers and was now carefully folding the empty packet into smaller and smaller squares, the way she always did when she was thinking about something.
"Three stitches," I said.
"She didn't cry."
"Good girl." Petra's voice softened for exactly one second before returning to its professional register.
"I'll have a preliminary letter ready by morning.
Don't speak to Preston, Margaret, or anyone connected to the estate without me present.
If that federal investigator contacts you again, loop me in immediately."
"Understood."
"And Claire — go home.
Feed your daughter something proper.
The rest of this can move tomorrow."
I thanked her and hung up.
Sophie looked up from her folded packet.
"Was that your work friend?"
"My attorney.
She's going to help us."
"Is she nice?"
"She's very good at her job."
Sophie seemed to find this satisfactory.
"Can we get soup on the way home?"
"Yes."
"The kind with the little pasta shapes?"
"Whatever kind you want."
She stood up and took my hand, and we walked out into the late afternoon, and the light was the particular gold that comes in the early evening of a long day, and Sophie tilted her face up toward it for a moment with her eyes closed.
"Mommy," she said.
"Yes?"
"I wasn't scared.
Not really." She opened her eyes.
"I was just waiting for you to come back."
My throat closed.
"I know, bug," I managed.
"I came back."
"You always do."
We walked to the car.
I buckled her in.
May you like
I sat in the driver's seat for a moment without starting the engine.
Then I started it, and we drove, and I did not cry until we were two streets from home and Sophie had fallen asleep in the back seat with her cheek against the window and her bandaged temple turned carefully toward the light.
