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It was a big house. ” I heard the swish of the door opening behind me and the squeak of rubber-soled shoes as the nurse walked in. Quickly, Sarah, I thought. Tell me quickly. But I waited without encouraging; afraid that to interrupt would challenge Sarah’s tenuous train of thought. The aggravated frown of realizing memory loss had returned to Sarah’s face, but her grip on my hand was surprisingly strong and insistent. “You—remember? ” she tried. “You know—where we hid? It was a party. ” She slumped against the pillows that propped her up.
Were those things connected to the reason Sarah had changed her will and made me the executor? It was a surprising and odd alteration. Her son, Alan, was a much more likely choice for that job. For that matter, I suddenly wondered, where was Alan? He had his own place and it was, of course, possible that in arriving after visiting hours I had missed him at the hospital. Don Westover would know, and I wished I had remembered to ask him. Considering use of my cell phone to ﬁnd out, I glanced ﬁrst at my watch.
A book, facedown next to an overturned wastebasket, was minus the pages that 20 Sue Henry had been ripped from between the covers. The bed had been stripped of linen and its mattress shoved aside to reveal the box springs underneath, both slashed open with some sharp blade. On a bedside table, a lamp with a beaded satin shade had been tipped over, probably when the drawer had been pulled out and upended. The telephone had been torn from the wall and lay halfway across the room, next to several plastic pill bottles and a box of facial tissues.
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