Grace
Dr. Branson’s office looks different. It looks like he’s rearranged the furniture; everything has been moved about. It smells stuffy, like mold and old books, the way moving tends to make things smell. It’s like walking into a library that hasn’t been opened in years, the scent of paper, dust, and mold causing you to wrinkle your nose.
He greets us with a pleasant smile, despite the disarray. I watch with trepidation as he locks the door, as he turns and motions toward the champagne chilling in the wastepaper basket. It’s the same one he’d handed me when he thought I might be sick.
I do a scan of the room, immediately spotting three champagne flutes on his desk. I think about Elizabeth and how she spent all afternoon carefully crushing the pills, stuffing the remnants in a sock wh
