Corinne fell again in June. Not the garden. The kitchen. She reached for a mug and the stool slipped. Graham called me from the hospital as if I were still the person who handled things.
"She's asking for you," he said. "I don't know why. After everything."
"I know why." I was already in the car.
Larkin Memorial, fourth floor. Corinne looked smaller in the bed. Patricia was in the chair with a magazine. Graham stood by the window. Richard was in the hall on the phone.
Corinne's hand found mine. "The cabinet," she whispered. "The key is in my robe. At home. Don't let them--"
"I won't."
Patricia stood. "She's confused. The painkillers."
"She's not confused," I said. "She's giving me instructions. That's the opposite."
The doctor came in and talked about a hairline fracture and rest a
