“A green sedan, older model,” Leo said, pointing toward the exit. “She wore a long green wool coat. She did not park, just blocked the lane for a second to put that on your glass.”
I got into the Buick and placed the damp envelope on the passenger seat, not wanting to open it with wet hands.
I drove home through the early dusk, the tires humming against the wet asphalt of Elm Street.
In the kitchen, the light from the overhead fixture felt too bright after the gray drive. I sat at the table, my thumb rubbing my palm as I stared at the envelope.
Clara called at five, her voice loud through the speaker. “Did you finish the measurements for the bathroom grab bars?”
“I have a package,” I said, looking at the water stain spreading across the yellow paper. “Someone left a file on my windshield at the clinic.”
“Probably just promotional materials from the therapy office,” Clara said. “You are getting paranoid, Caleb. Focus on the court dates.”
“The attendant said she was wearing a green coat,” I said.
“Lots of people wear green coats in October,” Clara said. “Let it go and get some sleep.”
I hung up the phone and picked up a butter knife from the sink to slide under the sealed flap of the envelope.
Inside was a thick manila folder, the tab labeled with a faded label maker: LILY – MEDICAL RECORD – CONFIDENTIAL.
I opened the folder, my eyes scanning the state seal at the top of the first page. This was the original intake record from the night of the accident three years ago, a document that should have been locked in the county courthouse basement.
My eyes scanned down the first sheet, past the list of fractures and nerve damage reports, down to the legal authorization section at the bottom.
“This file should not be out here, Caleb, someone is keeping track of you,” I whispered to the empty room.
I stared at the photocopy of Lily’s original intake form, noting the blank space where her mother’s signature should be.
