“I was resting,” Evelyn said, her voice barely louder than the hum of the old refrigerator. “The doctor told me to stay off my feet for three weeks.”
“But look at the pharmacy page,” Mara said, pulling a loose sheet from the back of the second folder.
It was a slip of pink carbon paper, smaller than the other documents, dated September 12, 2006.
Evelyn leaned closer, her glasses sliding slightly down her nose as she stared at the faded ink.
The prescription was for a synthetic hormone, a high-dose compound Evelyn had never heard of, authorized by a signature she did not recognize.
“I never took this,” Evelyn said, her finger touching the rough edge of the paper. “Dr. Marsh told me he was only giving me iron supplements.”
“The signature isn’t Marsh’s,” Mara said, leaning over the table to trace the curved letters.
Evelyn stared at the name written in hasty, elegant cursive at the bottom of the slip.
The ink was purple, a strange choice for a medical clinic, and the capital letters were written with a sharp, aggressive slant.
