Lisa Scottoline - Look Again

"Not legally."

"He was my son until I said different." Ellen felt angry tears, and at some level, even she knew she was yelling at the wrong person. She wasn't angry at Sarah, she was angry at everyone and everything. Angry that it had happened in the first place. Still she couldn't stop herself. "I would never do anything to hurt your children, no matter what."

"You're not worried about W. You're worried about yourself."

"You know what, you're right. I love my son and I want him home and I'm never going to have him again. But most of all, I want him to be happy. If he's happy, I'm happy, and thanks to you, he's in pain and-"

There was a noise behind them, from the other end of the living room, and Ellen turned around, shocked at the sight. It was Myron Krims, Sarah's husband, but he was in a wheelchair. She had met him only once, years ago, and he had been walking fine. Then he was one of the top thoracic surgeons in the city, but he was clearly ill. His black sweater and khakis were swimming on him, and his hair had gone completely gray. Circles ringed his eyes, and his aspect looked vague.

"Dear?" Myron asked, his voice shaky. "I've been calling you."

"Excuse me." Sarah hurried to her husband, and Ellen watched as she bent over him, whispered something in his ear, then wheeled him out of the room. Sarah returned after a moment, her face a tight mask. "S. Now you see."

For a minute, Ellen didn't know what to say. "I had no idea."

"We don't advertise."

"What happened?"

"He has MS." Sarah straightened a suede pillow that didn't require it.

"For how long?"

"For the rest of his life."

Ellen reddened. "I mean, how long has this been going on?"

"None of that is your business. It's nobody's business but ours."

Ellen saw a premature fissure in Sarah's forehead and wondered why she'd never noticed it before. All this time she'd thought she was the only one on a single income, but she'd been wrong.

"I was doing what was right for my family." Sarah's voice remained controlled, and her gaze unwavering. "I was doing what I had to do."

"You could have told me." Ellen felt disarmed, grasping. "You could have warned me."

"What would you have said? Don't take the money?" Sarah snorted. "It was my family or your family. I chose my family. You would have done the same."

"I don't know," Ellen answered, after a minute. She was thinking back to what the cop had said at the ER waiting room. It's no-win. Suddenly she didn't know anymore what was right or moral, what was legal or fair. She no longer took satisfaction in confronting Sarah. She wasn't composed enough to analyze the situation. She couldn't eventell what she would have done in Sarah's position. She knew only that Will was gone, and there was a deep rent in her chest where her heart had been. Her shoulders sagged, and she felt herself sinking onto the couch. Her face dropped into her hands, and in the next second, the cushion dipped down as Sarah sat beside her. "I tell you this," Sarah whispered. "I am sorry." And at that, Ellen let slip the few tears she had left.

Ellen got home, hollow and spent, raw and aching. She tossed her bag and keys on the windowseat, and stamped powdery snow from her snowy clogs. She took off her coat and hung it up, but it fell onto the closet floor. She didn't have the energy to pick it up. She was thirsty but didn't get anything to drink. She was hungry but didn't bother to eat. She didn't even have the strength to be mad at the reporters, following her back from Sarah's, plaguing her with questions. Oreo Figaro came over to rub against her shins, but she ignored him and went upstairs to read Sal's piece.

She clopped slowly up the stairs, the sound of her clogs like the ticking of a clock slowing down. She had never felt like this in her life. She was empty, a ghost of a person. She went into her office on autopilot, flicked on a light, and crossed to the computer. She sat down and moved the mouse, and her computer monitor woke up with a screensaver of Will posing with Oreo Figaro.

Please, no.

She opened up Outlook and watched the boldfaced names pile into the Inbox. She waited for Marcelo's email to load and braced herself to read the article. But Marcelo's wasn't the email that caught her eye. She moved the mouse, clicked on another email, and opened it, reading quickly.

And then she screamed.

And when she stopped screaming, she reached for the phone.

Ellen shot up like a rocket, sending her desk chair rolling back across the floor, and ran to the door, then tore down the stairs.

Clop, clop, clop, clop, like a racehorse she sounded. She reached the living room, grabbed her purse and keys from the windowseat, snatched her coat from the closet floor, then flung open the door and hit the icy air.

She slammed the door shut behind her and went flying down the steps, spraying snow everywhere, her heart in her throat, heedless of the reporters, who surged forward as they had five minutes ago, raising cameras that had been at rest and flicking on generators to power up klieg lights and microphones.

"Hey, where you going now?" a reporter called out, filming her, and the others joined in. "Ellen, what's going on?" "You going back to Sarah's?"

Ellen tore through the snow on her front yard, staying on her property where the press couldn't follow, struggling in the deep snow to get to her car, as the reporters shouted questions from the sidewalk.

"Can't you give us a statement?" "Ellen, come on, give us a break!" "What's all the activity? You going to see Will?"

Ellen chirped the car door open, jumped in, and switched on the ignition. She threw the car in reverse while she hit the button to lower the driver's window. "Move, move, everybody!" she hollered, gesturing frantically out the window, her heart pounding. "Get out of the way! Get out of my way!"

"Where are you going?" "Have you heard from your son? Are they letting you see him?"

"Move, move, MOVE!" Ellen reversed out of the driveway, hitting the gas until they jumped out of the way. Some shouted questions while others sprinted to their cars and news vans, ready to follow her again.

"Ellen, they're staying at the Four Seasons, did you know? Is that where you're going?"

"MOVE!" Ellen put the car in drive and hit the gas, spraying road salt and snow, speeding to the corner, and turning left so fast that she almost fishtailed on Wynnewood Road. She kept control of the car and accelerated up the plowed street in almost no traffic, and by the time she hit City Line, she was being followed by news vans with microwave towers and an array of pursuit vehicles. The traffic light ahead turned red, but she hit the gas and powered through the intersection. She passed a snowplow, a bus, and even an ambulance at speed.

Nothing was going to stop her.

Not now, not ever.

Ellen hurried from the waiting room behind Special Agent Orr, passing the thick gold seal of the FBI, the framed picture of the president and the attorney general, the Ten Most Wanted posters, and whatever else was hanging on the off-white walls. She followed Special Agent Orr down the glistening hallway and reached a wooden door with a plaque that read CONFERENCE ROOM.

Special Agent Orr twisted the knob. "Here you go, Ms. Gleeson," he said, admitting her, then leaving.

Ellen stepped inside, getting her bearings. She had driven the farthest to get here, so they were all already in place. Special Agent Manning stood up at the head of the table, and on the near side, Ron Halpren stood up, too, with an uncertain smile. He was dressed in a tux from a benefit dinner, and Ellen shook his hand.

"Sorry to disrupt your night, gentlemen," she said, sitting down next to Ron. She nodded at Special Agent Manning, who retook his seat at the head of the table. "Thank you, too, Special Agent."