“Dr. Whitaker has everything ready. We’ll get you checked in.”
Trent leaned over the counter before I could answer. “I’ll stay with her.”
The woman glanced at her screen. “For the CT, she’ll go back alone.”
“She gets nervous,” Trent said.
“I’m okay,” I said quickly.
He looked down at me. “Honey.”
It was one word, soft as velvet and tight as a leash.
“I’m okay,” I repeated.
Something changed in the receptionist’s face. Not much. Just enough. Her smile became smaller, more professional. “Mrs. Doyle, you can follow me.”
As I walked away, I felt Trent’s hand slide off my back.
The CT room was cold enough to raise goose bumps on my arms. The technician, a broad-shouldered man named Luis, explained every step in a calm voice. I lay down on the narrow table, stared at the white curve of the machine, and tried to breathe normally.
“You’re doing great,” he said from behind the glass.
The table moved.
The machine hummed.
A voice told me when to hold my breath.
For those few minutes, I felt almost peaceful. There was something comforting about being scanned, measured, looked at by something that had no opinion of me. The machine would not ask why I was tired. It would not tell me to try yoga. It would not call my symptoms grief. It would simply show what was there.
Then the scan ended.
Luis came back into the room, unhooked the IV line, and helped me sit up. He was still polite, still professional, but the warmth had drained from his face.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
He didn’t answer right away.
His eyes flicked toward the control room. Then back to me. “Dr. Whitaker is going to speak with you.”
“My brother?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did you see something?”
Luis swallowed. “He’ll explain.”
The air felt suddenly too thin.
I changed back into my clothes with clumsy fingers. When I stepped into the hall, Trent was already standing from his chair.
“What took so long?” he asked.
Before I could answer, Caleb appeared at the end of the corridor in a white coat, his expression so strange that I almost didn’t recognize him.
My brother had always been steady. Even at our mother’s funeral, he had been the one who signed papers, thanked guests, carried casseroles to the refrigerator. But now his face was pale, his mouth set hard, his eyes burning with something that looked too much like fear.
“Maren,” he said. “Come with me.”
Trent stepped forward. “What’s going on?”
Caleb did not look at him. “I need to speak with my sister.”
“I’m her husband.”
