.
My mind ran circles around the timeline — Andrew and Brendon had left the house a little after four. If there were any clues, I’d find them here. I tried to imagine Andrew’s last hour at home.
Had he left anything for me? Was he already feeling bad, or did something happen on that walk?
On the highest shelf, behind a stack of old comics, I found a blue shoebox. I took it down, sitting on Andrew’s bed.
“Okay, Andrew,” I whispered. “What did you want me to see, son?”
I ran my hand over the clothes.
The lid came off easily. On top was the appointment from the cardiology clinic, scheduled for next week. Underneath, a printout from the patient portal. See, Andrew was healthy as far as we knew, but he’d been born with a minor heart defect that had only gotten better.
But still, the check-ups were vital.
Now, I read the printout aloud, and my stomach dropped. “Appointment canceled by parent — Brendon.”
Not missed. Not delayed. Canceled — as if Andrew’s fear was an inconvenience.
A sticky note in Andrew’s handwriting was tucked beside it.
“Dad said I don’t need it. Mom is going to freak out,” I read.
“Appointment canceled by parent.”
My phone buzzed again. This time, I answered.
“Why did you leave the hospital?” he asked.
“I needed to get some things, Brendon. And I needed to shower.”
“You’re not in his room, are you, Liv?” he asked.
“Why would that matter?”
There was a long silence.
“But I did find Andrew’s appointment card. Brendon, why did you cancel it?” I asked.
My phone buzzed again.
“I didn’t think he needed it. He was fine. You always overreact. My insurance doesn’t cover it anymore. I would have had to pay cash.”
I gripped the phone tighter. “He trusted you, Brendon, and you canceled the appointment! I would have paid for it in a heartbeat if you told me.”
