Disinfectant.
Stale coffee.
Wilted flowers.
Anxiety.
A machine beeped in a nearby room with cruel regularity.
In room 12, Spencer was on the phone with a woman.
She had the call on speakerphone.
“Don’t you feel guilty?” she asked.
Abigail didn’t recognize that voice.
It was young.
Hesitant.
It didn’t sound horrified.
It sounded like someone who already knew part of the story and still wanted to hear it spoken aloud.
Spencer let out a short laugh.
“Sometimes.”
Then she added,
“But my mom loves feeling indispensable. I don’t even have to ask her for anything. I just tell her I’m worried, and she always finds a way to pay.”
Abigail clutched her purse so tightly the straps dug into her fingers.
For months, she had sold her jewelry.
First, the sapphire ring her husband had given her before he died.
Then, the gold earrings she had saved for a special occasion.
Then came the little chain from his First Communion, which wasn’t worth much in money but had weighed years in his heart.
He pawned his mother’s sewing machine.
