Page 16 of The Refiner

Why does everyone think I’ve been on vacation?

I turn the note over in my hand. It’s not signed, nor does it have a return address. “I haven’t been here to piss anyone off,” I say, especially for someone to be this mad. It’s been a long time since I’ve been called a dick bag.

Despite his smile, Remington’s posture tenses. “Well, you must have upset her pretty bad.”

I turn around and face him.“First, your input isn’t needed or wanted. Second, how do you know the person who left these letters is a woman?”

It’s likely a woman, but again, I haven’t been here for six months. I haven’t even spoken to a woman since I left on the Grace of Mercy Mission Ship.

Remington ducks his head, lighting up the cigarette I wouldn’t let him smoke in the car. “Now is not the time to act like you don’t have a medical degree. We all know you’re smart enough to know that only women go this crazy.” With a quick inhale, he blows the smoke out to his right. “They are the only ones who think writing letters is somehow more romantic than sending a text.”

While he’s not wrong about the whole letter writing thing, this—the twenty or so slips of paper—seems a bit excessive, even for romance. “Maybe this person has the wrong house?” I muse, but even I know it’s doubtful.

No one I know would be desperate enough to contact me by leaving half a spiral-bound notebook worth of pages taped to my front door.

Remington arches a brow. “In this neighborhood? Where you need two forms of ID and a reference to get through the security gate?” He barks out an amused laugh. “Hate to break it to you, Pops, but whoever this crazy is, she is looking foryouandonly you.”

He’s right. This neighborhood is upscale. Therefore, killing him for the unwanted commentary on the front lawn would likely upset the homeowner’s association. But still, he’s right. Whoever this is would have to live in this neighborhood or be on my (or someone in the community) acceptable entry listing. Security would have checked identification before allowing them through.

“But you never know, women are crazy. This could be one of your neighbor’s wives getting all pissed off that you went on vacay without her.”

I don’t bother responding to Remington’s insane theory. I didn’t sleep with another man’s wife, and I haven’t dated anyone in my neighborhood. Not since Rebekah, anyway.

Ripping another note off the door, I open it and read it.

You’re a piece of shit.

But I need you to call me anyway. 555-259-6347

Okay, so not such a mystery now. I at least have a number.

I pluck another note from the door.

Astor,

I hope this message finds you dealing with a violent case of crabs, but I need you to call me. Piper is in the hospital. 555-259-6347

Ps. Delete this number after you call. I will never want to speak to you again.

Fucker.

Hate you much,

Keys

My stomach sinks. Piper is in the hospital. I pull out my phone and dial her office number from memory. Travis was wrong. I wasn’t fantasizing while I was staring at her business card. I was memorizing her number for when I called her and canceled our agreement. I wasn’t a man in love. I was a prideful man who refused to admit defeat.

The phone rings as I pace the front yard, watching as Remington jimmies the lock on my front door, letting himself in.

“Dr. McKellan’s office, this is Stephanie. How may I direct your call?”

I barely give her time to finish the spiel. “This is Dr. Astor Potter. I need to speak to Dr. McKellan. Now.” Piper is fine. This is all simply a huge misunderstanding.

The line goes silent as the woman on the other end of the line takes a breath and clears her throat. “I’m sorry, Dr. Potter. Dr. McKellan was admitted to the hospital several days ago.”

“What?” I’m already running to Remington’s car. “What’s wrong with her?”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Potter. I think it’d be best if you spoke with the doctor. I’ll let him know to expect you.”

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