She talked about the market.
About Ava.
About a childhood dog named Buttons.
At one point Melissa squeezed her hand.
“Why didn’t Dorothy tell me?”
“I asked her that.”
Carol looked directly at me.
“She said she couldn’t give you hope without proof.”
That sounded exactly like Dorothy.
Love had made her brave.
Love had also made her cautious.
“She requested testing,” Carol continued. “But the facility couldn’t authorize it without the proper process. We were trying to coordinate with the county.”
“And then?”
Carol’s expression softened.
“Your wife died.”
I looked down.
A week after Dorothy’s death, Carol had tried calling the home number several times.
Nobody answered.
I had been staying at the market most nights because I could not bear our empty house.
Eventually Melissa was transferred again.
The trail broke.
Until eighteen months ago.
Carol opened her canvas folder.
Inside was a copy of an old intake photograph.
