I barely slept.
Every time I closed my eyes I felt the press of Dr. Voss’s hands again—firm, careful, too warm against my skin through that ridiculous paper gown. By morning I had talked myself into believing it was just nerves. Just a good-looking man doing his job. Nothing more.
I had almost convinced myself by the time I pulled into my mother’s driveway the next afternoon.
Her house always smelled like lemon polish and the expensive candles she burned when she was trying to impress someone. Today the scent was stronger than usual. I let myself in with my key, calling out as I toed off my shoes.
“Mom? I brought the salad you asked for—”
I stopped short in the entryway.
There were two sets of men’s dress shoes by the door. One pair I didn’t recognize. And hanging on the coat rack wa
