But I could not forget the fear in her eyes.
Part 3: The Phone Call
Two days later, my phone rang while I was preparing dinner.
“Hello, is this Marjorie’s emergency contact?” a woman asked.
“No. This is Ariel. I live next door.”
The caller explained that Marjorie’s prescription was ready to be collected.
When I said they had reached the wrong person, the pharmacist apologized.
Then she added something that made me set down the knife I had been holding.
“It looks like Owen recently changed the emergency contact information.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“Changed it from whom?”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not permitted to discuss details from her records.”
“Then why is my number still attached to the file?”
There was a pause.
“It may have remained in an older section of the account.”
After the call ended, I stood alone in my kitchen, staring through the window at Marjorie’s dark house.
