Screenwriter Author Ghostwriter
The Yesterday Doctor
The flat screen showed a mother and daughter at breakfast.
The mother was dressed in an expensively simple indigo suit. Her dark copper hair, attractively wind-tossed in that calm breakfast nook, matched her daughter’s coppery French braid. The 10-year-old girl wore a school uniform—navy blouse, blazer, and skirt with a skinny red tie.
Lawrence Travalle turned his attention from a separate monitor on his desk and turned up the volume on the flat screen.
The daughter leaned forward, studying the mother. “You hide it well. Not.”
The mother cocked her head. “What?”
“You’ve dropped your napkin twice. Cut your quiche into 70 isosceles triangles. And didn’t put honey into your tea.”
The daughter giggled.
“You think you’re so smart.” Dr. Robin Snow stood and gathered the plates. “Get your book-bag, Miss Isosceles. Your dad’s taking you to school.”
“That’d be Ms. Isosceles,” Abby jumped up, grabbing a last piece of toast. “I am smart.” She hugged her mom. “You’ll get that job, Mom.”
Robin hugged her close. “I have to go. This is a day I must not be late.”
A voice came over the intercom. “Robin, you’ll have to take Abby to school.”
Robin turned toward the speaker. “I can’t. I can’t be late for work.”
“I just got a call from Cincinnati. I have to fly there immediately.”
“You own the jet.”
“In for service. Have to take a commercial flight.”
Lawrence watched his monitor. As rapid footsteps neared, he flipped off the flat screen and tapped his touch-pad. A complicated financial chart filled the monitor.
Robin burst through the study door.
“Please knock, Robin. Don’t make me tell you again.”
She halted. Her face dimmed by a lumen. Her shoulders hunched, just slightly. “I’m sorry.”
She gathered herself. “You know the Bishop is considering me for my dream job. Today is my interview. I can’t be late.”
He shrugged and extended his hand, a gracious and warm gesture. “I am terribly sorry. I have to leave immediately.” He waved toward the monitor. “As soon as I send this off, I’m heading for the airport.”
She glanced at the chart.
He looked at his watch. “You should go. Unless you want Abby to miss school so you can impress the Bishop.”
She looked at him with helpless appeal, lovely even in her distress, then turned and fled.
When Robin’s muffled steps receded, he tapped his touch-pad. The chart disappeared and a video resumed. A surgically endowed woman leaned forward so that the sheer ribbon choking her nipples fell off. A man in a hood stepped behind her.
Lawrence tapped buttons on the remote. The flat screen showed Robin hurrying Abby into the SUV as the garage door opened. After the car backed to the street and sped away, he . . .