Screenwriter Author Ghostwriter
The Yesterday Doctor
The flat screen above his desk was live.
A mother and daughter leaned toward each other in a breakfast nook, unaware they were observed.
The camera was skillfully hidden. The females did not know cameras peeked into every room.
They were unmistakably mother and daughter, their quick and curious minds animating open, light-filled faces; both with dark copper hair, Robin’s fluffy, Abby’s in a centered French braid.
Abby, in her tidy school uniform, dark blue with red tie, studied her mother. “You hide it well. Not.”
With a saucy lilt, Dr. Robin Snow countered, “I don’t hide.” She made her expensively simple indigo suit look comfortable. “What?”
Lawrence Travalle turned his attention from a laptop on his desk. He increased the volume on the flat screen.
“You’ve dropped your napkin twice. Cut your quiche into 16 isosceles triangles. And forgot to put honey into your tea.”
“You think you’re so smart.” Robin 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 held her close. “Have to skedaddle. This is a day I must not be late.”
A man's 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, today of all days.”
“I just got a call from Cincinnati. I have to fly there immediately. My work is more important. You know that.”
Lawrence watched his laptop. As rapid footsteps neared, he flipped off the flat screen and tapped his touchpad. A complicated financial chart filled the screen.
Robin burst through the study door.
“Please knock, Robin. Don’t make me tell you again.”
She halted. Her face dimmed 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 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 touchpad. 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 zoomed to life. It showed Robin hurrying Abby into the SUV as the garage door opened.
After the car backed to the street and sped away, he . . .
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