“I'm going to stop you right there,” she says. “There was no situation with Lindsey Granger. That was blown up by the media and turned into a smear campaign that dramatically affected my father's personal and professional life. He never fully recovered from the serious damage that was done with those rumors. They were baseless and indefensible.”
“So, there was no relationship there?” I ask.
“Absolutely not,” she says. “She was an intern who worked in the same building as my father. They may have walked past each other in the morning or stood in line for coffee a couple of times. It didn't go any further than that.”
“Several sources say he was familiar enough with her to know her name and to be concerned about her when she seemed to disappear,” I say.
“He knew her name because she was another human being,” Rachel replies. “That was the type of man my father was. He cared about people. All people. It didn't matter to him what their job was or where they came from. If there was a human being in his vicinity, he was going to anything he could to help him or her. She worked in his building, so he learned her name. If he walked past her, he would say hello to her. And of course, he was concerned. Everybody was. But to speak to your choice of language, Lindsey Granger did not ‘disappear’. She left town because she was humiliated after attempting to destroy the life of an honest, loving, and honorable man who refused her advances, then would not back down when she attempted to blackmail him.”
“How would she blackmail him if nothing ever happened between them?” I ask.
“You work for the FBI, Agent Griffin?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “For a number of years.”
“Then surely you're familiar with lying and faking evidence. My father would never do the things that woman said he did. She did the best thing she possibly could by leaving and never showing her face around here again. It gave us all time to heal and move past her. That's what we've done, Miss Griffin. We've moved on. That was a long time ago, and I don't appreciate my father's name being dragged through the mud yet again. I won't speak about this again,” she says.
“Then will you talk to me about his death?” I ask.
“Good day, Agent Griffin.”
She hangs up, and I pull the phone down to stare at it.
“Well, that didn't go exactly as I planned,” I mutter to myself.
The interaction was harsh and intense. I can understand that. This is a woman who has been through a lot, and it all happened in the spotlight. I still get protective and defensive when people talk about my mother and her murder. Rachel probably just wants to put the entire situation with Lindsey Granger in the past and never have to think about it again.
I'm certain she never wants to think about her father's murder again.
But I can't accommodate her just yet. I’m not convinced this is over.
The next morning, I start my day with two fantastic pieces of news. I’m on the phone with Sam as he tells me he’s coming in later that afternoon, just as, when the doctor appears at my door with a stack of papers in his hand on a smile on his face.
“Hey, babe,” I tell Sam. “I've got to go. The doctor is here with papers, and either he needs me to start signing away pieces of my body for experimentation, or he's going to discharge me.”
“Make sure he contacts me first,” he jokes. “I have dibs on a few of those parts.”
“I'll see you soon. Love you.”
I hang up and look at the doctor with hope.
“So, we thought we would start from the bottom and work our way up. The first thing we're going to do is amputate your feet. Actually, we’ll probably start with your toes. Maximum surface area and all,” he starts, barely suppressing his smile.
"Alright," I say, "but I have to warn you, a couple of those toes have been broken a few times, so they might not be the most responsive when it comes time to reanimate them."
The doctor laughs and comes to my bedside with my discharge papers.
"Your release papers," he says. "I've included aftercare instructions for your cut, as well as some lifestyle recommendations to keep your health up. There's a prescription for painkillers and antibiotics. You'll only need the antibiotics for a few days, with any luck. If you notice any symptoms that suggest the infection has come back…"
"I am to promptly remove my arm so I don't end up here again," I say.
"Or call the hotline and speak with one of the nurses," he replies. "It's going to be tender for a little while. You might have trouble lifting heavy objects, and your full range of motion might be compromised until it heals. You're going to want to keep exercising it, so you don't end up overworking the other or possibly reducing the strength in your injured arm.”
“Thank you, doctor,” I tell him. “I appreciate it.”
“Any time,” he nods.
I give him a look as I climb out of bed. “You know that's really not the best phrase to use when your job is stitching people back up and preventing them from dying of infections.”
He thinks about that for a second. “Duly noted.” With a wave, he walks out of the room and closes the door behind him.
I've been holding out on one outfit Dean brought me for this particular occasion, and I smile as I slip into it. Finally, I feel like a regular person again. Not like a patient, with people walking on eggshells around me. But a real person. It only takes me a couple of more minutes to gather everything,
