Possessive Doctor

She opens up cnn.com and clicks a link.

I read the headline out loud. “Texas Millionaire Searches for Lost Daughter.”

Amber groans.

“There’s more.” Lora scrolls down and hits play on a video.

It’s from a morning show on CNN. The video shows Samuel Gibbins, wearing a cowboy hat and a frown, speaking with an anchor.

“Samuel, your daughter’s missing. Can you tell us about that?”

“Yes, I sure can. She was taken in by a boy, you know, that old story. His name’s Brent Lofthouse. I sure hope folks have seen my ad about it.”

“That’s what we’re here today to talk about. That ad. Everyone’s seen it, Mr. Gibbins. It’s quite the ad, you know.”

“Look, I know it’s a little much. Targeting the whole country like that. It’s a little crazy. And the response has been amazing, it surely has, we live in the best country on Earth. But I just want my girl back and I’ll do whatever I gotta do to bring her home.”

“Well, Mr. Gibbins, a million-dollar reward surely will help.”

“I sure hope so. I think it should”’ He grins and winks at the camera.

I reach out and slam the laptop lid shut. “That’s enough.”

“It gets worse,” Lora says.

I look at Amber. Her face is ghost white and she looks like she’s trembling.

“I know it’s nuts,” Lora says, not noticing Amber’s expression. “But all the major news outlets picked it up. He’s all over the place on TV right now, doing all the interviews. I think he’s even going on radio stations. It’s honestly insane. It’s like a meme right now and people are going nuts. You should see the response on Reddit.”

I stare at her. “Reddit?”

“God, you’re old.”

“I’m not old.”

“It’s, like, a social media site. Sort of. Anyway, people are going crazy, posting about finding Amber, getting that reward. There’s a whole new community called AmberHunters and—”

Amber lets out a choked sob. Lora finally notices her and stops. “Oh, honey,” she says, putting an arm around the girl.

Lora hugs her and looks at me with this guilty frown. I shake my head and stand, pacing across the room.

It’s getting worse. I hoped he’d stay with the Facebook ads. My parents don’t go on Facebook and while their friends do, it wouldn’t be too bad that way.

But they all read the news. They all watch the news stations. And now that he’s broken through to that media level, they’re going to see it, whether they want to or not.

Fucking shit. That’s not good. He’s still using my full name, which means the Lofthouse family sanctity is good and truly fucked in the ass.

“I have to go talk to Mom.”

Lora nods. “Go. I’ll stay with her.”

I hesitate. The idea of leaving Amber right now… leaving her out of my sight for even a fucking second…

“Go,” Amber says.

I take a breath. “Stay with her. Don’t leave.”

Lora nods again. “I will.”

I turn and leave the room. I shut the door behind me and consider calling Archie to post some security outside of her room, but I decide against it. I don’t want to upset her even more.

I hurry down the hall. At this hour, my father could be anywhere on the property. He likes to wander around and take his coffee on the move.

But my mother will only be in one place.

It takes me a few minutes to reach it. The room is tucked away in a secluded part of the mansion, up a long, spiraling staircase, right at the top of one of the towers that jut up the northwest side. I hesitate outside of the door.

All through my childhood, we had lots of rules, but one was king above all others.

We were not to disturb mother while she was busy in her room.

I have a flashback to those times. I feel like a ten-year-old boy again, wishing to speak with his mother but too scared to knock. I’m not ten anymore and I don’t have to follow those rules.

I knock on the door. I wait for her voice to call out softly. I open it and step inside.

It’s light and airy. That’s my first thought. The room is surrounded by windows and the view is incredible. There are canvasses lining the walls, most of them leaning against each other, stacked in deep rows. Painting after painting, thrown all about. The floor is bare and simple and my mother is sitting on a stool in front of an easel, working on her latest piece.

I hesitate in the doorway before shutting it behind me. She makes a few strokes, working on a simple realistic landscape. There are all kinds of styles around me, from abstract cubist to surrealistic to hyper realistic. Most of it is incredible, genuinely amazing. She could be famous if she wanted.

If she had chosen another life.

Instead, her work stays in this room. She paints every day, every morning, for a couple hours at least. I think it’s her stress release. She feels like she did something worthwhile, and the rest of the day can be faced with grim authority. But when she’s here, this is her time.