But I had once been Mrs. Fleming. I had once answered to that name in waiting rooms and holiday cards and mortgage documents. I had once thought it meant chosen.
Melinda shifted Elliot to her other shoulder.
“There was someone at the clinic,” she said.
Kenneth’s expression did not change, but I felt his attention sharpen.
“Name?” he asked.
“I don’t know her full name. Connor called her Dana.”
Connor’s face went pale.
Not angry pale.
Afraid pale.
Kenneth wrote the name down. “Dana.”
I frowned.
Something about the name brushed against memory.
A receptionist? A nurse? A coordinator?
During fertility treatment, there had been so many faces. Kind faces. Tired faces. Efficient faces. People who knew the most intimate details of my body while remaining almost strangers.
“Dana Morales?” I asked suddenly.
Kenneth looked at me. “You know her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. There was a Dana at the first clinic. She handled scheduling sometimes.” I pressed my fingers to my temple. “Dark hair. Silver glasses. She always wore lavender perfume.”
