1O:15 a.m.
Ally was walking down the second‑floor marble hallway of the Dorian Institute, feeling a mixture of hope and dread. She’d parked her blue Toyota in the same slot she’d done the day before, and then she’d gone through the security check at the front entrance, which included verifying (again) a solid ID and a check for any kind of camera or recording equipment. Maria did not come along; she was using this as an occasion to have some well‑deserved time off with her grandchild. The caregiver was giving herself some care.
The downstairs foyer had been empty except for security and staff, and she’d paused just long enough to sign in and ask the receptionist at the central desk which room Nina Hampton was in. Was her mother going to be as enthusiastic about being here today as she’d been yesterday? Truthfully, just to see her spirits immediately improve yesterday was a high in itself. But who knew? Maybe she could be helped.
"I think she's . . . Let me check." She'd pulled up a computer screen. "Right. Mrs. Hampton is in room two‑thirteen, second floor." She'd looked up and smiled. "Your mother, I assume. She's quite a card. I hear she's doing very well. You can use the elevator over there."
"I'll take the stairs," Ally had said. They were wide and blue marble and had a kind of splendor as they seemed to literally flow down from the upstairs landing. "I didn't have my run this morning."
The marble hallway upstairs showed no signs of use. The place felt more like a grandiose palace from another time than a hospital doing cutting‑edge research. There was a nurse's station at the far end of the hall and two women were there in blue uniforms. Other than that, however, there was nothing to suggest the Dorian Institute was a medical facility. It could easily have been an exclusive resort hotel. It didn't feel medical or aseptic in any way.
Stone should see this, she thought. He'd definitely be impressed.
Driving out this morning, alone, she'd been thinking about him a lot. There was something about him that was different from what she'd remembered over all the years. He was as serious as ever about his work, but she suspected he might possibly be more fun now that he seemed to have lightened up some. He used to be wound extremely tight. In any case, she was finding herself surprisingly happy to talk to him again, whether or not it went any further.
But was his concern about the mysterious terminated patient justified? And what, if anything, did that have to do with her?
She was still musing about that when she heard the Spanish‑ language TV going in room 213, even before she touched the doorknob. That's a good sign, she thought.