Denise rose.
“Your Honor, may I call Ms. Pamela Whitley?”
Pam took the stand with the notebook in both hands.
She told it plainly, with the times, and she did not look away from Emily once.
When she said, “Family can sign,” someone in the third row sucked in a breath.
Denise laid out the rest.
The medication record, timed 3:55.
The visitor log, timed 3:58, relation to patient: sister.
Six pages with no initials, beside thirty-four documents Emily had signed in her life, each one initialed in blue ink.
Then Ray, with his box.
Sixty-one calls.
Fourteen emails.
Nine certified letters signed for by A. Rourke.
“Ms. Brooks,” said the judge.
“Why didn’t you contact Mr. Carter during all of this? Mr. Pike suggests you were content with the arrangement.”
Emily stood.
She wore the same dark cardigan from the porch, washed and pressed by someone.
“I called him sixty-one times,” she said.
