A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

KATE
11 YEARS BEFORE
May
Dr. Feingold’s office is located on the third floor of a medical
professional building that sits adjacent to the hospital. The building
itself is modern, full of natural lighting and glass. In the lobby, there’s
a line waiting for the elevator, and so Bea and I take the stairs to the
third floor. We say very little as we ascend the steep steps—
conserving our breath for the climb—but I can tell from Bea’s silence
that she wishes I’d change my mind.
I’m dead set on this. I’ve decided. This is something I need to do.
When we reach the third floor, we walk side by side down the hall.
As we close in on Dr. Feingold’s office, Bea finally asks, “What do
you hope to get out of this?” her words embittered and disapproving.
She sets a hand on my arm and forces me to stop, to look at her,
and I do.
I can’t put it into words what I hope to gain without it sounding
ignorant, and so I say nothing. In my silence, Bea asks, “You think
he’s just going to come right out and tell you he did something to
Meredith?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Of course not.”
“Then what?” she asks. “You’re going to ask him?”
“Of course not,” I say again, trying to explain that what I’m hoping
for isn’t a confession, but rather a hunch, some gut reaction, an inner
voice telling me that Dr. Feingold did something to our friend.
When we come to it, the waiting room is small but inviting. A
receptionist takes my name. She hands me some forms and tells us
to have a seat. The nurse, she says, will be with us shortly. I fill out
the forms while I wait. I write down my name and address.
Bea glances down at the paperwork as I do. She nudges me hard.
“What are you doing?” she hisses beneath her breath, seeing that
I’ve just left my real name and address. Bea rarely gets angry at me.