A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

KATE
11 YEARS BEFORE
May
“You should have told me you were going to ask about Meredith,”
Bea shouts at me as we make our way across the parking lot and
toward the car. The rain is coming down hard, the parking lot riddled
with puddles that we step into, sending rainwater everywhere,
soaking our legs and feet. We use whatever we can to keep
ourselves marginally dry. Bea has slipped out of a jacket and holds it
over her head. I use my tote bag, though it’s canvas, and doesn’t do
much to fend off the rain. The rain leaks through. I get wet, anyway,
despite the bag.
The medical building backs up to an expressway. Traffic is heavy
and loud. The fact that it’s raining again only compounds the
problem. The rain is as loud as the street traffic. The streets are wet.
People tend to drive like idiots when the streets are wet, meaning
that every few seconds someone lays on their horn.
Bea isn’t shouting at me, though she is angry. She’s shouting over
the noise.
“Why?” I shout back as we reach the car. Bea and I part ways, me
going to the driver’s side where I open the door and slide quickly in
before the rain has a chance to follow me.
My body is sore from the exam. I feel dirty, sick. I want nothing
more than to go home, to shower, change, wash Dr. Feingold’s
hands from me.
On the other side of the car, Bea slips into the passenger’s seat,
slamming the door closed. She turns to me and says, “So I could
have talked you out of it. You told me you just wanted to get eyes on
him, Kate. You didn’t tell me you were going to ask about Meredith.”
She pauses for breath. “He isn’t a nice man,” she says, which I
know. Even if he hasn’t killed Shelby or done something to Meredith,
he still wouldn’t be a nice man. He’s arrogant, insensitive, abrasive.