“What has he been doing?”
Arnold looked toward the elevators.
“He’s been helping with patients nobody else wants.”
“That doesn’t explain anything.”
“I know.”
“Then explain it.”
Arnold’s eyes lowered.
“He’s been treating them for free.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“People without insurance. People who can’t pay. People who have been turned away by other hospitals.”
I stared at him.
“That sounds like something Ben would do.”
“It is.”
“Then why is everyone acting like he committed a crime?”
Arnold’s silence frightened me more than his words.
Finally, he said,
“Because one of those patients died.”
My fingers tightened around the envelope.
“Who?”
“A little girl.”
The hallway seemed to tilt.
“How old?”
“Seven.”
I closed my eyes.
Seven.
My daughter was eight.
For some reason, that detail hurt more than anything else.
