Free White Cat by Holly Black Page A

nurse, since there’s only one doctor’s name—Dr. Eric Churchill, MD—on the door. The few files on top of the cabinets in the back are in dark green folders, and a note about the holiday hours is taped to the front of the desk. On stationery. I reach for it.
    “I don’t see anything here, Mr. Sharpe,” she says.
    “Oh,” I say, my hand freezing. I can’t rip the tape without her noticing the movement. “Oh.” I try to seem worried and hope that she’ll take pity on me and do some more fruitless searching or, better yet, go ask someone.
    She doesn’t seem to notice my fake distress and seems, in fact, more irritated than sympathetic. “Who made the appointment?”
    “My mom. Do you think it might be under her name?” The nurse in the scrubs takes out a file and sets it on the counter, close to where I’m standing.
    “There’s no Sharpe here,” the receptionist says, her gaze steady. “Maybe your mother made a mistake?”
    I take a deep breath and concentrate on minimizing tells. Liars will touch their faces, obscuring themselves. They’ll stiffen up. They’ll do any of dozens of nonverbal things—breathe quickly, talk fast, blush—that could give them away. “Her last name’s Singer. Could you check?”
    As she turns her face toward the screen, I slide the file off the counter and under my coat.
    “No. No Singer,” she says, with profound annoyance. “Would you like to call your mother, maybe?”
    “Yeah, I better,” I say contritely. As I turn, I pull the stationery sign off the front of the desk. I have no idea if she sees me. I force myself not to look back, just to keep walking with one arm crossed over my coat to keep the file in place, and the other sliding the sheet of paper into the file, everything perfectly natural.
    I hear a door close and a woman—maybe the patient that goes with the file—say, “I don’t understand. If I’m cursed, then what good is this amulet? I mean, look at it, it’s covered in emeralds; are you telling me it’s no better than a dime-store—”
    I don’t pause to hear the rest. I just walk toward the doors.
    “Mr. Sharpe,” a male voice says.
    The doors are right in front of me. Just a few more steps will take me through them, but I stop. After all, my plan won’t work if they remember me, and they’ll remember a patient they have to chase down. “Uh, yeah?”
    Dr. Churchill is a tan, thin man with thick glasses and close-cropped curling hair as white as eggshells. He pushes hisglasses back up onto the bridge of his nose absently. “I don’t know what happened to your appointment, but I’ve got some time right now. Come on back.”
    “What?” I say, turning toward the receptionist, hand still holding my coat closed. “I thought you said—”
    She frowns. “Do you want to see the doctor or not?”
    I can’t think of anything to do but follow.
    A nurse leads me to a room with an examining table covered in crinkly paper. She gives me a clipboard with a form that asks for an address and insurance information. Then she leaves me alone to stare at a chart showing the different stages of sleep and their waveforms. I rip the lining of my coat enough to drop the file inside it. Then I sit on the end of the table and write down facts about myself that are mostly true.
    There are several brochures on the counter: “The Four Types of Insomnia,” “Symptoms of HBG Assault,” “Dangers of Sleep Apnea,” and “All About Narcolepsy.”
    I pick up the one on HBG assault. That’s the legal term for what my mother did to that rich guy. Assault. There are bullet points with a list of symptoms, and the caution that the diagnostic differential (whatever that means) on each is pretty broad:
• Vertigo
• Auditory Hallucinations
• Visual Hallucinations
• Headaches
• Fatigue
• Increased Anxiety

    I think of Maura’s music and wonder just how weird the hallucinations can get.
    My phone buzzes and I take it out of my pocket automatically, still