Free Twisted River by Siobhan MacDonald

could you step out and get me the usual?”
    Dana looked at her watch, settled in the folds of her wrist. “I think I have time for that, Mr. Harvey.” And off she waddled, leaving him a few minutes’ respite, alone in the office.
    With Dana gone, he went to the computer on her desk. This is dumb, he told himself. I’m being overcautious. Yet, he held his breath as he called up the patient profile from the patient database. Ah, yes—there she was, Rachel Housemann. There was nothing out of the ordinary in her profile. Dana had listed her profession as archive assistant. He googled her. Leaning over the desk, he let out a long sigh when he saw her listed on LinkedIn. She was indeed who she said she was. An archive assistant at the MoMA.
    Of course he’d overreacted. It had been an innocent conversation, after all. Sure, long-standing patients were going to inquire about former staff. It was to be expected. Still, he couldn’t help but feel relieved.
    Looking at the grandfather clock, he noticed that Dana was taking longer than usual. Was she gorging on a secret pastry? He’d caught her in the Lebanese deli before, hiding a slab of baklava in her purse.
    He sat back in Dana’s office chair and looked around the room. It was a pleasant work environment. Hazel had helped him decorate the reception area, choosing the elegant clock, the impressive sideboard with its neat piles of periodicals and glossy magazines, and the collection of Queen Anne armchairs. They’d had fun on those weekends, sourcing the furniture, antiquing upstate and staying in romantic inns. Hazel had been a lot more relaxed then.
    Going to the coat stand, he checked his cell. Two missed callsfrom Hazel. He shook his head. There was no point in returning the calls, she’d be in class. It was a week now since the incident. He didn’t like to think about it, but he knew he should. She was taking longer to recover this time.
    His neck muscles were tensing up again. It wasn’t Hazel’s fault and he knew he shouldn’t get mad, but Goddamn it, the woman was stubborn. Just like Birgitte. Birgitte had also found it hard to listen, to take any advice. There had been arguments as well with Birgitte.
    â€œLordy! But it’s hot out there . . .”
    Dana burst through the door bearing a cardboard tray with two polystyrene cups. There were damp patches under the arms of her tunic and Oscar was sure he could spot some sugary powder in the hairs around her mouth.
    â€œA quick sprint round Central Park?” he inquired, barely masking a shiver of distaste.
    â€œA simple thank-you would do nicely, Mr. Harvey,” she said sharply, laying the tray on the reception desk with puffy hands.
    â€œOf course, Dana. Thank you.” He forced himself to smile.
    God, it was a horrible thought, but sometimes she reminded him of his sister.
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    â€œWhat did the dentist say to the golfer?”
    Harry was panting heavily now, even though it was cooler down by the river. A film of sweat shone on his bald patch. They were headed south on the greenway bike path.
    â€œDunno. What
did
the dentist say to the golfer?”
    Oscar was loosening up. Getting into his stride.
    â€œYou got a hole in one!”
    Harry Becker loved his own jokes. Oscar imagined him cooking them up, sitting at his large oak desk with its enviable view of Madison Avenue and the Midtown Manhattan skyline.
    â€œDid you hear about the Buddhist who refused novocaine during a root canal?”
    â€œI guess I’m about to . . .”
    â€œHe wanted to transcend dental medication!”
    â€œFuck, your jokes suck, Harry!”
    â€œOkay, a failure to amuse—I beg your pardon, at White and Calhoun we aim to please . . .”
    White and Calhoun was Harry’s law firm. It specialized in bank fraud.
    A curvy jogger bounced her way along the path toward them. Harry’s