My hands went numb. The tin of banana bread clattered to the floor.
“What do you mean she’s not here? I didn’t authorize anything.” I could hear my own voice shaking. The receptionist, a younger woman named Lacie, looked genuinely confused.
“She had paperwork,” she said, flipping through a clipboard. “Said her name was Kinsey? She showed us a signed release form.”
Kinsey.
I hadn’t heard that name in five years. My cousin—Mom’s late sister’s daughter. We weren’t close.
In fact, the last time she visited was at Uncle Daryl’s funeral. She barely said a word to my mom. My mind was racing.
I asked Lacie for a copy of the discharge papers. She hesitated but eventually printed out the form. There was a signature next to my name—but it wasn’t mine.
It looked like a kid had tried to imitate cursive. “I didn’t sign this. That’s not my handwriting,” I said, trying not to panic.
“Did anyone verify with me before letting her go?”
Lacie swallowed hard. “There was a call…from your number. It came through our front desk phone.
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