10.

10.

“Okay . . . that’s . . . that’s just . . . ”

I straighten and cover my mouth, which tastes a little like bile. Honestly, it’s touch and go. But I swallow and manage to say without stuttering, “I hope Cassie Tillman doesn’t come back, ask if I want anything more to eat or drink. She does . . . I’m puking. Definitely.”

Gavin sips from his coffee (even THAT’S enough to twist my guts a little) and says, “I imagine. I didn’t have much of an appetite for several days after that one.”

I force myself to breathe evenly and say, “I’m guessing that ‘Buddy Hartley’ is no longer at Clifton Heights General? That he’s . . . ”

“ . . . been ‘transferred downstate to a special burn-care facility’? You’d be guessing right. At least, that’s what they told me when I called. They didn’t say WHERE, of course. ‘Doctor/Patient Confidentiality’ and all that. I found ‘Craig’ Hartley’s number using Directory Assistance, but no one ever answers. Of course, ‘Craig’ is also now mute, so maybe he just doesn’