Looking down, I fiddle with the edge of her blanket. "There's nothing to tell."
"The flush creeping up your neck suggests otherwise," she says, her voice softer now. "But I won't pry. Not much, anyway."
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment. Cheryl reaches for her book again, thumbing through the pages. "You know what I miss most? Teaching. Watching a student finally master a difficult step after weeks of struggle." Her eyes take on a faraway. "There's nothing quite like it."
Something shifts in my chest, a memory sliding into place: my dad sitting at our kitchen table, explaining for the tenth time how an engine timing belt worked while I struggled to understand. His patience never wavered. And the way his eyes lit up when I finally got it…
"My dad was like that," I say before I can stop myself. "He could teach anyone anything. Had the patience of a saint."
I can feel myself slipping backward in time, to sterile hospital rooms not unlike this one, to machines beeping in the same rhythm, to my dad's hand, once so strong, growing weaker in mine. To all the signs I missed because I was too busy with my own life.
"Birdie?" Cheryl's voice pulls me back. Her hand covers mine, paper-thin skin over prominent veins. "Where did you go just now?"
I blink rapidly, forcing a smile. "Nowhere important. Just thinking about a case."
But now that the seed is planted, the parallels are just too stark: my father's deteriorating condition, doctors waving awayconcerns, tests that came too late. And now Cheryl, slipping away despite our best efforts.
I look at her—really look at her—and make a silent, fierce promise. I will not fail her the way I failed my father. I will not let another person I care about slip away because I missed something, because I didn't fight hard enough. The vow burns through me, settling deep into my bones.
"I'm going to figure what’s happening to you," I promise. "Whatever it takes."
A smile touches her lips. "I know you will, Birdie." She squeezes my hand once more before releasing it. "Now, didn’t I hear you mention something about dinner?"
"My friend Laney's birthday dinner. I need to go home and change first."
"Well, then." She waves me away with regal authority. "Off you go. Can't keep your friend waiting."
Standing, I gather my bag but pause at the door. "I'll check on you first thing tomorrow."
"Bring me something scandalous to read," she calls after me as I slip out. "Preferably with pirates. Or vampires. Or vampire pirates."
I laugh, the sound echoing down the quiet hallway, but the vow I made sits heavy in my chest, a weight and a purpose all at once. I will solve Cheryl's case. I will not lose her too.
***
Pastis glows like a jewel box in the evening light, strings of fairy lights crisscrossing the patio where couples lean into each other over small tables. Inside, the walls vibrate with local artwork—bold strokes of paint and color that somehow work with the mismatched vintage furniture. Laney waves frantically from a corner table, her two messy buns bobbing with enthusiasm.She's wearing a ridiculous "Birthday Queen" sash across her scrub top because of course she came straight from her shift, and of course she brought her own party accessories.
"There she is!" Laney shouts over the bistro buzz, drawing more attention than necessary. "The ghost of Sierra Mercy, back from the dead."
I slide into the chair across from her, dropping my purse on the floor. "Happy birthday, drama queen. Nice sash."
"Thank you." She adjusts it proudly. "I bedazzled it myself in the break room. The night nurses helped." Leaning forward, she narrows her eyes. "Now, where the hell have you been all weekend? I texted you like seventeen times."
"It wasn't seventeen," I counter, unfolding my napkin and spreading it across my lap with excessive precision. "More like seven. Maybe eight."
"Twelve, actually. I counted." She sips her drink—something pink with a paper umbrella—and points at me with her free hand. "Start talking, Phillips. I want details. Time stamps. Geographic coordinates."
A waiter materializes beside our table, saving me momentarily. I order a gin and tonic, heavy on the lime. Laney asks for another "pink thing with the umbrella" without bothering to learn its actual name.
"You're stalling," she says the second he walks away. "Spill it. You disappeared Friday night at Pulse, sent me one cryptic text Saturday morning, and went radio silent until this afternoon." She leans in closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "Was it Walker? Please tell me it was Walker."
Heat crawls up my neck faster than I can control it. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "What makes you think it was Sebastian?"
Her eyes widen in triumph. "Sebastian… Not Dr. Walker or The Human Iceberg or Satan in a lab coat." She claps her hands together. "Gah, it was him. You slept with him."
"Shh," I hiss, glancing around nervously. "Could you maybe announce it a little louder? I don't think they heard you in the kitchen."
My supposed friend looks utterly unrepentant. "Details. Now."
