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He let out a longer sigh. “Too many times. It’s rare to see him thus lately, but the unchecked anger still occasionally surfaces when he grows deeply frustrated.” He turned away and busied himself checking Kang’s vitals, giving me the distinct impression he didn’t want to talk about it anymore.
I held my burning questions and instead replayed the incident in my head. Pierce’s blowup had been startling, but Kang’s behavior had been odd, too. He’d been awake and coherent and talking. And then . . . not.
Dr. Nikas gave me a slight nod then quit the room, closing the door behind him. I returned to the chair and took Kang’s hand. It remained limp and cool, but he wasn’t fooling me. He was faking being asleep. I was positive. There were plenty of reasons he might do so, and one stood out neon-bright: He didn’t want to answer Pierce’s questions.
Yet eventually Pierce would find a way to wring the answers from him. I didn’t know whether Pierce or Kang was in the right, but it felt wrong to force Kang to reveal a secret he’d prefer to keep.
“Pierce has been itching for you to wake up ever since he got your head back from Kristi’s lab,” I murmured, shifting my grip so we were palm-to-palm, with my hand beneath his. “I sure hope you’ll tell me what the big deal is. Soon.” My pulse quickened as I used my middle finger to trace four numbers in his palm. I was trusting my gut, even though it had steered me wrong a time or three. “Sure, it’s okay to get back together with Randy. For the fifth time.” Or “I’ll try OxyContin just this once. Can’t get addicted on only one pill.” Or, more recently, “Dosing myself with V12 is a good idea and worth the risk.”
But this felt different. I hoped.
After a brief pause, I traced the numbers again. If he was awake, he’d understand what I was doing. If he wasn’t awake, then I was worrying over nothing, and no harm, no foul.
“All right, dude. I have a coffee date with someone a whole lot livelier than you.” I withdrew my hand and stood. “Catch you on the flip side.”
I punched my four-digit code into the keypad by the door and left.
Chapter 17
Though Tucker Point had a number of coffee shops and cafés, Dear John’s was my hands down favorite. Not only did it have excellent coffee and pastries—baked fresh on the premises—but it was also in convenient walking distance from the morgue. Not to mention, the place had a cool origin story. A decade ago, John Hickey had received a literal “Dear John” letter from his then-wife after she left him for his brother’s ex-wife. Hickey decided it was time for a change, quit his job, and invested everything in the café. Last month he’d opened another café in Longville, and rumor had it he was looking at commercial property in Baton Rouge for a third location.
Meanwhile, I was happy to support his ambition by indulging in his super yummy hot chocolate at every opportunity.
There was no sign of Portia when I arrived, but that was forgivable since I was early. The café was at the end of its lunch rush, and after ordering my hot chocolate—extra chocolate, extra whipped cream—I snagged a table by the window that also allowed a view of the door. I had Mr. Fluffy’s container with me, though I’d stuffed it into a paper grocery bag, since I suspected the café workers would be less than thrilled at the frog’s presence. I warned him quite firmly to not make any croaks, then placed the bag under the table and savored my super excellent hot chocolate.
Portia arrived a couple of minutes later, managing to look elegant in jeans and a simple pale green shirt. She scanned the room, face breaking into a smile when she spied me. After making her purchase, she settled into the chair across from me with a cup of herbal tea. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long.”
“Not at all. And I have a bit of a surprise for you.” I motioned for her to look under the table then unrolled the top of the bag. “Rana pipiens, right?”
Portia chuckled. “Excellent memory! Did you pilfer more?”
“No, this one escaped the bucket. I found him hiding out in my car, and I was hoping you might take him to join the others?”
“It would be my pleasure,” she replied with zero hesitation and set the bag by her purse.
“I’m really glad you called,” I said. “The past twenty-four hours have been kind of shitty.” I hesitated. “Dunno if you heard about the deputy who died yesterday.”
Her brow furrowed with concern. “I saw it on the news. Was he a friend of yours?”
“Not close or anything, but we’d worked a bunch of scenes together. Kinda half-ass flirted with each other but nothing serious.” I curled my hands around my mug, wishing I could draw all of its warmth into me. “But I was with him when he collapsed . . . and in the ER with him when he died.”
“Oh, Angel. I’m so sorry.”
Tears stung my eyes. I grabbed a napkin to blot them away. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she said, warm and firm. “You’re more than justified, and it’s far healthier to express your grief.”
“It’s just bullshit, y’know? He was a really nice guy.” I crumpled the napkin in my fist. “I’ve seen a lot of death. So much of it is stupid and pointless, but this . . . he didn’t deserve it.” My throat clogged, and I covered by turning away to blow my nose. I wanted so badly to share my sense of guilt over Connor’s death. I couldn’t help but feel she’d understand. But opening up would reveal too much.
“No, he didn’t deserve it,” Portia said, emotion rippling through her voice. “And the fact that it was sudden and unexpected makes it all so much harder.”
I met her eyes. “You’ve lost someone suddenly?”
“My husband,” she said and gave me a soft smile. “Last October. Massive heart attack. And then a few weeks later, my friend and neighbor lost her fiancé in a plane crash.”
“Ah, shit.”
Portia chuckled. “I used that word and many others. As did Jane. The two of us went through a truly profane amount of ice cream together in the following month.”
