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I thought back to the day spent mostly at Tiller and Mikey’s. “No. I was with friends all day. We ate the same things like Sam said.”
“I’ve had a couple of cases in the past where—and it’s usually a terrible prank—someone slips ipecac into someone’s drink, but it’s very difficult to sneak past a person because of its bitter taste. The most probable cause for your episode is a stomach virus, but I haven’t seen anything causing quite as violent an episode and sudden onset the way your friend described. Which is what leads me to wonder if you could have possibly consumed an emetic without realizing it.”
“Myrica pensylvanica,” I muttered, trying to clear my head enough to think.
“He’s a botanist,” Sam added proudly. No one had ever described me that way. It was surprisingly sweet.
“Plant geek,” Chaya coughed into her fist.
“The root bark is an herbal emetic,” I continued. “But you have to take it in very large doses for that. I grow it to use in a throat gargle.”
“Would it be possible for someone to slip the ’Merica Pennsylvania into something you consumed?” the doc asked. I didn’t correct his pronunciation since I couldn’t tell if he was trying to be funny or not.
I was too tired to think straight. “I can’t imagine how, especially if no one else I was with today got sick.”
The doctor nodded. “Then I’m going to go with a suspected stomach virus. But if you don’t feel better in the next couple of days, follow up with your regular doctor to see if something else could be going on.”
I nodded and glanced over at the IV bag hanging from a nearby pole. Almost empty, thank goodness.
The doctor left and sent Summer in to start the process of getting us out of there. “By the time we get the paperwork finished up, you should be good to go with the drip.”
Sure enough, after saying good night to Chaya, who’d told me very sternly that we’d be having a talk about my life choices very soon, we were loading back up in my vehicle within thirty minutes and on our way to the farm. Sam must have known, without me needing to say anything, that I wanted to sleep in my own bed that night.
When we got to the house, I was relieved to see nothing amiss. Sam forced me to take a shower and brush my teeth before sliding into bed, but when I finally did, I groaned in relief.
“I’ll be right next door in the guest room,” he murmured, pulling the sheets up past my shoulders and reaching to turn off the lamp.
I didn’t want him in the guest bed. I wanted him plastered to my body as tightly as humanly possible.
“Stay,” I said in a rough voice that sounded way too desperate. “Please.”
He didn’t say a word. He simply stripped down to his underwear and slid in beside me. I shifted over and lay against the warm, solid length of him before finally exhaling and letting myself go.
Several hours later, I awoke from a tangle of twisted dreams. “Smoke!” I cried out, sitting up fast enough to make me almost tumble off the bed with dizziness.
21
Sam
At first, I assumed he’d been having a nightmare about the fire, but once I woke up enough to really listen to what Truman was saying, I realized that’s not at all what he was talking about.
“They went outside to smoke! The baby was born after eleven, and the men went outside for cigars.”
It took me a minute to wake up enough to process what he was implying.
Gene Stanner, or any of the Stanners, really, could have left from there, set the fire, and then come back in for the rest of the celebrations. The nurses who’d claimed to see them there wouldn’t have necessarily kept track of which Stanners were there during which of those several hours.
“Jesus, babe,” I said in a sleep-roughened voice. “You’re right. But I’m not sure we can call the fire inspectors at…” I glanced at my phone. “Three in the morning.”
“No, no, of course not. No. But, god. I was starting to think all kinds of things about who could have set the fire. I even thought after last night that maybe Barney had,” he said with a soft laugh.
I had to admit to having had the same thoughts, although I wasn’t sure what his motive would be exactly, and it was hard to think of the older man as a felon after a quiet life spent as the town’s librarian. I had to admit that at least part of my bias against the man was caused by my possessiveness over Truman.
I lay back and rubbed my face. “Maybe he wanted to marry you for the insurance money,” I teased. “Convince you to become a househusband and see to his every literary and sexual need.”
