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“Blake, hello. I thought your grandfather would be with you.”
“He’s in the house,” Blake said. He was already easing Devon inside the trailer and walking in behind her. “So is James. They’ll be out to see you later. But I was just giving Dr. Montgomery a tour of the stables. She asked to speak with you.”
“I see.” Vista didn’t sound happy. “About what?”
“I’ll let her explain.”
While Blake had been laying the groundwork, Devon was assessing the trailer. A typical veterinarian’s quarters, with two examining areas, X-ray equipment, a water bucket, disinfectants, and floor-to-ceiling cabinets that were each labeled. The trailer was neat—too neat—without a speck of clutter or even discarded medical supplies in the trash.
“Dr. Montgomery,” Vista pressed. “What can I do for you?”
Devon turned to meet his gaze. “You can tell me what’s wrong with Sunrise.”
“Wrong?”
“Yes. She’s ill. I’m sure she has a fever. Clearly, you’ve been treating her. What’s the diagnosis?”
“I have no idea—”
“Then you’re not treating her. Fine. Tell me which veterinarian is.”
Silence.
“Numerous injections have been administered to her right front leg. The entire limb is inflamed. Would you care to explain?”
A vein was throbbing at Vista’s temple. But he fought like hell to hide his nervousness. “With all due respect, I don’t discuss my work, not even with another professional. Everything I do for Mr. Pierson is confidential.”
“Everything you do. Does that include experimenting on horses? Because I can’t think of any other reason for a healthy mare like Sunrise to show these symptoms, or to need treatment by a genetic consultant.”
More silence.
“I’d like answers, too, Vista,” Blake interjected. “Since you’re uncomfortable providing them, tell me who can—my grandfather or my cousin?”
Vista stiffened. “Leave James alone. The last thing he needs is an interrogation.”
“Meaning he’s the one who hired you to treat Sunrise?”
“Meaning he’s in the middle of a major competition. He needs to stay focused.”
Without waiting for an invitation, Devon marched farther into the trailer. She scanned the labels on the cabinets. They all consisted of an odd combination of letters and numbers, unlike any medical references she’d ever seen. C#124DW, L#830IN—they were all cryptic symbols that looked more like code than labels for medication.
“I’ve never seen such an immaculate veterinary facility,” she declared aloud. “Where do you keep your files? Or that thick notebook you were carrying when I met you? In here?” In one motion, she twisted the handles of two cabinets and pulled them open.
Bottles. Shelves and shelves of them. All filled with liquid medication. All labeled with the same code as the corresponding door. And all with their brand names torn off.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Vista barked, storming over and shutting the closet door.
“Trying to figure you out,” Devon retorted. She folded her arms across the front of her down parka. “Are those illegal drugs?”
“Of course not.” The genetic consultant bristled. “I’m a scientist, Dr. Montgomery, not a drug trafficker. I deal in facts. I conduct cutting-edge research. But I
obey the law. And I resent your implying anything else.”
He planted himself firmly in front of the cabinet. “The reason those codes look foreign to you is because I buy drugs you’re unfamiliar with for testing. The kind I do on rats, not horses. And those cabinets…” He pointed toward the back, where a cluster of unmarked cabinets formed an L with a curtain that spanned the width of the trailer, hiding the rear third of it from view. “Those cabinets contain all the traditional drugs you’re accustomed to seeing in a veterinary practice.” He glared at Devon from behind his glasses. “I hope that satisfies you. Not that I owe you any explanation.”
Devon was barely listening. She was trying to figure out a way to catch a glimpse of whatever was behind that curtain.
“If there’s nothing else, I’d like you to leave,” Vista said. “Blake, anything else you’re interested in, I’d suggest you speak with your grandfather.”
