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"You got a remarkable memory, Counselor. Anybody ever tell you that?"
"Has the police matter been resolved?"
"Yeah. I mean, for the most part."
"For the most part?"
"The culprit's dead, and she's safe."
"So why aren't you happy?"
"Who said I wasn't?"
"You don't sound happy."
He was tempted to lay it all out there and get Derek's opinion. Because he really did value it, although he'd deny it with his dying breath. But the personal aspect of his dilemma was a sad tale, and he was the ogre of it, and he didn't want to lessen Derek and Julie's regard for him, which couldn't be all that great to start with. As for his misgivings over the "police matter," they were just that. Unsubstantiated, unidentifiable, and, at this point, irrelevant.
Crossly, he said, "You don't have enough drama in your life, Counselor, you gotta borrow from mine?"
Derek sighed with resignation. "Have a safe flight."
They disconnected. Supremely agitated and in need of a cigarette, Dodge pulled onto the shoulder of the freeway and lit one. He was at a crossroads. Literally. Up ahead the freeway divided. The right fork would take him to the airport, where he could probably get on a flight to Atlanta this evening. The left fork would almost certainly lead him on a wild-goose chase.
Why was he even debating the choice? Why didn't he just go? He'd made a clean break.
But that was bullshit, and even he was no longer buying it.
He hadn't made a clean break, he'd sneaked out.
He'd run away because he was too chickenhearted to say good-bye. The two women he'd left behind would be furious, frustrated, maybe a little heartbroken.
And even without taking their feelings into account, there was this other thing nagging him, holding him back when he should just get the hell out of the freakin' state of Texas.
"Shit." He drew hard on the cigarette one final time and tossed it out the window. Cursing himself for being every kind of fool, he put the car in Drive and shot across four l
anes of traffic in order to take the left fork.
"You're not supposed to be in here now. Didn't you read the sign? Visiting hours are over."
Dodge turned away from the bed. The nurse filling the doorway was maybe four feet, eleven inches tall and almost that wide. Her scrubs had clown faces on them. Her hair had been plaited into dozens of cornrows with multicolored beads that dangled against her shoulders.
He gave her his most engaging smile. "I like your hair."
She propped a ham-size fist on her ample hip.
Instantly he switched tactics and became repentant. "I must have missed the sign."
"Um-huh," she said, like she'd heard it all before. She waddled into the room and looked down at the tiny form on the bed. "How you doin', sweetheart? You gonna sit up and talk to your gentleman caller here?"
With obvious compassion, she stroked the patient's cropped white hair. The woman who'd given life to Oren Starks showed no sign of awareness even though her eyes were open.
"Is she always like this, Glenda?" Dodge asked, reading the name on the tag clipped to the nurse's top.
She looked him up and down. "You a relative?"
"Friend of the family."
"You know the son who got himself shot? We got the news this morning."
