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I hug her. “I know. I’m just working it all through.”
I open my mouth to tell her about Katherine’s calls. Then I shut it. We’ve been round and round, with Casey trying to help me decide what to do about my relationship with the Daltons. My adoptive mother’s calls don’t add any fresh information. When I’ve made a decision, I’ll get Casey’s advice.
“If you need anyone to talk to...” she says.
“I know.” I hug her again. “There’s Diana or Isabel or Phil...”
She sputters a laugh. Then she says, more seriously, “Youcouldtalk to Isabel.”
Because she’s a former psychologist. I understand that, but I don’t feel as if this is a problem for a therapist. I get all that from Casey—the open ears and open mind and unwavering support. No one except me can make this decision. They can only help assemble all the data I need. I’ve done that with Casey’s help. The data is there. I just need to figure out what to do with it.
“I might ask at some point,” I say. “For now, I’m too busy to let it bother me, except when I’m asleep, apparently.”
Her look suggests I may be lying.Maybe? Nah, it says she knows I’m lying, but she’s not going to pursue it until I’m ready.
Without another word, Casey puts her arms around me and squeezes tight, and we slide down into bed.
6
We’re in the library,just like yesterday, with the fire roaring, Storm curled up at Casey’s feet. Today’s morning snack is hot cocoa and shortbread, and there are crumbs everywhere. April and Diana are with us to go over plans for the new town’s medical clinic.
Casey does have a bruise on her jaw, and I have to stop myself from constantly shoving shortbread and marshmallows at her and asking whether there’s anything she needs, anything at all. It was an accident, and she knows that. So does everyone else after I explained at breakfast.
Kenny had lowered his voice to a rough drawl, apparently imitating me. “And if anyone has a problem with me admitting I had a nightmare, come talk to me later.”
I didn’t mean it like that. Okay, maybe I did. A little. I just think it’s bullshit that anyone might think I shouldn’t admit to having nightmares, as if that makes me weak.
Anyway, everyone knows, and I’m going to try to stop staring at that bruise and feeling like an asshole. Time to focus on the meeting, which is about the medical clinic, not my guilt.
“I need storage,” April says.
Casey smiles. “We know.”
“Yes, but I fear you will underestimate the amount of storage I require, as well as the type. One cannot shove unrelated medical supplies into a box and call it storage.”
“We know.”
“I need different types as well as the maximum amount possible without encroaching on patient comfort or workplace flow patterns.”
“We know.”
“I don’t mean to be difficult, Casey, but I fear, not being a doctor, you can’t fully comprehend what I require.”
“Which is why you’re going to design your own clinic.”
April sputters. “I’m not an interior designer, Casey. You can’t put that sort of pressure on me.”
I rock forward, ready to intercede, but a look from Casey warns me back, and when she speaks, her tone is even. “You will work with an expert in clinic design, whom Émilie has hired. That’s possibly the only advantage to having a benefactor in big pharma. She has all the contacts. You’ll be consulted at every step.”
“Don’t forget labelers,” Diana says. “April needs at least three.”
April huffs. “One is quite sufficient as long as it is of high quality and not subject to breakage after the first hundred uses.”
“Three,” Diana says.
Casey gets a text. She glances over, as if ready to ignore it, but then she stops, picks up her phone and reads the message.
“Something wrong?” I say.
