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“Like who said?” Pallas asked.
“Marsha Grove. She’s the receptionist at the Institute. She said she watched Emery grow up and he was always shifty. Says I’m better off without him. Thanks for letting me know what happened. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sorry Emery is dead, but I guess a part of me is glad he didn’t just dump me.”
“I understand,” Pallas said.
Ambrose cleared his throat. “We had a deal, Jodi.”
“What?” Jodi sounded genuinely bewildered. “Oh, right. The name of the patient who was booked for a sleep study the same night you were in the Institute. It’s weird. I know there was another patient scheduled for that evening because Emery mentioned he would be looking after two overnights. That was unusual. But I couldn’t find any record of the other one. Probably a last-minute cancellation or a no-show. That happens more than you would believe. It always infuriates Dr.Fenner.”
“Thanks for trying,” Pallas said gently. “I am very sorry about Emery.”
Jodi sniffed again. “Thanks. At least I know what happened.”
The phone clicked off. Pallas was aware that Ambrose was watching her with a cryptic expression.
“What?” she said.
“You made it sound like you really did understand,” he said.
Pallas sat back in the chair. “No one likes to get dumped.”
“True. How many times has it happened to you?”
“I try not to keep track,” she said. “I’ve been told I’m complicated, but I think that’s a euphemism for scary. I know for a fact that I frightened Theo.”
“The architect?”
“Yes.”
“I definitely scared my ex a few times before she ended things,” Ambrose said. “The sleepwalking was too much.”
“To be fair, our exes were right. We are a little scary.”
“Yes,” Ambrose said. “We are.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The importing processended just as they finished lunch. Pallas rose to dump the wrappers and the soup carton into the trash.
“There’s a photo and a very long video,” Ambrose said, studying his phone. “I’ll open the image first.”
Pallas returned to the table and sat down. Together they looked at the photo. It was a page that had been ripped out of a logbook. The entries were written in a precise hand. At the top of the page was a name—Brooke Kendrick. There was also an address and a date.
“That’s the night I checked in for the sleep study,” Ambrose said. “Brooke Kendrick must have been the other patient. This is it, the information I’ve been trying to nail down.”
Energy shivered around him.
Pallas scanned through the log entries. “She was a computer engineer. Age thirty-two; height five feet, four inches; weight one hundred thirty pounds. Blood pressure, pulse, oxygen levels, temperature all normal at ten thirty p.m.”
Ambrose studied the page. “Eleven thirty, subject restless. Twelvefifteen, subject awake and agitated. Twelve thirty, agitation increasing. Sedative administered. One twenty-six, subject awake in spite of sedation. Disoriented. Extreme delirium.”
“That’s all,” Pallas said, looking up from the screen. “There aren’t any other entries. Does the physical description fit the patient who checked in ahead of you?”
“I admit I wasn’t paying a lot of attention to her that night,” Ambrose said, “but, yes, the age, height, and weight all match my recollections. We’ve got a name and an address. Now to see what’s on the video.”
The footage was not the highest quality, but there was no mistaking the scene of a small, windowless space furnished like an inexpensive motel room. Ambrose slept on the bed, a sheet and a lightweight blanket draped across his waist. Several wires attached to electrodes on his face, head, chest, and legs ran to a small metal box equipped with a handle. The camera was narrowly focused on the bed. Most of the other furnishings in the room were not in the frame.
“You can’t see the chair,” Ambrose said. “The one I sat in while Fenner cleaned the blood off my hand.”
