Dr. Max Hastings
AFTER
Dr. Jones stared at me furtively. “Well?”
I rolled my neck. My shoulders had grown stiff from so much sitting. The mattresses in this place leave a lot to be desired. Not that it matters. Sleep remains pretty much nonexistent. But that wasn’t why I was stretching. I was stalling. I don’t like recalling that day.
She pressed onward. “What did he say? James Dunaway? In the diner…”
“He said nothing.”
As usual, it was Laurel who did most of the talking. “James”—I recall the way she motioned, widely—“You remember Dr. Hastings?”
I extended my hand. “Max.”
“Dr. Hastings—Max—is treating my father.”
Max“Right.” He seemed to be searching his mind, looking for something misplaced. We shook hands. His grip was firm but friendly, which is to say it gave nothing away. “A
