The next morning, I drove to the hospital. It had rained in the night and muddy puddles flanked the road, sending up sprays of dirty water and leaving a dismal film on the windshield of my rental. The parking lot was full and I circled four times before finding a cramped spot to pull into.
Zane was sleeping when I arrived, but Detective Madsen met me in the waiting room and waved me into a chair upholstered with something like vinyl. It squeaked as I sank down, as if I’d disturbed a family of mice nesting in the cushion.
“Do you have any idea who did this?” I asked, trying not to think about the whisper-like sounds echoing in the canyon after I discovered the spike in Clint’s back.
Madsen regarded me with a penetrating gaze. I felt exposed, as if he could read my thoughts like a marqui
