8
Alas, if only it had been that easy. Within forty-five minutes, I was ready to scream.
Granted, I had physical aches. But waves of psychic pain—the memories of Holly; the regrets; the new information from Tom: We’re treating this as a homicide, we have to consider the possibility that Drew poisoned or otherwise harmed his own mother—threatened to engulf me. These were heavier, more tangible somehow, than my sore leg and throbbing head. They made me feel vulnerable. Any little thing—Tom’s absence while he dealt with the cashier, Julian’s disappearance to pick up my prescriptions, Arch locating Tom’s car and bringing it to the exit, then rushing off to get his Passat—threatened to put me over the edge. Sitting in the insisted-upon wheelchair by the exit, I stewed and considered hollering
