55
Dale had figured out that Friday’s hope of solving a murder and earning his reputation had been unrealistic. The seething crowd settling into their chairs brayed how delusional he had been.
The grand ballroom could hold perhaps a thousand people. Maybe two or three hundred crowded together in the middle section, a rough semicircle around the head table. Outliers claimed seats in the nearly empty sections to either side. After the weekend’s crowds, Dale could fully understand not wanting anyone near you.
First priority: his pills. The atomoxetine would hold his brain together, and the aspirin would erase some aches. All he needed was food to keep the pills in his stomach. Dale took a deep breath, steeled his will, and chomped a mouthful of peanut butter sandwich. His tongue rebelled,
