Before we left the hotel, I said, “I guess Roni was right about being on their hit list. I need to call and warn her.”

“Okay.”

I fished her card out of my laptop bag. “That’s all I’m doing. Calling and warning. I got the impression she wanted my help—protection I suppose—but she’s not getting it.”

“Correct. Now, don’t just say it. Believe it.”

I pulled a face. “Yeah, yeah.”

He was right. I’d spent years insisting Paige and Lucas’s altruism hadn’t rubbed off on me. But I suppose it’s like growing up in a cat shelter. You can tell yourself that you never want to see, hear, or smell another cat, but when you stumble over an abandoned kitten, you can’t help feeling the urge to help, and feeling guilty if you don’t.

That call wasn’t easy to make. Roni’s panicked cries of “but what am I going to do?” were like a kitten yowling in a tree. I knew she could get herself down again, but it was hard to ignore, all the same. I told her that her aunt Rachel was dead—suicide when she failed to kill me—and that would probably be the end of things. If they came after anyone now, it would be me, for revenge. She wasn’t convinced, and eventually I just had to say, “Gotta run. Take care,” and hang up.

I called Schmidt again, before we headed out to the hospital. This time, someone answered.

“Gary Schmidt?” I said. “It’s Savannah Levine.”

“Whaaa?” He sounded like I’d woken him up.

“It’s Savannah Levine. You called me?”

“I didn’t call no Suzanna. This is my phone.” He mumbled something I didn’t catch, then hung up.

I looked at Adam. “Either you don’t need basic English to teach college or that wasn’t Gary Schmidt.”

“Wrong number?”

I checked my outgoing call list. “No, but I’ll try again.”

The phone rang through to voice mail.

I shook my head. “Either the service screwed up the first time or someone else has Schmidt’s cell, which isn’t good.”

“What did he say?”

“That it was his phone. Which could mean it’s his phone now. I’ll keep trying.”

We arrived at the hospital at the start of visiting hours. After a few wrong turns, we found Mrs. Schmidt. She wasn’t going to be answering any of our questions, though. She was still in a coma.

“Are you relatives?” chirped a voice. A young nurse with short, blond hair had popped into the room.

“No,” I said.

“Oh.” Disappointment dragged the cheer from her voice. “Friends then?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I hope you’ll stay and talk to Maura. I know it’s not easy, seeing her like this, and it may seem silly talking to her, but it really does help. In the first few days, she had nonstop visitors, students and friends. Then it just petered out. That’s typical, sadly.”

“How about her husband? I hear he spends a lot of time here.”

“Hours on end . . . until yesterday. He didn’t come in at all. That’s why I was hoping you were relatives. Her doctor needs to speak to him, but we haven’t been able to reach him. We’ve called the Schmidts’ home number and his cell, and left messages. His employer says he’s on leave and they haven’t heard from him since the accident. We’re getting worried. He’s been here every day, and before this, he always let us know if he’d be away even for a few hours.”

Adam said we’d try to track someone down. A lie, but it mollified her.

fifteen

Because we’d said we were here to visit Maura Schmidt, we couldn’t very well leave without doing that. Well, I could, but Adam said it wouldn’t be right.

So we made a good show of it. Sat beside her bed and held her hand and talked to her. Or I presume that’s what Adam did. I got coffees.

When I came back, he was standing there, looking down at the comatose woman, and he looked . . . sad. Sympathetic. I stood outside the door and watched him for a moment, and wondered if that was how I was supposed to feel, too.

With Paige and Lucas, it’s easy to roll my eyes at their empathy overflow. No one can be expected to feel as much for strangers as they do. My bellwether is Adam.

I pushed open the door. “You okay?” I said as I handed him his mocha.

He shrugged. “Sure. Just thinking about their house. All those hobbies.” A small laugh. “Boring as hell, but they obviously liked them, and they just seemed . . .”

“Happy. Small, boring, happy lives.” I paused. “It’s the last part that counts, though.”

“Yep. It is.” He sipped his drink. “Just feel bad for them, you know?”

I nodded. Put it that way and I got it.

“Okay,” he said. “We’re done here, which means we’re Miami bound.” He looked at me. “Right?”

When I didn’t answer fast enough, his eyes narrowed.

“We had a deal,” he said.

“I know. And I’ll honor it. I just thought maybe we should—”

A hiss from the bed made me jump, cutting me short.

I pointed. “I think she’s waking up.”

Adam looked at the comatose figure. Then he looked at me, brown eyes blazing under hooded lids.

“That’s not funny,” he said.

“Help . . . ,” Maura whispered.

He looked from her to me, then back.

“You heard that,” I said. “Right?”

He grunted and moved up beside her. Then he leaned down and laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Maura?” he said. “Can you hear me?”

“Help . . .”

The word came out on a hiss of breath through barely parted lips. Those lips hadn’t moved. No part of her had moved. I walked to the other side of the bed.

“Maura?” I said.

“Savannah . . . ,” she whispered.

My chin jerked up. I stared at Adam.

“Did you hear—?” I began.

He nodded. “I don’t think that’s Maura.” He motioned for me to close the door, then leaned over the comatose woman. “Gary? It’s Adam Vasic. I’m here with Savannah Levine.”