you’re still in danger?’
In danger? Of another flashback? ‘Not really.’
‘Because that mugging didn’t seem random.’
Oh, the mugging. Leslie had changed the subject. ‘No, it wasn’t.’
Leslie put her mug on the coffee table. She met Harper’s eyes. ‘I’ve got to tell you, Harper, I’m concerned. The guy knew you and was specifically following you; he wasn’t just coasting along until he saw a book bag he liked and decided to grab it. Am I right?’
She was.
‘So what did he want? Six hundred dollars? A gun? A few pills?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Harper, whoever attacked you is impulsive, violent. Willing to take risks, even in broad daylight. Look, I’m not a cop. But it’s clear to me that you were targeted because somebody wanted something you had. If that something was in the bag, fine. He got it. Game over. But what if it wasn’t?’
‘Then he’ll be back.’ Harper hadn’t articulated that possibility; she’d merely reacted to it, becoming super-watchful, alert, braced for an attack. ‘And, next time, I won’t be surprised. Next time, I’ll break his effing neck.’
Leslie said nothing. Harper checked her watch. The hour was up. She gulped the last of her tea, set the mug down, stood to go.
‘Hang on a second.’ Leslie went to the tiny refrigerator in the corner. ‘I can’t help you fight off muggers, but at least I can give you this. Keep it handy.’ She pressed a plump lemon into Harper’s hand. ‘You start to feel detached or fuzzy, chomp away.’
‘Yum.’ Harper stuck the lemon in her bag and gave Leslie a hug. ‘This was good, Leslie. Thank you.’
‘Be careful, Harper.’
Harper stepped into the hall, looked both ways, then paused to look back through the window of Leslie’s office. Leslie was still standing there, brown eyes fixed on her as she walked away.
Harper strapped her bag on to the Ninja and took a long way home. The air was heavy, buggy, humid, but the motorcycle tore through it, carving its way down the road.
Home was on Hanshaw Street, about a mile north-west of campus. Harper parked her bike in the driveway, grabbed her bag, stopped on the front porch to look around. The grass was knee-high; the gazebo surrounded by weeds. Her flower garden overgrown, untended. Neglected. Sighing, she went into her empty, half-renovated house. Glanced into the dining room covered with drop cloths. Dropped her bag in the hall, headed for the kitchen. And heard her cell phone ring.
For half a nanosecond, she thought: maybe it’s Hank. But then she remembered; of course it wasn’t Hank. When would she accept reality? Hank wouldn’t be calling any more; he couldn’t call. Couldn’t talk. Hank had Broca’s aphasia. When would that sink in?
Reaching into her leather bag, Harper found her phone. Caller ID said CAYUGA NEUROLOGICAL. Wow, maybe it was Hank, after all? She answered, breathless.
‘Harper?’
No, it wasn’t Hank. Harper’s eyes darted around the foyer, the walls stripped of paper. She smoothed her hair.
‘Are you busy? Is this a bad time?’
‘No. No. I – it’s fine.’ Why was Ron calling? Oh God, had something happened to Hank?
Hesitation. ‘I enjoyed our coffee today.’
Harper bit her lip. Why was she so damned awkward? Ron was just being polite. Then again, his voice was muted, hushed. Why was he talking so softly? Never mind. It didn’t matter. ‘So did I.’ She tried to sound chirpy.
He paused. Harper waited.
‘So I said I’d call when I had news about that pill.’
Of course. That was why he was calling: the pill. She thought of Detective Rivers, what she’d said about the other deaths. ‘You found out what it is?’
Another pause. ‘The short answer is yes. But it’s a long, rather complicated story—’
‘So? Start.’
‘Harper. Is something wrong? You sound – I don’t know. Short?’
Short? She stood up straighter. ‘I’m just tired. Tell me about the pill.’
‘No, you’ve had a rough
In danger? Of another flashback? ‘Not really.’
‘Because that mugging didn’t seem random.’
Oh, the mugging. Leslie had changed the subject. ‘No, it wasn’t.’
Leslie put her mug on the coffee table. She met Harper’s eyes. ‘I’ve got to tell you, Harper, I’m concerned. The guy knew you and was specifically following you; he wasn’t just coasting along until he saw a book bag he liked and decided to grab it. Am I right?’
She was.
‘So what did he want? Six hundred dollars? A gun? A few pills?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Harper, whoever attacked you is impulsive, violent. Willing to take risks, even in broad daylight. Look, I’m not a cop. But it’s clear to me that you were targeted because somebody wanted something you had. If that something was in the bag, fine. He got it. Game over. But what if it wasn’t?’
‘Then he’ll be back.’ Harper hadn’t articulated that possibility; she’d merely reacted to it, becoming super-watchful, alert, braced for an attack. ‘And, next time, I won’t be surprised. Next time, I’ll break his effing neck.’
Leslie said nothing. Harper checked her watch. The hour was up. She gulped the last of her tea, set the mug down, stood to go.
‘Hang on a second.’ Leslie went to the tiny refrigerator in the corner. ‘I can’t help you fight off muggers, but at least I can give you this. Keep it handy.’ She pressed a plump lemon into Harper’s hand. ‘You start to feel detached or fuzzy, chomp away.’
‘Yum.’ Harper stuck the lemon in her bag and gave Leslie a hug. ‘This was good, Leslie. Thank you.’
‘Be careful, Harper.’
Harper stepped into the hall, looked both ways, then paused to look back through the window of Leslie’s office. Leslie was still standing there, brown eyes fixed on her as she walked away.
Harper strapped her bag on to the Ninja and took a long way home. The air was heavy, buggy, humid, but the motorcycle tore through it, carving its way down the road.
Home was on Hanshaw Street, about a mile north-west of campus. Harper parked her bike in the driveway, grabbed her bag, stopped on the front porch to look around. The grass was knee-high; the gazebo surrounded by weeds. Her flower garden overgrown, untended. Neglected. Sighing, she went into her empty, half-renovated house. Glanced into the dining room covered with drop cloths. Dropped her bag in the hall, headed for the kitchen. And heard her cell phone ring.
For half a nanosecond, she thought: maybe it’s Hank. But then she remembered; of course it wasn’t Hank. When would she accept reality? Hank wouldn’t be calling any more; he couldn’t call. Couldn’t talk. Hank had Broca’s aphasia. When would that sink in?
Reaching into her leather bag, Harper found her phone. Caller ID said CAYUGA NEUROLOGICAL. Wow, maybe it was Hank, after all? She answered, breathless.
‘Harper?’
No, it wasn’t Hank. Harper’s eyes darted around the foyer, the walls stripped of paper. She smoothed her hair.
‘Are you busy? Is this a bad time?’
‘No. No. I – it’s fine.’ Why was Ron calling? Oh God, had something happened to Hank?
Hesitation. ‘I enjoyed our coffee today.’
Harper bit her lip. Why was she so damned awkward? Ron was just being polite. Then again, his voice was muted, hushed. Why was he talking so softly? Never mind. It didn’t matter. ‘So did I.’ She tried to sound chirpy.
He paused. Harper waited.
‘So I said I’d call when I had news about that pill.’
Of course. That was why he was calling: the pill. She thought of Detective Rivers, what she’d said about the other deaths. ‘You found out what it is?’
Another pause. ‘The short answer is yes. But it’s a long, rather complicated story—’
‘So? Start.’
‘Harper. Is something wrong? You sound – I don’t know. Short?’
Short? She stood up straighter. ‘I’m just tired. Tell me about the pill.’
‘No, you’ve had a rough
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