Blood Always Tells, Hilary Davidson [good book club books .txt] 📗

said. “That would be undignified, but I will if I have to.”

“You lost consciousness from carbon monoxide poisoning. You don’t realize how serious that is.”

“I feel fine.” He shrugged. “Maybe a little tired, but otherwise I’m good.”

“You can have symptoms come up afterward, things that might seem unrelated. CO messes with your body at the cellular level. You could end up with memory problems, or lack concentration or the ability to keep track of things.”

“My teachers told my mother I was a hyper kid. They said I couldn’t concentrate on anything but wreaking havoc.”

“This isn’t funny. You can have mood swings, or you could suddenly have food or chemical sensitivities.”

Desmond didn’t try to hide his incredulity. “What, I’m going to be allergic to peanuts all of a sudden?”

“For all we know, yes.”

He waited for her to smile, but those amber eyes were intense. “You are kidding, right?”

“Not even slightly. Look, I’m not saying it’s likely. You could be perfectly fine. But you’re walking through a minefield with CO exposure. You could have tremors or headaches or fatigue. You have no idea how bad it could get.”

“I’ll turn into a hypochondriac if I listen to much more of this.”

“Better that than an invalid. You’re a pilot, right?”

“How did you know that?”

“It was easy to guess from your membership cards to the Professional Helicopter Pilots Association and the Black Pilots of America, plus the other ID in your wallet. I’m guessing you don’t want to give that up. You know a doctor could get your license pulled, right?”

That rocked him to his core. Desmond loved flying. There was nothing in the world like the freedom he had in the air. Taking that away from him would be a kind of death.

“I want you to have another treatment in a hyperbaric chamber. Maybe more than one. Will you do that?”

“Sure.”

“You won’t. I know your type. You think you’re so strong that nothing can touch you. What’s so important that you have to leave the hospital right now?”

“Seriously?” Desmond gave her a look. “‘A man is only worth as much as the things he concerns himself with.’”

Dr. Torres’s eyebrows lifted. “Are you quoting philosophy at me?”

“Marcus Aurelius.”

She paused for a moment, thinking. Her eyes were bright like a hawk’s. “The Roman emperor?”

“And Stoic philosopher.”

“Oh, a stoic.” Dr. Torres’s voice was gently mocking. “The kind of guy who thinks that if he pretends not to feel any pain, he won’t actually feel it? Here’s news for you: suppressing feelings doesn’t mean you don’t experience them.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Desmond wasn’t inclined to share his personal thoughts with strangers, but he liked Torres. “People who say ‘stoic’ mean being unemotional. That’s not what the philosophy is about. Stoicism doesn’t mean you don’t have feelings, but that you don’t let those feelings control you.”

“It still sounds like suppressing your emotions. That’s not healthy.”

“It’s more like you feel them, but you let your better judgment guide you. Or you try to, anyway.”

“I’m not sure why, but it’s hard to picture you reading Marcus Aurelius.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you stereotyping, doctor?”

“No.” She looked horrified. “I never meant that. I…”

“I know.” He paused. “Tell you the truth, it’s a struggle right now. My baby sister is dead. I’m going to have to bury her, and that is something I can’t think about without getting emotional.”

“I can only imagine.” She handed him a folded piece of paper. “I wrote this up, in case it would be helpful.”

Desmond opened the page. There was the name of a nearby funeral home and some other notes.

“I figured you’d want to take your sister home to be buried,” Dr. Torres said. “Her body hasn’t been released by the coroner yet. Depending on how long that takes, she may need to be embalmed before you bring her home. I know this is a lot to deal with right now, but if I can help, I’d like to.”

“Thank you.” He folded it up again and put it in his pocket. “Do I have to keep calling you Dr. Torres?”

“It’s Willa.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

“Thank you.”

Now that the conversation had taken a vaguely flirtatious turn, Desmond didn’t know what to do with it. His mood was about as far from romantic as it ever got. Desmond figured he’d have to be dead and buried and part of the ether before he stopped noticing attractive women, but he knew he wouldn’t be acting on it.

“I want to talk with the cops again.”

“They’ve already left. I can call them.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

Dr. Torres started to move down the hallway. “Don’t think about going anywhere.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted.

“Well, I’ve got your laptop. If you want it back, you’ll be spending the night in the hospital.” She gave him a long look over her shoulder. “This isn’t a negotiation.”

Chapter 22

Desmond couldn’t get the cops to come back to the hospital on Saturday night. But that only gave him time to read and research and prepare. By the time he hunted Westergren down at a diner on Route 84 at nine o’clock Sunday morning, he was ready.

“They let you out of the hospital?” Westergren was clearly surprised to see Desmond, even though they’d spoken on the phone. The young cop hadn’t sounded thrilled about getting together—to be fair, Sunday was his day off—but at least he’d agreed to it.

“Dr. Torres forced me to stay in for observation last night. That was enough.”

Westergren nodded, like that made sense. “I’m no good at lazing around, either. My partner, he’d be watching TV and hitting on the nurses.”

“They’ve got some good-looking doctors at that hospital, too,” Desmond commented. “But I’ve got a lot on my mind right now.”

“That’s what you said on the phone.” Westergren’s eyes were steady on his. He was a pleasant-looking kid with a boyish haircut that made him seem even younger than he actually was. His pale skin was flushed red, and there was a constellation of freckles over his nose. His prominent ears, which swung out like open