Page 60 of You Know Why

“A doctor in scrubs? That’s not exactly a groundbreaking video, friend.”

“Just wait. He turns his head and looks back, and you can see his face for a brief moment.”

She watches. Her heart speeds up.

“Play it again. Slower this time.”

He does.

“Son of a bitch. That is Andrew Locke.”

“Yep. Matched the facial recognition from the airport. An hour later, the feeds go down, and Brooklyn is attacked.”

“Do we know for sure that she was? The event wasn’t related to the concussion?”

He hands over a piece of paper. “This is the interesting part. Her blood work was normal, except her white blood cell count was high, but that wasn’t unexpected, considering. But according to the doctor, the sudden onset felt off. After Eden Barrow told them about the man in her room, the doc really wasn’t convinced Brooklyn’s tachycardia was concussion related. Happily for us, she has an imagination. She did a blood gas, and it showed”—he looks at the paper—“respiratory alkalosis. That was very unusual for a concussion. So she asked for an expanded toxicology screen, just in case they missed something on Brooklyn’s intake, and something popped. Cotinine. Metabolized nicotine.”

“Nicotine? Huh. I didn’t know she smoked.”

“She doesn’t. Nor would it show up like this if she did. She ingested it somehow.”

“So first she’s rushed out of town, then abandoned, then hit by a car, then someone feeds her nicotine? That’s . . . a lot.”

“Someone wants Mrs. Locke out of the picture. And Mr. Locke is tied to every incident. This might just be as simple as a greedy husband who needed his wife out of the way.”

They’re interrupted by the arrival of their food, and Theresa has to use her left hand to eat. Awkward, but she’s getting better at it. She got lucky; the knife went through her palm without cutting any ligaments or tendons. It’s healing, and she’s been working on it using physical therapy exercises she’s found on YouTube. It just feels like it’s taking forever. Once the stitches are removed, it will feel better—that appointment is in a few days, unless she gets frustrated and removes them herself.

“You really should see a doctor about that.”

“I did see a doctor, or at least an EMT, who stitched it up and gave me a tetanus shot and some antibiotics, which is all he could do. I’m an idiot. Next time, I won’t try to cut an apple in the middle of the night.”

Drake nibbles on his fries. “You can talk to me, you know.”

“We’re talking right now.”

“You know what I mean. Something is going on with you. You’ve been distant. I’ve known you long enough to see it. Talk to me. What aren’t you telling me?”

What is she supposed to say? That the night Andrew’s parents were murdered, a random thug with an unidentifiable accent had shown up looking for Andrew Locke, and she’d promised her life to find and deliver him?

That she thinks Andrew Locke is on the hook for something much bigger than stealing from his boss? She’s been digging, really digging, for the past few days, and while she’s uncovered some interesting facts, none of them add up to any sort of solution?

That she has exactly zero idea what to do next, and waiting for Brooklyn Locke to get with it enough to give a statement, assuming she will cooperate, is driving her mad?

Tell him, her sanity pleads. Let him help. You’re in over your head.

She couldn’t live with herself if Drake rode in on his white horse to save her and ended up hurt—or worse. And with these people, she imagines worse is always on the table.

“Theresa. Please. Tell me what’s going on. What am I missing here? We’re working the same case but from different angles. I tell you what I know, and you have to tell me what you know. We work together, we find Locke. You keep holding out on me, and we’re reliant on the faulty memory of a woman with a traumatic brain injury and nicotine poisoning who may or may not remember anything useful.”

The weight of carrying this is too much to bear sometimes. She’s been trying, and failing, to find a hint of Andrew Locke in the world. She needs help.

“Still no ID on the man from the airport?”

“You know there isn’t. Please stop trying to change the subject. I want to help you. Help me help you.”

“If I bring you into this, I can’t guarantee your safety.”

Now he really looks pissed off. “The fuck, Theresa?”