Harry studied the image more carefully. Catherine was sitting outside in a garden, the shadow of a tree on her face. She was smiling slightly, but it was a sad smile, full of pain. And she looked at the camera in a cryptic way that seemed mysterious. Knowing.
“Why do you want the photo to be haunting?”
Zoe said nothing.
“I won’t use it if you don’t tell me.”
“If I tell you, you’ll quote me.”
“I won’t. It’s off the record.”
Zoe hesitated, then said, “There are indications that the murderer who killed Catherine cared about her. He felt guilty. I want him to see this picture.”
Harry snorted. “You think he’ll feel so guilty he’ll confess?”
“Yes, or that he’ll make a mistake,” Zoe said. “It happens more often than you’d think. Murderers feel guilt. Not all of them, but some.”
“And you think Glover feels guilty?”
She shrugged.
“I’ll use this image,” Harry said. He began to like the idea. “I’ll use both of them.”
CHAPTER 40
Rhea Deleon yawned in her patient’s face for the third time. A wide, impolite yawn, a real-life imitation of Munch’s The Scream.
“Oh, god, I’m sorry,” she said, stifling yet another yawn.
Her patient, a pug puppy named Syrup, tilted his head, his brown bulging eyes seemingly fascinated. Syrup had been dropped off this morning by his owner, a woman who complained the “dog looked drunk all the time.” She seemed more mortified than worried, as if her friends and family would shun her for having an alcoholic dog.
“You don’t look drunk at all, do you?” Rhea asked Syrup affectionately as she scratched his neck.
He wagged his tail, tongue lolling. That was the issue—his tongue protruded slightly from his mouth, even when he shut it, giving him an adorable if mildly dumb look. It was called hanging tongue syndrome. Rhea wanted to make sure it wasn’t due to a neurological problem.
“Well, maybe you look a bit drunk,” Rhea conceded. “But a nice drunk.”
Syrup wagged his spiraling tail.
She examined him slowly, everything feeling difficult. Being tired was the norm lately. She woke up tired, and it got worse throughout the day. Coffee hardly seemed to help. It’d been going on for a while, but it had taken her months until she’d finally gathered the courage to see a doctor.
It was the stupidest thing ever. A vet, literally a doctor, afraid of going to the doctor. If she’d had a tail, it would have been wedged between her legs as she stepped into her doctor’s office.
“But people-doctors really are scary,” she told Syrup. “They are impatient and angry, and they never give me a snack when they do a checkup. They don’t even scratch behind my ear.”
Syrup sneezed twice and turned around, trying to leave. As far as he was concerned, the examination was done. Rhea gently pulled him back.
It was probably just anxiety. Her clinic was on the verge of bankruptcy. Lately she found herself juggling the bills, trying to figure out which of them she could stretch a couple of weeks more. The week before, she’d burst into tears when she got the electricity bill. She spent hours every day calculating the ins and outs of her business, trying to figure out a way to do the impossible. Make more with less. She increased her online advertising, and maybe it worked, but it was really hard to tell. And she struggled with the yawning horror caused by constantly pouring money into the internet abyss like some sort of primitive sacrifice to a volatile god.
“You know what I need?” she said. “I need a rich cat lady. Someone with forty cats and a fat bank account. Maybe you know someone?”
Syrup sighed.
“You don’t, huh?” She picked up her flashlight. “Let’s look at those eyes.”
For some reason, the flashlight made Syrup lose his shit, and he squirmed away from her hands and bolted underneath the desk, yelping.
Rhea was about to go after him when the clinic’s phone rang. She picked it up. “Happy Paws Clinic, how can I help you?”
“This is Dr. Brooks. Is Rhea Deleon there?”
“Hi, that’s me.” She could already feel the stab of fear. What was it with her and doctors?
“I have your blood test results.” Dr. Brooks sounded stern and displeased. “You have serious iron deficiency anemia.”
“Oh. Okay.” That wasn’t so bad.
“I want you to come over as soon as possible, and we’ll discuss treatment. Should we make an appointment now?”
“Now isn’t a good time . . . can I call you back?”