couldn’t get it done.”
So she turned to Ambien, which turned into scamming prescriptions from just about every doctor within a 120-mile radius, which turned into buying loads of it online, which turned into popping six to eight Ambien a night to sleep, then being a zombie during daylight hours, only to gulp down another half-dozen Ambien to force herself under again, and somewhere in there she lost track of a year.
“I ended up in a Minnesota slough—Hazelden—for just under a month, and they helped me get my shit together,” she explained. “I’ve been clean for close to a decade. But hearing I’d flunked a routine screening brought back bad memories.”
“Of course it did.” He didn’t sound judgmental, just upset on her behalf. “It would be unpleasant for anyone, never mind someone with your history. Which makes for an extra sadistic touch, don’t you agree?”
Yikes. When he put it that way, it seemed a lot more ominous—and personal. It suggested the killer didn’t just know her but had kept up with her post-Danielle history. Could it be?
Dumb question. Of course he or she kept up—they managed to reach out from wherever and fuck up my drug test. Among other things.
“Tell me about the irritant.”
“He’s sitting about eight feet away.”
Tom chuckled. “I suppose I earned that. When did the symptoms start?”
“Late yesterday. I didn’t think much of the itching at first, because I’d misplaced my damned moisturizer, so I figured it was just my skin crying out for more Eucerin.”
“And then you found it again.”
“Yes.” On the driver’s-side floor of her rental car, as a matter of fact … she’d looked down and seen the top of the bottle sticking out. At the time, she’d wondered how she had missed it when she ransacked the car earlier.
“Which you then immediately, and generously, applied.”
“Oh my God. What the hell did that shithead put in my lotion?” Poison? Bodily fluids? Please, please let it be poison …
“I mean to find out.” He reached into his pocket and shook out … a gallon-sized Ziploc bag? “May I have it, please? I’ll have the lab take a look.”
“Absolutely. And good fucking riddance.” She got up, went to the dresser, opened the top drawer, and pulled out the bottle, using a pair of clean panties as a glove. She let it plop into Tom’s bag. And let the panties plop into the garbage can. “That applies to the bottle and you, in case you were wondering.”
Tom sealed and tucked the bag away somewhere. “Someone has done their research. Which is why I’m here. I have to help you. Please let me help you.”
This made her pulse pick up, which was annoying. Down, girl. “How do you know I’m not self-sabotaging?”
“If you were, you would still need help,” he pointed out. “Just of a different kind. But, again: you love flying too much. I can’t see you risking your license, health, and freedom in order to gain misplaced sympathy when it’s inevitable your deception would be discovered. And given what we know about the drug test and the lotion, I don’t think your illness is a coincidence. But I cannot fathom how someone has been able to salt your food with a regurgitant. You’re in a hotel, you’re not dining in a private home, and you likely haven’t eaten at the same place twice.”
“I like variety,” she agreed. “And bread pudding.”
“Nevertheless, we need to proceed as if someone has poisoned you and behave accordingly.”
“We, huh?”
“Yes, we. I—ah.” In half a second, Tom had gone from confident to diffident. “I thought we might join forces.”
She studied him. “Why?”
He just sat there for a few torturous seconds, then replied, “Because I cordially despise the thought of anyone sabotaging you, never mind a murderer. And … I regret doubting you.”
“Oh. So it’s a guilt team-up.”
“If you like.”
“I don’t like anything about this. Not one thing.”
“Understandable. And you won’t like this, either: I need to remain by your side.”
“Huh?”
“You’re being targeted by a clever killer who knows your routine and how to strike at what you love most while simultaneously stirring up your worst fears and regrets of the past, and we have no idea who it is or what, precisely, they hope to gain from this. And so I’m not inclined to let you out of my sight.”
“Well, you’re gonna have to,” she said, equally startled and, it must be said, a smidge thrilled by his determination. “I’ve got work tomorrow.”
“But you’re ill,” he exclaimed. “You should be resting right now.