Mean Streak

by Sandra Brown

Genres: Suspense; Mystery

Synopsis

From #1 New York Times best-selling author Sandra Brown comes a heart-pounding story of survival, that takes the age-old question, “Does the end justify the means?” and turns it on its head.

Dr. Emory Charbonneau, a pediatrician and marathon runner, disappears on a mountain road in North Carolina. By the time her husband Jeff, miffed over a recent argument, reports her missing, the trail has grown cold. Literally. Fog and ice encapsulate the mountainous wilderness and paralyze the search for her.

While police suspect Jeff of “instant divorce,” Emory, suffering from an unexplained head injury, regains consciousness and finds herself the captive of a man whose violent past is so dark that he won’t even tell her his name. She’s determined to escape him, and willing to take any risks necessary to survive.

Unexpectedly, however, the two have a dangerous encounter with people who adhere to a code of justice all their own. At the center of the dispute is a desperate young woman whom Emory can’t turn her back on, even if it means breaking the law.

As her husband’s deception is revealed, and the FBI closes in on her captor, Emory begins to wonder if the man with no name is, in fact, her rescuer from those who wish her dead - and from heartbreak.

Combining the nail-biting suspense and potent storytelling that has made Sandra Brown one of the world's best loved authors, MEAN STREAK is a wildly compelling novel about love, deceit, and the choices we must make in order to survive.

Release date: July 28, 2015

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 304

Sample

Chapter 1

z

Does it hurt this much?” Dr. Emory Charbonneau pointed to a drawing of a child’s face contorted with pain, large teardrops dripping from the eyes. “Or like this?” She pointed to another in the series of caricatures, where a frowning face illustrated moderate discomfort.


The three-year-old girl pointed to the worst of the two.

“I’m sorry, sweetie.” Emory inserted the otoscope into her right ear. The child began to scream. As gently as possible, and talking to her soothingly, Emory examined her ears. “Both are badly infected,” she reported to the girl’s frazzled mother.

“She’s been crying since she got up this morning. This is the second earache this season. I couldn’t get in to see you with the last one, so I took her to an emergency center. The doctor there prescribed meds, she got over it, now it’s back.”

“Chronic infections can cause hearing loss. They should be avoided, not just treated when they occur. You might consider taking her to a pediatric ENT.”

“I’ve tried. None are accepting new patients.”

“I can get her in with one of the best.” It wasn’t a misplaced boast. Emory was confident that any one of several colleagues would take a patient that she referred. “Let’s give this infection six weeks to heal up completely, then I’ll set her up with an appointment. For now, I’ll give her an antibiotic along with an antihistamine to clear up the fluid behind the eardrums. You can give her a children’s analgesic for the pain, but as soon as the meds kick in, that should decrease.

“Don’t push food on her, but keep her hydrated. If she’s not better in a few days, or if her fever spikes, call the number on this card. I’m going away for the weekend, but another doctor is covering for me. I doubt you’ll have an emergency, but if you do, you’ll be in excellent hands until I get back.”

“Thank you, Dr. Charbonneau.”

She gave the mother a sympathetic smile. “A sick child is no fun for anybody. Try to get some rest yourself.”

“I hope you’re going someplace fun for the weekend.”

“I’m doing a twenty-mile run.”

“That sounds like torture.”

She smiled. “That’s the point.”

Outside the examination room, Emory filled out the prescription form and finished her notes in the patient file. As she handed it over to the office assistant who checked out patients, the young woman said, “That was your last of the day.”

“Yes, and I’m on my way out.”

“Did you notify the hospital?”

She nodded. “And the answering service. I’m officially signed out for the weekend. Are Drs. Butler and James with patients?”

“They are. And both have several in the waiting room.”

“I hoped to see them before I left, but I won’t bother them.”

“Dr. Butler left you a note.”

She passed her a sheet from a monogrammed notepad. Break a leg. Or is that what you say to a marathon runner? Emory smiled as she folded the note and put it in her lab coat pocket.


The receptionist said, “Dr. James asked me to tell you to watch out for bears.”

Emory laughed. “Do their patients know they’re a couple of clowns? Tell them I said good-bye.”

“Will do. Have a good run.”

“Thanks. See you Monday.”

“Oh, I almost forgot. Your husband called and said he was leaving work and would be at home to see you off.”

*  *  *

“Emory?”

“In here.” As Jeff walked into the bedroom she zipped up her duffel bag and, with a motion that was intentionally defiant, pulled it off the bed and slid the strap onto her shoulder.

“You got my message? I didn’t want you to leave before I got here to say good-bye.”

“I want to get ahead of Friday afternoon traffic.”

“Good idea.” He looked at her for a moment, then said, “You’re still mad.”

“Aren’t you?”

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t.”

Last night’s argument was still fresh. Words shouted in anger and resentment seemed to be reverberating off the bedroom walls even now, hours after they’d gone to bed, lying back to back, each nursing hostility that had been simmering for months and had finally come to a boil.

He said, “Do I at least get points for wanting to see you off?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“On whether or not you’re hoping to talk me out of going.” He sighed and looked away, and she said, “That’s what I thought.”

“Emory—”

“You should have stayed and finished out your day at the office. Because I’m going, Jeff. In fact, even if I hadn’t planned this distance run for tomorrow, I’d still want to take some time for myself. A night spent away from each other will give us a chance to cool off. If the run wears me out, I may stay up there tomorrow night, too.”

“One night or two won’t change my mind. This compulsion of yours—”

“This is where we started last night. I’m not going to rehash the quarrel now.”

Her training schedule for an upcoming marathon had been the subject that sparked the argument, but she feared that more substantive issues had been the underlying basis for it. The marathon wasn’t their problem; the marriage was.

Which is why she wanted so badly to get away and think. “I wrote down the name of the motel where I’ll be tonight.” As they walked past the kitchen bar, she tipped her head down toward the sheet of paper lying on it.

“Call me when you get there. I’ll want to know you made it safely.”

“All right.” She slid on her sunglasses and opened the back door. “Good-bye.”

“Emory?”

Poised on the threshold, she turned. He leaned down and brushed his lips across hers. “Be careful.”

*  *  *

“Jeff? Hi. I made it.”

The two-hour drive from Atlanta had left Emory tired, but most of the fatigue was due to stress, not the drive itself. The traffic on northbound Interstate 85 had thinned out considerably about an hour outside the city, when she took the cutoff highway that angled northwest. She’d arrived at her destination before dusk, which had made navigating the unfamiliar town a bit easier. She was already tucked into bed at the motel, but tension still claimed the space between her shoulder blades.

Not wanting to exacerbate it, she’d considered not calling Jeff. Last night’s quarrel had been a skirmish. She sensed a much larger fight in their future. Along every step of the way, she wanted to fight fairly, not peevishly.

Besides, if the shoe had been on the other foot, if he had left on a road trip and didn’t call as promised, she would have been worried about his safety.

“Are you already in bed?” he asked.

“About to turn out the light. I want to get an early start in the morning.”

“How’s the motel?”

“Modest, but clean.”

“I get worried when clean is an itemized amenity.” He paused as though waiting for her to chuckle. When she didn’t, he asked how the drive had been.

“All right.”

“The weather?”

They were reduced to discussing the weather? “Cold. But I planned on that. Once I get started, I’ll warm up fast enough.”

“I still think it’s crazy.”

“I’ve mapped out the course, Jeff. I’ll be fine. Furthermore, I look forward to it.”

*  *  *

It was much colder than she had anticipated.

She realized that the moment she stepped out of her car. Of course the overlook was at a much higher elevation than the town of Drakeland where she’d spent the night. The sun was up, but it was obscured by clouds that shrouded the mountain peaks.

A twenty-mile run up here would be a challenge.

As she went through her stretching routine, she assessed the conditions. Although cold, it was a perfect day for running. There was negligible wind. In the surrounding forest, only the uppermost branches of the trees were stirred by the breeze.

Her breath formed a plume of vapor that fogged up her sunglasses, so she pulled the funnel neck of her running jacket up over her mouth and nose as she consulted her map one final time.

The parking lot accommodated tourists who came for the nearby overlook. It also served as the hub for numerous hiking trails that radiated from it like the spokes of a wheel before branching off into winding paths that crisscrossed the crest of the mountain. The names of the particular trails were printed on arrow-shaped signposts.

She located the trail she’d chosen after carefully reviewing the map of the national park and researching it further online. She welcomed a challenge, but she wasn’t foolhardy. If she wasn’t certain she could make it to her turnaround point and back, she wouldn’t be attempting it. Rather than being daunted by the inhospitable terrain, she was eager to take it on.

She locked her duffel bag in the trunk of her car and buckled on her fanny pack. Then she adjusted her headband, zeroed the timer on her wristwatch, pulled on her gloves, and set out.

Chapter 2

z

Emory came awake gradually but didn’t open her eyes, fearing that admitting light would make the excruciating headache worse. It had jarred her out of a deep sleep with pains so piercing it was as though a nail gun were being used inside her skull. She was hearing a noise not ordinarily heard in her bedroom, but even her curiosity wasn’t enough to embolden her to lift her eyelids.


In addition to the sharp pains inside her head, her right foot was throbbing constantly. She’d run too hard on it this morning.

The aroma of food was making her queasy.

Why was she smelling food in her bedroom, when it and the kitchen were on opposite sides of the house? Whatever Jeff was cooking—

Jeff didn’t cook.

Her eyes sprang open, and, when met with nothing she recognized, she sat bolt upright.

The alien scene before her blurred and spun. Scalding bile gushed into her throat. She barely managed to choke it down before spewing it. Dizziness thrust her back down onto the pillow, which she realized wasn’t her pillow.

And the man looming at the side of the bed wasn’t Jeff.

She blurted, “Who are you?”

He came a step closer.

“Stay away from me!” She held up her hand, palm out, although she had no chance of fighting him off. She was as weak as a newborn. He was a giant.

But on her command, he stayed where he was. “Don’t be afraid of me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Who are you? Where am I?”

“You’re safe.”

That remained to be seen. Her breaths were short and quick, and her heart was pounding. She willed herself to calm down, knowing that panicking wouldn’t benefit her.

“How do you feel?” His voice was low and rusty, as though he hadn’t used it in a while.

She just stared at him, trying to piece together the disjointed stimuli and form an explanation of where she was and why she was here.

“How’s your head?” He hitched his chin up.

Tentatively she felt the area indicated and groaned when her fingertips touched a knot behind her left ear. It was like she’d struck a mallet to a gong, sending waves of pain through her head. Her hair was sticky and matted with blood, and her fingers came away stained red. She noticed blood on the pillowcase.

“What happened to me?”

“You don’t remember?”

Her mind backtracked. “I remember running. Did I fall?”

“I thought maybe you could tell me.”

She was about to shake her head, but the motion made her ill and caused another sunburst of pain. “How did I get here?”

“I’d been watching you through binoculars.”

He’d been watching her through binoculars? She disliked the sound of that. “From where?”

“A ridge on another peak. But I lost track of you and thought I should check it out. I found you lying unconscious, picked you up, brought you here.”

“Where is here?”


He made a motion with his hand, inviting her to see for herself.

Every movement of her head meant a fresh agony, but she pushed herself up onto her elbows. After giving the vertigo several moments to subside, she took in her surroundings, specifically looking for a possible means of escape should one become necessary.

There were four windows. Only one door. Only one room, in fact.

The bed on which she lay occupied a corner of it. A screen of louvered panels, probably meant to separate the sleeping area from the rest of the room, had been folded flat and propped against the wall, which was constructed of split logs.

Other furnishings consisted of a brown leather recliner and matching sofa. Both had creases, wrinkles, and scratches testifying to decades of use. Between them stood an end table, and on it was a lamp with a burlap shade. These pieces were grouped together on a square of carpet with a hemmed border.

The kitchen was open to the rest of the room. There was a sink, a narrow cookstove, an outmoded refrigerator, and a maple wood table with two ladder-back chairs painted olive green. A large stone fireplace comprised most of one wall. The fire burning in it was making the crackling sound she’d been unable to identify when she first woke up.

He’d given her time to survey the room. Now he said, “Only one of your water bottles is empty. You must be thirsty.”

Her mouth was dry, but other matters concerned her more. “I was unconscious when you found me?”

“Out cold. I’ve tried several times to wake you up.”

“How long have I been out?”

“I found you around seven thirty this morning.”

She looked down at her wristwatch and saw that it was twenty past six in the evening. She bicycled her legs to kick off the layers of covers. Throwing her legs over the side of the bed, she stood up. Immediately she swayed.

“Whoa!”

He caught her upper arms. She didn’t like his touching her, but she would have fallen on her face if he hadn’t. He guided her back down onto the side of the bed. Her head felt as though it was about to explode. Her stomach heaved. She covered her eyes with her hand because everything within sight was alternately zooming close and then receding, like the wavering images in a fun house mirror.

“Want to lie back down or can you sit up?” he asked.

“I’ll sit.”

He gradually withdrew his hands from her arms, then left her. He went into the kitchen and took a gallon jug of water from the refrigerator. He filled a glass and carried it back to her.

She regarded it suspiciously, wondering if he’d drugged her. The date-rape drug was odorless, tasteless, and effective. It not only debilitated the victim, it wiped clean the memory. But if this man had some nefarious purpose in mind, what would have been the point of drugging her if she was already unconscious?

He said, “I tried to get some water down you earlier. You kept gagging and spitting it out.”

Which explained why the front of her shirt was damp. She was fully clothed except for her jacket, gloves, and headband. Her running shoes had also been removed and placed on the floor beside the bed, lined up evenly side by side. She looked up from them to the man extending her the drinking glass. “I’m certain I have a concussion.”

“That’s what I figured, since I couldn’t wake you up.”

“My scalp is bleeding.”

“Not anymore. It clotted quick enough. I’ve been dabbing it with peroxide. That’s why the blood on your fingers looks fresh.”

“I probably need stitches.”

“It bled a lot, but it’s not that deep of a gash.”

He’d made that assessment himself? Why? “Why didn’t you call nine-one-one?”

“I’m off the beaten path up here, and I can’t vouch for the quality of the emergency services. I thought it best just to bring you here and let you sleep it off.”

She didn’t agree. Anyone who’d sustained a blow to the head should be seen by a physician to determine the extent of the damage done, but she didn’t yet have the energy to argue the point. She needed to get her bearings and clear her head a bit first.

She took the glass of water from him. “Thank you.”

Although she was desperately thirsty, she sipped the water, afraid that if she drank it too quickly, she’d only throw it up. She was feeling a mite less anxious. At least her heart was no longer racing and her breathing was close to normal. She would take her blood pressure soon—her wristwatch allowed for that—but she didn’t feel up to doing it yet. She was having to white-knuckle the glass of water to keep it steady. He must have noticed.

“Dizzy?”

“Very.”

“Head hurt?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“I had a concussion once. Didn’t amount to anything except a really bad headache, but that was bad enough.”

“I don’t think mine is serious. My vision is a little blurry, but I remember what year it is and the name of the vice president.”

“Then you’re one up on me.”

He’d probably meant it as a joke, but there was no humor either in his inflection or in his expression. He didn’t come across as a man who laughed gustily and frequently. Or ever.

She sipped once more from the glass and then set it on the small table at the side of the bed. “I appreciate your hospitality, Mr.—”

“Emory Charbonneau.”

She looked up at him with surprise.

He motioned toward the end of the bed. Until now, she hadn’t noticed her fanny pack laying there, along with her other things. One of the earpieces on her sunglasses was broken. There was blood on it.

“I got your name off your driver’s license,” he said. “Georgia license. But your name sounds like Louisiana.”

“I’m originally from Baton Rouge.”

“How long have you lived in Atlanta?”

Apparently he’d noted her address, too. “Long enough to call it home. Speaking of which…” Not trusting herself to stand again, she scooted along the edge of the bed until she could reach her fanny pack. Inside it, along with two water bottles, one of them empty, were two twenty-dollar bills, a credit card, her driver’s license, the map she’d used to mark her trail, and, what she most needed right now, her cell phone.

“What were you doing up here?” he asked. “Besides running.”

“That’s what I was doing up here. Running.” When she tried unsuccessfully for the third time to turn her phone on, she cursed softly. “I think my battery is completely out of juice. Can I borrow your charger?”

“I don’t have a cell phone.”

Who doesn’t have a cell phone? “Then if I could use your land line, I’ll pay for—”


“No phone of any kind. Sorry.”

She gaped at him. “No telephone?”

He shrugged. “Nobody to call. Nobody to call me.”

The panic that she had willed away earlier seized her now. With the realization that she was at this stranger’s mercy, a baffling situation became a terrifying one. Her aching head was suddenly packed with stories of missing women. They disappeared and often their families never knew what their fate had been. Religious fanatics took wives. Deviants kept woman chained inside cellars, starved them, tortured them in unspeakable ways.

She swallowed another surge of nausea. Keeping her voice as steady as she was capable of, she said, “Surely you have a car.”

“A pickup.”

“Then could you please drive me to where I left my car this morning?”

“I could, but it—”

“Don’t tell me. It’s out of gas.”

“No, it’s got gas.”

“Then what?”

“I can’t drive you down.”

“Down?”

“Down the mountain.”

“Why not?”

He reached for her hand. She snatched it back, out of his reach. He frowned with annoyance then walked across the room to the only door and pulled it open.

Emory’s distress gave way to dismay. Supporting herself on various pieces of furniture as she slowly made her way across the room, she joined him at the open door. It was as though a gray curtain had been hung from above the jamb.

The fog seemed impenetrable, so thick that she could see nothing beyond a few inches of the doorframe.

“It rolled in early this afternoon,” he said. “Lucky I was there this morning, or you could’ve woken up to find yourself stranded out there in this.”

“I am stranded in this.”


“Looks like.”

“I don’t have to be.” Once again, her respiration sounded and felt like panting. “I’ll pay you to drive me.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the open fanny pack on the bed. “For forty bucks? No way.”

“Charge whatever you want. I’ll pay you the balance as soon as you get me home.”

He was shaking his head. “It’s not that I doubt you’d pay me. It’s that no amount of money will entice me. The roads up here are winding and narrow, steep drops on the outside. Most don’t have guard rails. I won’t risk your life, or mine, to say nothing of my truck.”

“What about your neighbors?”

His face went blank.

“Neighbors? Surely someone living close by has a phone. You could walk—”

“No one lives close by.”

It was like arguing with a fence post. Or a telephone pole. “I need to let my husband know that I’m all right.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” he said, glancing up toward the sky, although there was absolutely nothing to see. “Depending on how soon this lifts.” He closed the door. “You’re shivering. Go stand by the fire. Or, if you need the bathroom…” He pointed out a door on the other side of the room near the bed. “It can get cold in there, but I turned on the space heater for you.” He went over to the cookstove where a pot was simmering. “Are you hungry?” He removed the lid and stirred the contents.

His casual dismissal of her situation astounded her. It frightened her. It also made her mad as hell.

“I can’t stay here all night.”

Even though her voice had carried a trace of near-hysteria, he remained unruffled as he tapped the dripping spoon against the rim of the pot, set it in a saucer, and replaced the lid. Only then did he turn toward her and gesture toward the door. “You saw for yourself. You don’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

He looked away from her for several beats. When their eyes met again, he said, “Not always.”

Uncertain of what to do next, she stood where she was and watched as he began gathering utensils to set a place at the table. He asked again if she was hungry. “No. I’m sick to my stomach.”

“I waited on you to eat, but since you’re not going to, do you mind?”

Not that she believed her answer would matter to him, she told him to go ahead.

“I have something for your headache. And a Coke might settle your stomach. Or maybe you should go back to bed.”

Lying down would make her feel all the more vulnerable. “I’ll sit for a while.” Moving unsteadily, she walked over to the dining table. Remembering that she had blood on her fingers from her head wound, she said, “I need to wash my hands.”

“Sit before you fall.”

Gratefully she sank into one of the chairs. He brought her a plastic bottle of hand sanitizer, which she used liberally, then blotted her hands on a paper towel she tore off the roll standing in the center of the table.

Without any ado or hesitation, he took the blood-stained paper towel from her and placed it in a trash bin, then went to the sink and washed his own hands with hot water and liquid soap. He opened a can of Coke, brought it and a bottle of over-the-counter analgesic pills to the table, along with a sleeve of saltine crackers and a stick of butter still in the wrapper. At the stove, he ladled a portion of stew into a ceramic bowl.

He sat down across from her, tore a paper towel from the roll and placed it in his lap, then picked up his spoon. “I hate eating in front of you.”

“Please.”

He spooned up a bite and noticed her looking at the contents of the bowl. “Probably not what you’re used to.”

“Any other time it would look good. Beef stew is a favorite of mine.”

“It’s venison.”

She looked up at the stag head mounted on the wall above the fireplace.

He could smile after all. He did so, saying, “Not that particular deer. He was here when I moved in.”

“Moved in? This is your permanent residence? I thought—” She surveyed the rustic room and its limited comforts and hoped that she wasn’t about to insult him. “I thought this was a getaway, like a hunting cabin. A place you use seasonally.”

“No.”

“How long have you been here?”

With elbows on the table, he bent over his bowl, addressing it rather than her as he mumbled, “Six months or so.”

“Six months. Without even a telephone? What would you do in an emergency?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t had one yet.”

He opened the packet of crackers, took out two, and spread them with butter. He ate one alone and dropped the other into his bowl of stew, breaking it up with his spoon before taking another bite.

She watched him with unabashed curiosity and apprehension. He’d placed a paper towel in his lap as though it were a linen napkin, but he ate with his elbows on the table. He served his butter from the wrapper and had crumbled a cracker into his stew, but he blotted his mouth after every bite.

He lived in an outdated log cabin, but he didn’t look like a mountain man. Particularly. He had a scruff, but it wasn’t more than a day or two old. He wore a black-and-red-checked flannel shirt tucked into faded blue jeans, but the garments were clean. His hair was dark brown, collar length in back, longer than most men his age typically wore. It was laced with strands of gray at his temples.

That frosting would make another man look distinguished. It only made him look older than he probably was. Late thirties, possibly. But it was a lived-in face with a webbing of creases around his eyes, furrows at the corners of his lips, and a watchful wariness behind his eyes, which were a startling aquamarine. The cool color contrasted with his suntanned, wind-scoured face.

He was an odd mix. He lived ruggedly, without even a telephone or TV, but he wasn’t uncouth, and he was well-spoken. Open shelves affixed to the log walls held dozens of books, some hardcover, others paperback, all tidily arranged.

The whole place was neat, she noted. But there wasn’t a single photograph in the room, no knickknacks or memorabilia, nothing that hinted of his past, or, for that matter, his present.

She didn’t trust his casual manner, nor his explanation of why he hadn’t taken her to a medical facility as soon as he found her. Calling nine-one-one would have been even more practical. If he’d wanted to.

A man didn’t simply pick up an unconscious and bleeding woman and cart her to his remote and neighborless mountain cabin without a reason, and she couldn’t think of one that didn’t involve criminality or depravity or both.

He hadn’t touched her in any untoward way, but maybe he was a psychopath who drew the line at assaulting his victims while they were unconscious. Maybe he preferred them awake, aware, and responsive to his torment.

Shakily, she asked, “Are we in North Carolina?”

“Yes.”

“I ask because some of the trails in the park stretch over into Tennessee.”

She remembered parking in a designated area, doing her stretches, clipping on her fanny pack. She remembered hitting her stride, and she recalled the stillness of the woods on either side of the trail and how the cold air had become thinner as she gained altitude. But she had no memory of falling and striking her head hard enough to cause a concussion.

Which led her to wonder if that’s what had indeed happened.

She helped herself to one of the crackers and took a sip of Coke, hoping that the combination of them might relieve her queasiness. “What’s the elevation here?”

“Close to five thousand feet,” he replied. “Difficult terrain for running.”

“I’m training for a marathon.”

He stopped eating, interested. “First one?”

“Fifth, actually.”

“Huh. Hoping to improve your time?”

“Always.”

“So you push yourself.”

“I don’t see it that way. I love it.”

“Quite a challenge, distance running at this altitude.”

“Yes, but it makes running at a lower level easier.”

“You don’t worry about overdoing?”

“I’m careful. Especially with my right foot. I had a stress fracture last year.”

“No wonder you favor it.”

She gave him a sharp look. “How do you know I do?”

“I noticed as you were hobbling from the bed to the door.”

Possibly, she thought. Or had he noticed it before when he was watching her through binoculars? From just how far away? From a far ridge as he’d claimed, or from a much closer distance?

Rather than confront him with those questions, she continued making conversation in the hope of gaining information. “My foot gave me fits last year after Boston. The podiatrist advised that I stay off it for three months. I hated being unable to run, but I followed his instructions. Once he gave me the green light, I began training again.”

“When’s the marathon?”

“Nine days from today.”

“Nine days.”

“Yes, I know.” She sighed. “This concussion comes at a most inconvenient time.”

“You may have to pass.”

“I can’t. I have to run it.”

He didn’t ask, just looked at her.

“It’s a fund-raiser. I helped organize it. People are counting on me.”

He spooned another bite, chewed, and swallowed before continuing. “Your driver’s license identifies you as Dr. Emory Charbonneau. Medical doctor?”


“Pediatrics. I share a practice with two OB-GYNs.”

“You take over the babies once they arrive?”

“That was the plan when we formed the practice.”

“Do you have kids of your own?”

She hesitated