TWELVE

A COUPLE OF US ARE GOING OUT FOR LUNCH TODAY,” LILA SAID from the door of Carrie’s office. “Want to go?”

A polite “No, thanks” was on Carrie’s lips, but she held it back. Since Adam left, she’d lived her life like a hermit. Breakfast at home with the newspaper, lunch spent at her desk reading medical journals while munching on a sandwich one of the nurses brought from the hospital, a frozen dinner defrosted and eaten in front of the TV each evening. This was how she behaved after John died, except that sometimes she forgot completely about eating. Why not get out? “Sure. And I’ll drive.”

There were four of them in the group: Lila, two other clinic nurses, and Carrie. For the first few minutes in the car, Carrie’s presence inhibited conversation somewhat, but before they reached the restaurant they’d chosen—a barbecue place nearby—the group was chatting freely.

The food was good, the company even better, and by the time they’d cleaned all the barbecue sauce off their fingertips and gone through the “I had that so I owe this” division of the bill, Carrie felt as though she’d had a respite from her worries.

As she drove back to the clinic, she looked in the rearview mirror and did a double take. There was a dark blue Ford Crown Victoria behind her. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t have been a cause for concern, but Carrie recalled seeing it following her car on the way to the restaurant. She struggled to recall the maneuvers to confirm if she was being tailed. She sped up. The Ford stayed with her. She slowed down and changed lanes. The Ford did the same. She made random right and left turns until Lila asked, “Dr. Markham, are you okay? Do you want me to drive? This isn’t the way to the clinic.”

Carrie looked back and the Ford was nowhere in sight. Maybe it had just been a coincidence. “Sorry. I was thinking about something else.” Lila gave her a worried look but said nothing.

When the women exited the car in the clinic parking lot, Carrie felt a familiar tingle between her shoulder blades. She huddled in the center of the group as they moved toward the clinic doors and didn’t relax until she was safely inside. Carrie wasn’t sure how much longer she could stand it.

Adam, hurry home. We have to bring this to an end.

Adam supposed he could drive to Chicago, but there was no need. Charlie DeLuca was there, but he wasn’t going to listen to Adam . . . or anyone else.

Charlie DeLuca was buried in the family plot in one of the nicer suburbs of metropolitan Chicago. He’d experienced a heart attack while in the Butner Federal Correctional Institution, and that was where DeLuca died before he could be moved elsewhere for treatment.

Adam trusted his brother but still felt he had to confirm the information. He dug out his laptop, logged on to the free WiFi the motel offered, and after a few minutes found a tiny obituary from one of the Chicago newspapers. Yes, Charlie DeLuca was dead.

Why hadn’t Adam done such a computer search long ago? Why had he just learned the news now? After a moment’s thought Adam recognized the reason: from the moment the jury returned a guilty verdict, he’d worked to put Charlie DeLuca out of his mind. The man had been given a sentence that should have guaranteed he’d die in prison, and that was exactly what he’d done.

Adam should have felt relief, but instead the news raised another problem for him to solve. If DeLuca’s death occurred several months earlier, why was someone still trying to kill Adam? It made no sense. But the persistent attempts told him one thing—he had to stop the killer another way. And that sent him to a totally different plan, one that left him with mixed emotions at best.

In a few minutes Adam was packed and ready to leave. The desk clerk surprised him by deleting the charge for a second day. “You just missed check-out time by a couple of hours. The maids are still working, and we’ll have that room rented by sundown.”

He smiled at the unexpected gesture. “Thanks. If I’m back in North Carolina, I’ll stay with you again.”

As he headed west, back to Jameson, Adam began work on a new plan. This one might not work either, but it was the best he could do. It would require one slight side trip on his journey, but the timing seemed right. And the thought of what he’d do there caused his pulse to quicken. On the one hand, what he was about to do frightened him. On the other, if this worked, both Adam and Carrie might be out from under the shadow of his would-be killer once and for all. Then again, if his plan misfired, he could end up in prison.

Carrie rolled over and squinted at her bedside clock. If she was going to attend church today, she should get up. Of course, that was a big “if.” A gentle rain was falling outside, making this a perfect day to pull the covers over her head and sleep in.

She wasn’t on call this weekend. The only people who’d look for her at church today were those wanting to ask questions about Adam’s absence. Those questions hadn’t slowed this week, but she’d finally reached the point where she could answer them almost without conscious thought. I don’t know where he’s gone. I don’t know why he left. I don’t know when he’ll be back. All true and all resulting in a tug at her heart that was almost physically painful.

Adam hadn’t called again since their phone conversation was terminated by a tenuous cell phone connection. Carrie had been tempted to try calling him but wasn’t sure if he’d have cell reception or if he’d be able to talk. No, she had to trust him. He said he’d stay in touch.

Carrie lay in bed and let the events of the past few weeks unreel in her mind. She felt as though she were on an emotional and spiritual roller coaster. She’d prayed for strength and courage but still felt weak and afraid. Now her lips moved silently. God, I know You’re in control of all things. But I can’t help it . . . I’m scared.

Carrie’s prayer was interrupted by the insistent ring of her bedside phone. She’d just been wishing Adam would call back. Could this be him? Even though she knew she shouldn’t get her hopes up, she answered the call with more than a little anticipation. “Dr. Markham.”

“Carrie, this is Adam.”

She flung the covers off, swung her feet over the side of the bed and slid them into slippers. “Adam, I’m so glad to hear from you. Where are you? Is everything all right? When—”

“Easy. I love you. I’ve missed you, more than I can say.”

“I love you too. What—”

“Look, we have lots to talk about when I get back, but I wanted to call and let you know that I’m on my way to Jameson. I should be there late tonight. We can talk tomorrow.”

“Are you okay?” Carrie asked.

“I’m fine. But the situation has changed. That’s one of the things we need to discuss.”

Carrie took in what seemed like half the air in the room, then let it out slowly. “Is . . . is this call safe? I didn’t check the caller ID. Are you using—”

“No need for any of that. I realized I’ve been going about this the wrong way all along. I thought I could protect us both by hiding. I was wrong. And I’m tired of running away.”

“What’s changed?” she asked.

“I’ll tell you when I get back. I had a plan to stop the threats on my life at the source, but now I see they’re going to continue no matter what I might do. So I intend to face the would-be killer head on.”

“So I don’t have to say I don’t know where you are?”

“If anyone asks, you can say I called, I’ve been out of town because of a family emergency, but I’m coming back now.”

She ran fingers through her hair. “I don’t understand.”

Carrie heard the sound of a horn in the background. “Look, I’ve got to drive, and traffic’s heavy on the Interstate,” Adam said. “I have to make one stop, then I’m headed home. It will be really late when I get into town.”

“I don’t care how late it is. I want to see you tonight.”

“Okay. I’ll phone when I get near your house. I can park a couple of blocks away and go through the alleys, then knock on your back door.”

“I thought you were through hiding.”

“I am,” Adam said. “But I’m not going to lead the person who’s after me to your doorstep either. When I face him, I’ll choose the place—and it won’t be anywhere near you.”

After the call ended, Carrie slipped into a robe and headed for the kitchen to have her first cup of coffee and throw together some breakfast.

A few minutes ago she’d been ready to blow off church. No more. Church was exactly where she wanted to be this morning.

As he drove, Adam considered how Charlie DeLuca’s death had changed things. He’d hoped he could get Charlie to call off the killer. But Charlie was dead, yet the attacks continued. It seemed to Adam his only remaining option was to identify the potential killer, whoever he was, and neutralize him.

Maybe Carrie had been right. Maybe it was time to go to the police. But what, exactly, could he tell them? Someone shot at me. Oh, that report I filed about finding the bullet holes in my windshield? I lied about that. Sorry. And somebody threw a Molotov cocktail through a window of the building I was in. How do I know it was meant for me? I just do. But you have to believe me. Somebody even tried to run me over in the hospital parking lot. Did anyone see it? Well, no. But surely you know I’m telling the truth.

No, this was his best option. It wasn’t great, and he didn’t really know if he could carry it off, but he didn’t see an alternative. So now he needed to buy a gun.

As he rolled through East Texas, he kept an eye on the roadside signs, watching for the right exit. Finally he saw a billboard telling him where to turn for the First Monday Trade Days. Soon he was guiding his car through the streets of Canton, Texas, looking for a place to park. He found a lot where he traded five dollars for a slot into which he jammed his little Forester.

Since moving to Jameson, Adam had heard about First Monday Trade Days in Canton. The activity didn’t actually take place on the first Monday of each month, but rather on the weekend before that day. Since today was the Sunday before the first Monday, Adam was in luck. Although he could undoubtedly find a flea market elsewhere this weekend, one that offered what he needed, he figured Canton would have the best selection.

Adam picked up a map and studied it. Among the stalls where people sold everything from antiques to woodcraft were a number selling guns. But where should he begin? The choices ranged from gun dealers displaying a big inventory in open-air stalls to individuals with a few guns and knives laid out on plain folding tables. While Adam was considering his choices he discovered another option, one the map didn’t show.

Adam jumped when a man approached him and said in a low voice, “Looking to buy a handgun?” He shook his head and walked away. After a couple of these encounters, he realized this was the way some individuals operated, choosing to sell a few pistols on a roving basis rather than pay the rental for a fixed space and deal with the paperwork required of a licensed dealer.

Now that he was confronted with so many choices, Adam regretted his lack of preparation. He wanted a dependable handgun, small enough to be carried easily, effective at short range. But did he want a revolver, a semiautomatic, what? He had no idea.

His work in the law office had familiarized him with Texas’s “concealed carry” laws. A carry permit would require that he pass a firearms training course. It would also require a more extensive computer background search than he was prepared to undergo. Adam Davidson wasn’t a convicted felon, but then again the identity he’d set up for himself when he struck out on his own might not hold up to intense scrutiny. After a few conversations Adam decided his best course of action was to buy a gun from a private dealer, one who didn’t fill out the sale form regular dealers used. He could worry about the matter of a carry permit later.

After a number of fruitless stops, he wandered up to a small table tended by an older man wearing a plaid shirt and jeans and lighting one cigarette off the butt of the previous one.

Adam looked through the man’s small stock of pistols, but in the end threw up his hands in both disgust and perplexity. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know.”

“Why don’t you tell me what you want, son?”

Why not? Adam gave him the story he’d developed as he went from stall to stall: his wife was being stalked by a former boyfriend, and he wanted a weapon to give her—small enough to carry in a pocket or purse but with adequate stopping power. He didn’t mind a used pistol, so long as it was in good condition and reliable.

The man took the cigarette from his mouth long enough to point a nicotine-stained finger toward a small food stand about a hundred feet away. “See that tall, weather-beaten looking man at the table drinking coffee? That’s the Colonel. See if he’ll sell you that pistol his wife had.”

Adam thanked the man and headed toward the food stand. It sounded a bit unusual, but the whole day had been unusual. Might as well give it a try.

The man at the table was leathery and lean. His white hair was the only indication of his age. He wore starched khakis, a white dress shirt open at the neck, and shined engineer’s boots. He looked up when Adam approached. “Yes?”

“Sir, my name is Adam Davidson.” Adam extended his hand, and the man took it in a grip that was firm without making it a contest of wills.

“Sam Johnson,” the man replied. “Most people call me Colonel.” He gestured to the other chair at the table. “What can I do for you?”

Adam eased into the chair, then told the same story he’d given the last gun dealer. “He said to ask you if you’d sell me your wife’s gun. I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I figured it was worth walking a hundred feet to talk with you.”

Johnson took a sip of coffee, leaned back, and ran his gaze over Adam’s face. Then he tapped the shoebox at his elbow. “I come here every month and bring this. So far I haven’t been able to do anything about it. I can’t bring myself to be one of those guys who walks the grounds and asks perfect strangers, ‘You want to buy a gun?’ Guess I’ve been waiting for the right person. Maybe that’s you.”

Adam wasn’t sure where this was going, but he was curious to know more about the man’s story. “I take it there’s something special about the gun.”

“It was my wife’s.” Johnson lifted the lid of the box. “Ruger semiautomatic SR9C, mint condition.” The man looked into the middle distance and smiled. “Right after we were married, I told her a woman alone—and she was alone a lot of the time when I was deployed—a woman alone needed to protect herself. I bought this. Taught her how to use it.”

“You said it was your wife’s.”

“She died six months ago.” The man looked away and blinked hard.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Adam said.

“I’m still getting rid of some things,” Johnson said. “This is one of them.” He shoved the box toward Adam.

The gun showed evidence of care. No scratches marred a black finish that shone with gun oil. The pistol was probably six inches long. Adam lifted it and found that it fit neatly in his hand.

“Weighs about a pound and a half,” Johnson said. “It looks like a toy, but one pull of that trigger can leave a man just as dead as if he’d been shot with a .357 Magnum.”

The enormity of the step he was taking wasn’t lost on Adam. Then he thought of Carrie, and his resolve strengthened. “I guess it’s what I need.”

“That model can accept either of two magazines. This one’s got the smaller one, ten rounds. That enough for you?”

“That will be fine,” Adam said. “If ten rounds isn’t enough, I might as well throw it at them.”

“You’re right about that.” Johnson leaned back and crossed his legs. “If you don’t mind my asking, do you know how to use one of these?”

Actually, Adam didn’t, but he thought he could figure it out. “If you mean where’s the safety, how do I eject the magazine, stuff like that—no. But I can learn. After that it’s a matter of point and pull the trigger, isn’t it?”

“Pretty much.” Sam took the gun from Adam and spent a few minutes showing him the mechanics of the Ruger. Then he carefully replaced it in the box. “One word of warning. It’s something everyone who carries a gun should know. Don’t pull it out unless you’re prepared to use it. And if you shoot, aim for the torso—the center of the mass. Trying to hit an arm or a leg? That’s not going to happen.” He paused, apparently considering his words. “I guess what I’m asking you is whether you’re prepared to kill someone.”

Adam had thought about this for the last hundred miles of his journey. He had his answer ready. “Yes, sir. I am.”

“Son, I retired from the army as a bird colonel. Never got the star because I wouldn’t play their games. In thirty years I learned to read people pretty well and pretty fast.” Johnson uncrossed his legs and recrossed them the other way.

Adam wondered what was coming next. Was Johnson about to back out? There was no way he could have any idea what Adam had in mind, was there?

“I think you’re a good man. I doubt that you’ll be using this to hold up a convenience store.” Johnson took another sip of coffee. “Whatever trouble makes you need this, I hope it helps.” He shoved the shoebox toward Adam. “Three hundred cash, including a box of 9 millimeter ammo.”

Adam unfolded three hundred dollar bills from his diminishing roll and laid them on the table. He rose and picked up the shoebox. “Thanks.”

“As a good citizen, I should remind you that you’re supposed to take the class and get a carry permit for that pistol.” Johnson unfolded himself from the chair like a carpenter’s rule. He stuck out his hand. “Good luck, son.”

Adam started back toward his car. He’d need all the luck he could get.

Carrie let the noontime buzz of the café wash over her, providing an auditory backdrop for her deep thoughts. Her Coke sat forgotten, its bubbles rising slowly to the surface. The sight and smell of her Reuben sandwich failed to tempt her. She idly munched on a potato chip and replayed her morning in church.

As she expected, there’d been questions about Adam. After a couple of them she had the new answer down pat: He had to leave town in a hurry because of a family emergency. That’s why no one knew any details. He called me this morning. Things are okay now, and he’ll be back tomorrow.

The sermon? Not the best she’d ever heard, but then again, how much attention had she paid? Her mind had been on Adam. She could hardly wait to see him. She was anxious to hear about his trip. The electronic strains of Beethoven’s “Fifth Symphony” cut through the chatter and clatter around her. Carrie picked up her cell and saw that the caller was Lila.

“Dr. Markham, I’m so glad you picked up.” Lila’s voice was breathless, and Carrie had the impression the woman was on the verge of tears. This was a far cry from the breezy, self-assured nurse with whom she worked every day.

“Lila, what’s wrong?”

“It’s my mother. She’s in the ER, and they’ve called Dr. Avery to see her. But I really wish you’d come.”

Carrie stared at her plate as though the sandwich and chips had just materialized there, surprising her with their presence. She raised a hand and beckoned a passing waitress. Carrie handed over her VISA card, pointed to the plate, and mouthed, “To-go box.” There was no way she could fail to respond to Lila’s plea. “I’ll have them cancel the call to Dr. Avery. What’s the problem? I need to tell the ER doctor what I want done while I’m in transit.”

The relief in Lila’s voice was obvious. “Mom complained of a severe headache this morning. I keep a blood pressure cuff at home to check my own pressure, so I decided to take hers. ”Her voice broke and the panic returned. “It was two twenty over one fifteen!”

“That’s high, but we can get it down. What has the ER doctor done so far?”

Lila’s deep breath whistled in Carrie’s ear. “They drew some blood, ran an EKG, which I haven’t seen, and gave her IV labetalol.”

“Beta-blocker. Good choice,” Carrie said. The waitress appeared with the check, plus a to-go box and a Styrofoam cup for Carrie’s drink. She nodded her thanks. “That’s pretty standard. Is her pressure coming down?”

“Yes. Of course, I realize they want it to come down slowly. It’s not that. It’s what the ER doctor wants to do now.”

“Go on.” Carrie snugged the cell phone between her ear and shoulder while she added a tip and signed the check.

“He wants to admit her and start a workup for pheochromocytoma.”

Pheochromocytoma, a benign tumor of the adrenal gland, was certainly one of the causes to be considered in cases of chronic hypertension, but its incidence was estimated at about one per one thousand cases. And this wasn’t chronic. The last time Carrie examined Lila’s mother, Mrs. James had mild elevation of her blood pressure—not enough to merit medication, but sufficient to get her a lecture on the need for weight loss. The reported blood pressure now was certainly high, but it was too soon to jump to a workup for pheochromocytoma.

A phrase Carrie had first learned in medical school popped into her mind. She smiled the first time she heard it, but the wisdom behind the words was soon evident to her. Now she frequently repeated the words to medical students when discussing a differential diagnosis: When you hear hoof beats, think horses, not zebras. She picked up her food. “You’re right. I think that’s a bit radical. I’ll call the ER right now and be there in fifteen minutes.”

Carrie disconnected the call, then pushed the speed-dial button for the ER as she strode out of the café to her car, her lunch in hand. When the nurse answered, she said, “This is Dr. Markham. My nurse, Lila, is there with her mother, Mrs. James. Please call Dr. Avery and tell him not to come out. She’s my patient and I’m on my way to take care of the situation. And let the ER doctor know too.” She’d give him the horses and zebras talk later—in private.

Carrie pulled away from her parking spot, looked in her rearview mirror, and went cold all over. A dark blue Ford Crown Victoria had dropped into traffic right behind her. Well, she didn’t have time to do the deke and dodge thing now. She headed for the hospital. Let them follow her. There should be enough people around to discourage an attack when she arrived, and maybe she could get one of the security guards to walk her to her car when she left. Right now she had to forget about her own safety and focus on Lila’s mother.

After she entered the ER, Carrie picked up Mrs. James’s chart at the nurse’s desk and did a bit of mental arithmetic. Almost an hour had elapsed since Jeff Clanton, the ER doctor, began treating Mrs. James. In that time the woman had received an initial IV dose of a beta-blocker, following which an IV drip delivered more of the drug in a controlled fashion.

The treatment seemed to be working. Carrie headed for the curtained cubicle where Lila’s mother lay and saw Jeff Clanton on a course designed to intercept her. Since he was the ER doctor on duty, that might explain some of this. Jeff was a recent graduate of one of the lesser-known medical schools in the south. He’d applied to three family practice residencies but hadn’t been accepted at any of them. That wasn’t totally uncommon—competition was pretty fierce at some institutions. One told Jeff they’d take him next year, so he was working here both to make a living and get experience until that slot opened up. To this point, Carrie hadn’t had any problems with his performance. Jeff seemed anxious to profit from his time in the ER, and this seemed like a chance for her to do a little mentoring.

“Blood pressure’s coming down nicely,” Carrie said to Jeff as the two doctors stood at Mrs. James’s bedside. “What do you think caused the hypertension?”

The ER doctor looked embarrassed. He inclined his head toward the curtains surrounding the ER cubicle. “Uh, think we should step outside?”

“Not at all,” Carrie said. “Mrs. James is a retired LVN, and her daughter, Lila, is my clinic nurse. They’re used to hearing doctors discuss cases, and I think they need to hear this. Besides, I have a question I want to ask our patient, and I think her answer may surprise you.”

“Okay.” He cleared his throat. “She says her blood pressure’s always been high, but she wasn’t on any medication. I took that to mean that this was a sudden spike. To me, that suggested an adrenal tumor, so I asked Dr. Avery—” He paused and gave her an apologetic look. “I would have called you, but he’s on call—Anyway, I suggested a pheochromocytoma workup.”

Carrie clamped down on her back teeth. Be cool. He’s just out of med school. “What’s the first thing you think of when you encounter a patient with a sudden rise in blood pressure?”

“Several things. Eclampsia, of course—but she’s not pregnant. Renal disease, but her BUN and creatinine came back normal. She drinks two cups of coffee a day, no energy drinks, no Cokes. And her only medication is a hormone preparation. That leaves something like an adrenal tumor suddenly becoming active. I know it’s unusual, but I think we should rule it out.”

Carrie nodded. Jeff was right so far, but there was another possibility, one Carrie herself might not have considered had she not encountered it a year or so before. She turned back to her patient. “Mrs. James, what medicines do you take?”

The woman thought about that for a few seconds. “Just my hormone pill, like he said.”

“What other pills—not prescriptions, just pills—what others do you take? What did you take today?”

“Well, you told me I had to lose weight, so I went to the health food store on Friday and got a bottle of weight loss pills.”

Carrie glanced at Lila, and she saw her nurse’s expression change as the light dawned.

“And did you take one of those today?” Carrie asked.

“Actually, the first one didn’t seem to have much effect, so I took two yesterday. This morning I decided to try three. I mean, they’re natural, so I don’t see how they could be bad for me.” She turned to Lila. “I think they’re in my purse.”

Lila opened the satchel-like purse slung over her shoulder, rummaged for a minute, and extracted a white bottle with a purple and white label that read, “Bitter Orange.”

Understanding lit up the younger doctor’s face. “I should have asked about nonprescription drugs.”

“You don’t use the word ‘drugs.’ You don’t say ‘medication’ or ‘prescription.’ You ask if they’re taking any pills, whether they got them from the doctor or bought them over the counter. You ask what they took today—this day, not regularly.”

He nodded. “I—”

“It’s okay,” Carrie said. “We’ll talk about it later. Right now, let’s titrate that blood pressure down to a safe level.”

Almost two hours later Carrie was ready to leave the hospital. She’d arranged to admit Mrs. James overnight for observation in order to taper the dose of the beta-blocker medication and observe for any heart damage from the episode. Dr. Clanton had learned a valuable lesson about horses and zebras. And Lila couldn’t thank Carrie enough for coming to the hospital when she wasn’t on call.

“No problem,” Carrie reassured her. And it wasn’t. Her time in the ER certainly had been more productive and more satisfying than a Sunday afternoon nap.

Carrie almost forgot the blue Ford that followed her to the hospital—almost, but not totally. She found a security guard in the Emergency Room waiting area and approached him. “Would you mind walking me to my car?”

It was a strange request, since it was broad daylight, but the guard either was used to such appeals or was unusually patient. In either case, he rose, giving her neither a puzzled look nor furrowed brow, and accompanied Carrie to her car, one hand on his holstered weapon, his head moving from side to side as though expecting trouble. She wasn’t sure if he really believed her or was putting on a show, but in either case she welcomed his presence.

At her car Carrie thanked the guard and prepared to climb in. But just before she slid behind the wheel, she scanned the parking lot and saw a tall man, wearing a Stetson, leaning against the fender of a blue car three rows ahead of her. He was dressed in a suit and tie, and his manner was anything but threatening. He smiled and began walking toward her.

Carrie looked around. The security guard was almost back to his post. She was about to start running toward safety when she heard a soft voice with a definite drawl say, “Dr. Markham?”

The stranger wasn’t hurrying, but rather ambled along as though he had all the time in the world. She found herself rooted to the spot, wondering if a scream would get the guard’s attention in time.

The man tipped his hat. “There hasn’t been a good time to introduce myself,” he said. He reached into his pocket and showed her a leather wallet with a badge inside it. “Sam Westerman, U.S. Marshalls Service. I was asked to keep an eye on you while your . . . er, your friend is out of town.”

Carrie wasn’t sure how she felt—grateful that Adam was trying, in his own way, to keep her safe or angry that he hadn’t bothered to mention it to her. “Thank you. I appreciate it,” she said.

After Westerman touched the brim of his hat and ambled away, Carrie climbed into her car. As she pulled into her driveway, Carrie waved to the blue Ford behind her. Thanks, Mr. Westerman. Thanks, Adam. She decided she wasn’t angry. In a few hours she’d see Adam again. That was enough.