chapter thirty-six

“Oh, look at this.” Dr. Gallo looked up when we walked into the blood bank. He had been examining charts at the receptionist’s desk, his long body slouching into a question mark as he read and made notes, and she was flirting with him in a way that made me want to run her blond braid through the electric pencil sharpener. “You’ve either got an arrest warrant, or there’s a break in the case. Since you’re almost smiling, it’s … I guess that means it could be either. Do you know who the perp is?”

“Stop watching SVU reruns. We don’t actually talk like that … helloooooo,” George cooed to the receptionist, who, given her slutty tendencies, would likely be receptive. “George Pinkman, FBI. We’ve gotta ask your boss some official questions about an official case we’re officially working on. Because we’re totally real FBI agents and not really working for SD-6.”

I swallowed a sigh. “A word, please, Dr. Gallo?”

“Sure.”

I left George chatting up the slut while Dr. Gallo escorted me to a small conference room. “I’m glad to see you.”

I could not imagine why, and was annoyed to feel my pulse soar at his words.

“I wanted to apologize about last night.”

“No need.”

“If I said anything to upset or scare—”

“I was not afraid!”

He didn’t blink. A man used to screeching, was Dr. Gallo. Was it his turbulent childhood or his profession? “I’m glad. I can’t take back any of what I said, since it all happens to be true, but I get that you’re in a relationship and I’ve got too much respect for you—”

“Please.”

“—to ever want to—”

“Shut.”

“—make you feel uncomfort—”

“Up! I am uncomfortable right now!”

“Oh.” He closed his mouth so hard I heard his teeth click and then, to my astonishment, his narrow, pale face slowly filled with color. “Of course. You’re here about the murders, not about anything else. I apologize again.”

“No—I—” Ah, yes, of course that was why I had shrilled at him like a fishwife and then, when he acted the perfect gent, told him to shut up. Because I was such a professional. Yes indeed! “I mean you—I—we’re here—I’m here—and we do need to talk about the—the murders—and about you—but not the way you—you—”

His hand closed around my bicep and he leaned in protectively. “Are you all right? You’re losing all your color. Trust me, I know the look when someone’s knees are about to go.” He gently forced me back a step, and the back of my knees hit the chair; I abruptly sat. “Put your head down.”

I did. For a long, long time.