Standing like an ancient Pharaoh amid the treasures of his kingdom, Devin Sloane swirled the champagne in his class and smiled at Dr. Helmut Braun. “I’m sorry your wife couldn’t make the party, Doctor. Some great emergency, no doubt?”
Helmut felt an alarming quake in his serenity, but managed to crack a smile. “She was on call at the hospital”—he inclined his head—“and one of her patients went into labor at five p.m. But of course she sent her regrets. She was looking forward to this occasion.”
“Please give her my regards.” Devin lifted his glass, then downed the remaining liquid in a stiff, practiced gesture. “Lemuel,” he called, handing the empty goblet to a passing waiter, “see that everyone is properly escorted into the dining room, will you? I’d like to take Dr. Braun on a quick tour of the renovated west wing.”
From across the hallway Sloane’s assistant nodded, but Helmut thought the man’s eyes narrowed as he acknowledged his employer.
“This way, Doctor.” Devin pointed toward a carpeted hallway. “I want to show you my latest project. The construction is nearly complete.”
He led Helmut through a magnificent paneled hallway, then up a wide staircase carpeted with a rich oriental rug. The stairs opened onto a landing that led to a group of rooms quite removed from the rest of the grand house. From a gilded perch high on the wall, a security camera tracked their movements, and a soft beep sounded when they rounded a corner.
“Don’t mind that.” Devin waved his hand at a glass panel set into the wall. “We’ve just tripped the security beam. No one enters or leaves this part of the house without alerting a security guard.”
Helmut felt everything go silent within him.
“This will be Adam’s wing,” Devin continued, a note of affection lining his voice. “His nursery, his nanny’s room, his playroom, his computer center. Everything is here, and everything is nearly ready.”
“Adam, you said?”
A glow rose in Sloane’s face, as if the name had switched on a light inside him. “It’s fitting, don’t you think? Adam was the first, the most perfect man. My Adam will be as close to perfection as we of the twenty-first century can possibly come. In this contained environment, I intend to keep him unsullied from the world.”
Helmut stepped forward and peered through the first doorway. Blue walls and white lace curtains framed the tidy bedroom. A narrow, maidenly bed stood against the far wall.
“For the nanny.” Devin answered Helmut’s unspoken question. “I’ve already hired a girl from an English agency. She’s working for the royal family now, but she’ll depart London the moment I send for her.”
Helmut thrust his hands behind his back and continued down the hall. The right side of the hallway seemed to be reserved for the nanny’s use; the interconnected rooms on the left were for the child. The first room, outfitted with a crib, bassinet, and rocking chair, was obviously a nursery. A doorway in the south wall led into a carpeted playroom, which connected to a third room. This room remained unfinished; the drywall had been taped but not plastered or painted.
Devin gestured toward the empty space. “This will be his computer room, of course. He will be trained on the keyboard before he is even able to speak.”
“What if—” Helmut paused, taking time to consider his words. “What if the child does not show an aptitude for the computer?”
Devin’s dark brows shot up. “My dear Dr. Braun, you disappoint me. I suspect that he will display an aptitude for a great many things.” Sloane rubbed his hands like a starving gourmet eyeing a French feast. “My son will have gifts we can only dream of.”
Helmut’s shoes crunched a lump of dried spackle as he turned and pretended to admire the taped walls.
“My Adam will have the best of everything from the time he is born.” Devin stood directly behind Helmut, yet his voice echoed as if it came from far away. “Purified air is pumped through these vents; purified water flows through every faucet. Film on the windows prevents the passage of harmful UV rays; shields on every monitor will protect Adam from even miniscule amounts of radiation. He will never take an untested drug; he will never eat food with additives. Not a single strand of chemically dyed fabric will be allowed in his presence.”
A thunderbolt jagged through Helmut, a realization that sent the blood sliding through his veins like cold needles. “Do you intend to keep the child imprisoned in this place?”
Devin’s expression clouded. “Doctor, you astound me. This is no prison! It is a fortress of protection against the environmental causes of genetic degradation.” His eyes filled with contempt. “I am not a typical parent; I have power to protect. Nothing bad can touch him here. His genes will remain undefiled.”
Helmut knew he ought to keep silent, but he couldn’t stop himself. “You say the boy will not be a prisoner, but will he be free to walk on the lawn? Go to the zoo? Have a friend come over to play?”
Fury lurked beneath the smile Devin gave in answer. “Think back to your creation myths, Doctor, for they contain germs of truth. The creator always establishes a garden, a zone of security and contentment, a place where evil cannot intrude. As long as the creation is happy and in love with the creator, he does not desire the evils that exist outside his Eden.”
“But man has free will,” Helmut pointed out. “Even children are driven to exercise their strength of will.”
The fury was fading from Devin’s face, but his brown eyes remained narrow and bright. “My son will not be one of those spoiled little brats you see on the street, Doctor. He is unique. I never plumbed the depths of love until I tapped into the love a creator feels for his creation.”
Shaking his head, Helmut turned to survey the rooms again. “You certainly seem to have thought of everything.”
“I would never have succeeded in business if I had not learned to prepare for every contingency.” Devin stepped forward, intersecting Helmut’s gaze. “Our secret is quite safe. So safe, in fact, that I must tell you this: I am too eager to wait.”
Helmut barked a laugh. “Waiting is not negotiable. Every father waits.”
“For the birth, Doctor, I know I must be patient. But I cannot be separated from my child another week.” Sloane reached out and plucked a strand of lint from the lapel of Helmut’s jacket. “I want to be near my Adam. I want him to know my voice.”
Another spasm of alarm shook Helmut. He turned and strode toward the stairs. “Nein. Absolutely not. Too risky.”
“I know we must proceed with the utmost discretion,” Devin continued. “But contact is possible, Dr. Braun, and would not be difficult to arrange. I am an associate of yours, and you are a partner in your wife’s clinic. No one would think it strange if I accompanied you to the clinic—say, once a week.”
Restless and irritable, Helmut stopped in midstride. “I’m already forwarding you a copy of her file!” His rough whisper echoed in the empty hallway. “If I am discovered, how can I explain that?”
Devin’s face twisted in a conspiratorial grin. “Quite easily. I’m funding a hospital for children with genetically transmitted diseases. It’s only natural that I would be interested in the results of your genetic testing. I’d do anything to ease the pain of my suffering little ones.”
Helmut pushed at the narrow hank of hair that had fallen onto his damp forehead. “My wife would find your presence odd. You’ve never been to the Women’s Clinic, and you’ve no rational reason to develop an interest.”
“Only a few visits; no one will think anything about it.” Devin thrust his hands behind his back and rocked slightly on his heels, his eyes glowing with a savage inner fire. The charming host had completely disappeared, his handsome and elegant veneer peeled back to reveal the ruthlessness underneath. “You owe me this, Helmut. And you must remember—thus far I’ve restrained myself to a remarkable degree. I’ve provided everything you asked for and required nothing of you but a few computer reports.”
Helmut shifted and looked away, abruptly regretting his decision to attend this Christmas Eve party. This adversarial assault was unconscionable and Devin’s desire to ogle Lara Godfrey obscene. But what choice did he have?
Slowly, he turned to meet Sloane’s gaze. “You will guard your tongue while you are at the clinic?”
“I will be the soul of discretion.”
Helmut jerked his head in a sharp nod. “Call me next week and we’ll set up the first visit.”
“Lovely.” Sloane grinned and reassumed the mask of a charming host. “Now, let us get back to the dinner. After tasting my chef ’s offering, Dr. Braun, you will be ever so grateful you celebrated Christmas with me.”
Swallowing his dignity, Helmut turned away from the surveillance camera and followed.
On Monday morning, December twenty-eighth, Lara was startled by the robust sound of men’s voices in the clinic hallway. She recognized Helmut Braun’s heavy accent immediately, but though the other voice seemed familiar, she couldn’t place it.
After finishing with her patient, she exited the exam room, turned the corner, and nearly bumped into Gaynel, who was trembling in the hall. “He’s here,” Gaynel whispered, frantically pointing toward the break room.
“Who?”
“Devin Sloane. He’s sitting at our table.” She brought her fingertips to her lips. “Ohmigoodness! I think he’s drinking from my coffee mug!”
Amused by the girl’s enthusiasm, Lara smiled. “What happened, Gaynel? Did you ask Santa to bring him for Christmas?”
Olivia stepped out of an exam room and caught Lara’s eye. From the look on her boss’s face, Lara knew she wasn’t thrilled with the presence of her husband’s guest.
“Mr. Sloane has financed one of Helmut’s genetic projects,” Olivia said, her voice low as she dropped a chart on the counter. “Helmut apparently thinks it necessary to show him off.”
Lara bit back a giggle. Olivia often said Helmut could behave like a child, so perhaps this was an example of immature behavior. But it wasn’t every day that a billionaire appeared in their break room.
“Should I go in?” Lara asked Gaynel as Olivia moved away. “I’ll probably act like a fool. He won’t remember meeting me, and if I remind him, I’ll make him feel like an idiot.”
“Stop babbling and go say hello.” Gaynel slipped behind Lara and gave her a gentle shove. “He’s only a man. Just ignore the fact that he’s the most handsome, rich, intelligent, cultured man we’ve ever had in our building.”
Lara hesitated for a moment, then smoothed her lab coat. She would just casually walk in and head toward the refrigerator, where she had stashed a carton of orange juice. If Sloane remembered meeting her, she’d let him mention it. If not, she’d pass quickly through the room and act as if his visit were no big deal.
Gathering her courage, she walked down the hall and turned the corner. Her cool resolve vanished like a puff of smoke when she saw Dr. Braun and Devin Sloane relaxing at the break table like two men on vacation. Dr. Braun had a newspaper spread before him; Devin Sloane was reading Sharon’s copy of the National Enquirer. Both men were sipping from coffee mugs.
Helmut reddened like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar when Lara entered the room. “Hello,” he said, his voice tight. “Are we in your way? We are just camping out until Olivia is free for lunch.”
Devin Sloane lowered the Enquirer, then stood. “Perhaps Ms. Godfrey would like to join us.” The warmth of his smile echoed in his voice. “A pleasure to see you again, Ms. Godfrey.”
“I don’t believe it,” Lara whispered, meeting the smile and the hand he offered. She felt a blush burn her cheekbones as his hand gripped hers. “I didn’t think you’d remember me.”
“I never forget a lovely face.” He released her hand but stood beside the table, his face a study in grave politeness. “So—would you like to join us for lunch?”
“She has patients,” Helmut protested. “It is not fair to spring an invitation on a busy woman.”
“I’m certain Ms. Godfrey is more than able to handle her caseload.” Sloane spoke in a cultured rumble that was both powerful and gentle. “Won’t you join us?”
Lara smiled as she moved to the refrigerator. “Thank you for the invitation, but I’ve already promised to have lunch with Gaynel and Sharon.” She glanced back at Dr. Braun. “They’re planning to throw me an office baby shower, so the least I can do is let them tell me what I’m going to need.”
“Ah, yes.” As Sloane’s gaze fell on her swollen stomach, Lara noticed that Sloane seemed to be one of those rare men who could look at a pregnant woman’s belly without pulling away in a rictus of embarrassment.
“Congratulations.” Sloane met her gaze. “When will the blessed event occur?”
“Sometime around February fourth.” Lara opened the fridge and took out her orange juice, then remembered her manners. “Let me return the congratulations, Mr. Sloane. I understand you are expecting a baby too.”
His dark eyes filled with fierce sparkling. “Thank you for remembering. My son is also due in a few weeks.”
“You must be very happy.”
“I am over the moon.” He lowered himself back into his chair. “Nothing I have ever accomplished will compare to holding that child in my arms.”
Lara lifted a brow. She’d met pleased, nervous, and agitated expectant fathers, but she’d never met anyone who seemed to embrace fatherhood quite as expansively as Sloane.
Carol leaned around the corner and cast a bright smile at the visitor. “Lara, there’s a call for you,” she said, not even looking in Lara’s direction. “Good morning, Mr. Sloane.”
Sloane’s smile was polite and noncommittal.
Carol stepped into the room, then placed her hands behind her back and leaned against the door frame, blocking Lara’s way. “I hope you’ll pardon my curiosity, but we’re all dying to know who your child’s mother is. You’ve been linked with everyone from actresses to heiresses, and most of us think that surrogate story is only a smoke screen.”
“Actually”—Sloane’s voice came out hoarse, as if forced through a tight throat—“the surrogate story is true, and I’m not at liberty to say who the mother is.”
Carol swallowed hard, her face going as scarlet as a ruptured artery. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.” She glanced at Lara, whose own cheeks felt as if they’d been seared by a candle flame. Sloane would think they were all a bunch of gossips.
Sloane picked up his coffee mug and smiled over the rim. “Don’t worry, I’m not offended. After all, we’re all sophisticated professionals, and we understand how the world works. Science has brought us a long way in the last two decades.”
Lara smiled as her hand fell upon her rounded stomach. Sloane was right. Without the miracle of modern science, she wouldn’t be carrying her own beloved baby.
“It’s very nice to see you again, Mr. Sloane.” She moved toward the hall, but paused in the doorway. “And thank you for the invitation to lunch, but as you can see, it’s a busy morning.”
Sloane waved at her. “Perhaps another time.”
A thrill shot through her as she moved toward the telephone. He sounded as if he actually meant it.
January passed in a continuous loop of restless days and uncomfortable nights. Lara gave up her sneakers for a pair of hideous slip-on canvas shoes—for their traction over snow and ice and because she could no longer tie her tennis shoes. Her workday wardrobe shrank to four colorful smocks, three pairs of elastic maternity pants, one tent dress for church, and two voluminous nightgowns. Lately her dreams consisted solely of beach scenes in which she stretched flat on the sand, belly down, while a cherubic baby made sand castles at her side and a sea gull pinwheeled overhead.
“I’m ready to be ‘un-pregnant’ again,” she told Connor one night as they munched Kentucky Fried Chicken on TV trays in her living room. “I’m ready to walk and not waddle, wear jeans instead of tents, and sleep on my stomach. Having this little shelf”—she patted the mound of baby suspended over her lap—“has been convenient, but I’m ready to move on. I hope Junior comes early.”
“Got your suitcase packed?”
“All the essentials are in a bag by the front door.”
The tip of Connor’s nose brightened. “Um—if the time comes when you’re home, can I drive you to the hospital?”
Lara leaned over and squeezed his shoulder. “I was going to ask you. Thanks for offering.”
Evenings with Connor were the brightest spots of the day, for working at the clinic completely wiped her out. After a few hours on her feet, Lara felt the baby pressing upon her pelvis, and resting in a chair did nothing to relieve the pressure. Olivia graciously allowed her to take short breaks, one in the morning and another in the afternoon, so Lara took advantage of the time to stretch out on the love seat in Olivia’s office. In a reclining position, no matter how cramped, the baby floated up out of the pelvic cavity, and Lara could close her eyes for a few minutes of blessed relief.
In the last four weeks she had experienced nearly every symptom known to her third trimester patients—leg cramps, insomnia, nausea, heartburn, exhaustion, and lightening. This last sensation was something she had found hard to imagine—the baby literally dropped in her womb, shifting from beneath her ribs toward her pelvis. Often she felt as though the baby was poking or elbowing her in tender areas. It took every ounce of concentration to focus on work and not stare in bewilderment at her swollen body and the active actor behind the veil of flesh.
Because she had experienced an uncomplicated pregnancy, she expected a healthy baby. Olivia projected a birth weight of at least eight pounds, a figure that made Lara wince. The noisy and strong heartbeat squirted happily through the fetoscope, and Lara’s blood pressure remained low and steady.
Her heart rate, however, did occasionally rise when Devin Sloane appeared in the office. He seemed to show up about once a week, always in Dr. Braun’s company. Gaynel thought the financier had a crush on Olivia, for the threesome always ate lunch together on Sloane’s visiting days. The billionaire often extended an invitation to Lara, but she continued to decline. From the frustrated look in Helmut Braun’s eyes, she intuited that he would not approve of a mere physician’s assistant dining with two doctors and a billionaire.
More disconcerting than Dr. Braun’s tacit disapproval, however, was the creeping uneasiness she felt whenever Sloane appeared. She couldn’t put her finger on the reason for her wariness and finally attributed it to a simple unwillingness to embarrass herself in front of a celebrity. He never said anything improper; he never complained or questioned; he never seemed to do anything. So why was he visiting so often?
When she tried to get an answer from Gaynel, the nurse stared at Lara with rounded eyes. “Are you complaining? He’s a perfect gentleman!”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t—I only wondered why he’s coming around so much.”
Gaynel shrugged. “You’re experiencing pregnancy paranoia. Maybe he makes you nervous because he’s famous.”
“I think,” Sharon piped up, lowering the latest Enquirer, “he comes here because he enjoys looking at you, Lara.”
Lara blinked. “At me?”
Sharon nodded. “Think about it. You’re pregnant, and he’s expecting too. Since he’s hired a surrogate, he probably has little contact with the woman. Watching you, gauging your progress, is almost like being with his baby before it’s born.” She furrowed her brow and brought a finger to her lips. “Wonder if I could sell that story to the Enquirer?”
“You do and I’ll never speak to you again.” Lara eased her bulk into one of the plastic break room chairs, then propped her feet upon an empty seat. “That’s crazy.”
The other nurses had agreed with Lara and laughed off Sharon’s suggestion. Yet sometimes as Lara drifted in that strange netherworld between wakefulness and sleep, Devin Sloane’s piercing eyes seemed to shine through the gloom and focus on her unborn child.
On Friday morning, January twenty-ninth, Lara went to the office, prepared an exam room, and told Gaynel to alert Olivia as soon as the doctor arrived.
Gaynel frowned as she studied the appointment list. “Who’s the patient?”
“I am.”
Inside the exam room, Lara slipped into a gown and climbed onto the table, breathing deeply as she counted twinges and waited for Olivia to arrive. Please, Lord, help her to be on time for once!
When the doctor finally came through the door, Lara wiped wetness from her eyes and gave Olivia an apologetic smile. “I’ve been having twinges for two days. I think I began real labor this morning.”
Olivia nodded in her no-nonsense way. “Let’s have a look and see if the cervix is dilating.”
Lara lifted her feet into the stirrups, then stared at the ceiling and folded one arm behind her head. If this was labor, Connor would be disappointed that he missed driving her to the hospital. Any of the girls would be thrilled to play chauffeur.
“I skipped breakfast this morning,” she added helpfully as Olivia sat on her stool and scooted closer. “Just in case this is it.”
Olivia murmured a noncommittal response, then slapped her hands on her slacks and pushed back. “You should have eaten,” she said, her eyes sympathetic. “Those ‘twinges’ you’re feeling are Braxton-Hicks contractions. The cervix isn’t thinning. I’m sure you’re ready, but Junior isn’t. Not yet.”
Struggling to disguise her disappointment, Lara pushed herself into an upright position. “Guess now I’ll be more sympathetic to our overeager patients. I was certain this was the real thing.”
“The baby will come, hon. In his own sweet time.”
Lara slipped from the exam table and shuffled behind the curtain where she’d left her clothes, then grimaced when she saw the piled heap in the chair. She was rapidly growing sick of maternity pants and smocks.
“If you’re not feeling well enough to work, you could go home.”
Olivia’s voice floated over the curtained alcove. “We could spare you.”
“No, thanks. Braxton-Hicks can come and go for a week, right? I’ll follow my own advice and try to grin and bear it.”
“That’s a good girl.” Olivia’s voice softened. “Feel free to use my office at any time. Just give a shout if you’re feeling tired and I’ll step in to cover your patients.”
“Thanks, Liv.” Lara pushed the sliding curtain aside, then rolled up the sleeves of her smock. “If you could just slide my shoes toward my feet . . .”
Grinning, Olivia picked up the shoes and dropped them into the void beneath Lara’s belly. “It won’t be much longer,” Olivia said, probably trying to lighten the load. “The baby has dropped. He certainly looks ready.”
“Any time is fine with me.” Lara slipped into her shoes, then picked up her chart from the desk. “Want me to hand this in?”
“That’d be great, I didn’t write much.” Liv glanced at her watch, then opened the door and gave Lara a final smile. “Chin up, honey. It will be over before you know it.”
Lara lifted her chart and studied Liv’s neat schoolgirl handwriting. 1–29: Patient presents with Braxton-Hicks contractions, but cervix is not dilated. Baby’s head in good position.
Lara felt the corner of her mouth lift in a lopsided smile. As long as the baby was ready to go, labor could begin at any time.
She flipped back through the chart, reviewing her pregnancy through a series of notes and methodical measurements. Olivia had made meticulous observations, and Lara wasn’t surprised when she discovered a sticky note attached to a page at the back of the file. “Forward case notes under patient’s ID number to UVA cryo lab.” The handwriting was Olivia’s, and Lara dimly remembered giving permission for Olivia to share her case information with Dr. Braun. He, after all, had provided the means through which Junior came to be. If his techniques for gene splicing helped other couples conceive children without the threat of cancer, Lara would be grateful.
She stood in the hallway, her thumbnail clicking against the edge of the file. What was Dr. Braun doing with her data?
She checked her watch—she had over half an hour before her first patient would arrive. Time enough to follow the computer trail and see if Dr. Braun had made any notes on his copy of her file. She might find references to a paper he planned to author on the subject. She hadn’t asked Olivia about her husband’s plans, but even now other women could be benefiting from the trail she had helped blaze.
She jotted down her patient number on a prescription pad, then stepped down the hall and dropped her file in the transcriptionist’s “in” basket. She switched on the lights and stared at the empty computer room. Carol, the transcriptionist, wouldn’t be in for another hour.
After lowering herself into a rolling chair that groaned under her weight, Lara powered up the hibernating computer. With two keystrokes, she exited the clinic’s records program and clicked on the link that connected her to the university’s medical registry. A blinking cursor came up in the field labeled “patient number,” so Lara typed her number in, then snapped the enter key. A moment later her file came up: a long list of dates and notes, an almost verbatim account of Olivia’s observations.
One anomaly caught Lara’s eye. In a box marked “Send CC to”, five other departments were indicated by code numbers. The first, Lara knew, was the billing department. The second, she strongly suspected, was Dr. Braun’s cryogenics lab. She also recognized numbers for the patient records department and hospital obstetrics, but what other department could possibly be interested in her medical records?
She highlighted the unfamiliar department code, copied it, then moved to a search window and pasted the number into the search field. After a moment, an error message appeared on the screen:
Classified File
Password?
Lara leaned back and chewed her thumbnail. What department would classify her records? Individual patient files were confidential, of course, but there was no need to protect a file identified only by a number. This security measure was highly irregular, particularly in a teaching hospital where the process of education depended upon physicians’ and students’ access to general medical records.
Lara stared at the blinking cursor, then typed in her patient number and pressed the enter key. The same annoying message appeared.
Classified File
Password?
What password? She couldn’t even begin to guess without knowing which department owned this registry. She rocked back in her chair and absently imagined several scenarios. Perhaps some professor wanted information about single mothers, or perhaps Dr. Braun had found a partner to help with his research. But any professor could get anonymous information from patient records, and if Braun had a research partner, there would be no need for a separate department number. Any partner of Braun’s could use his computer network . . .
She snorted softly. Dr. Braun didn’t really need a computer in his lab; heaven knew he used this computer often enough. No, the only reason Braun might establish a separate department number would be if he wanted to share information with someone outside the university network. With a separate number, someone off campus could enter the system through the Internet and access the file . . . with a password.
She bit on her thumb, remembering how Dr. Braun often sat in this same chair, its sharp squeak cutting through the ghostly clatter of the keyboard. On many an afternoon she had seen him here, catching up on case notes while Olivia finished her dictation. Liv often said that Helmut preferred working at her office so they could ride home together . . .
Helmut should know the password. And he had been working at this computer yesterday.
With great difficulty, Lara pushed herself up and out of the chair, then trudged to the intake area. Gaynel was taking a patient’s blood pressure, so Lara waited until she had finished before speaking. “Excuse me, Gaynel—remember that computer program we installed to save data in case of power failure? What’s it called?”
“Last Chance.” Gaynel pulled the stethoscope from her ears, then unwrapped the pressure cuff on her patient’s arm. She gave Lara a curious glance. “Did the computer crash?”
“No—I was only curious.” Lara turned and waddled toward the records room. She only had a few minutes before she would have to go to work. The woman with Gaynel might even be one of Lara’s patients.
Back at the computer, Lara exited the university’s registry program, then went into the operating system and opened the window that allowed her to scroll through the program folders. She highlighted the folder beside LCHANCE.exe, then held her breath as another window opened. She skimmed the instructions, then selected the option for “save all keystrokes in a text file.” Within ten seconds, another message informed her that the program had executed. Lara opened the text file in Notepad, then stared at a fluid stream of notations about patients and their prognoses.
Gaynel tapped on the open door. “Got a patient waiting in exam one for you,” she called, her voice bright and cheery. “Do you need help getting out of that chair?”
“Not yet.” Lara returned Gaynel’s smile, then returned her attention to the computer screen. She didn’t have time to scroll through pages of gobbledygook in search of one lousy word she might not even recognize, but she wouldn’t have access to the computer once the transcriptionist arrived. After an instant of indecision, she pressed the button for “print,” then leaned back and sighed as the printer began to spit out the text.
These pages wouldn’t be the most interesting reading material she could peruse during her midmorning break, but they might offer some clue.