Orla Owens.

The heavy plastic dosing syringe clinked sharply against the oak wood.

“Her second dose is at eight o’clock,” I said.

Ethan did not look up from the dark leather strap of his bag.

“I have to leave for the office by seven thirty to review the slide deck with Alan Vance before the department meeting.”

“Look at me, Ethan.”

He raised his chin slowly, his eyes dry and rimmed with red.

“I opened your laptop bag in the hospital waiting room to look for June’s pacifier,” I said.