“Abigail’s last text to me,” I said, “said she had something urgent to tell me about you.

Was that it?

One glass of wine?”

“Brenda.” Charles said it flatly, and her mouth shut.

She folded her napkin into a square, set it on her plate, and didn’t say another word.

Charles gathered the cups onto the tray and told me he would have something drawn up for me to sign before Thursday.

A handshake, he had called it, an hour and a half earlier.

I left the tray where it sat and walked up the corridor to the nurses’ desk, where Marisol Herrera stood at the counter with a stack of printouts, smoothing the top sheet with her thumb.