Probably cool enough to store insulin, but maybe someone was picky.
Could Insufill cartridges be sitting on one of the shelves of the chrome-faced refrigerator in the kitchen?
Standing, I placed the box on the counter and the brochure in my pocket. The water in the toilet bowl had just stopped spinning. I cleared my throat, coughed, flushed again, looking around the room for another hiding place.
The only possibility I could see was the toilet tank. I lifted the cap and peered in. Just plumbing and the gizmo that dyed the water.
Ultra-thin needle... The bathroom was an ideal hiding place-perfect conduit from the master suite to the nursery.
Perfect for fixing up a middle-of-the-night injection: Lock the door to the master suite, fetch the gear from beneath the sink, assemble it, and tiptoe into Cassie's room.
The bite of the needle would startle the little girl awake, probably make her cry, but she wouldn't know what had happened.
Neither would anyone else. Waking up in tears was normal for a child her age. Especially one who'd been sick so often.
Would darkness conceal the needle-wielder's face?
On the other side of the nursery door Cindy was talking, sounding sweet.
Then again, maybe there was an alternative explanation. The cylinders were meant for her. Or Chip.
No-Stephanie had said she'd tested both of them for metabolic disease and found them healthy.
I looked at the door to the master bedroom, then down at my watch. I'd spent three minutes in this blue-tile dungeon, but it felt like a weekend. Unlocking the door, I padded across the threshold into the bedroom, grateful for thick, tight-weave carpeting that swallowed my footsteps.
The room was darkened by drawn shutters and furnished with a king-size bed and clumsy Victorian furniture. Books were stacked high on one of the nightstands. A phone sat atop the stack. Next to the table was a brass- and-wood valet over which hung a pair of jeans.
The other stand bore a Iiffany revival lamp and a coffee mug. The bedcovers were turned down but folded neatly. The room smelled of the pine disinfectant I'd found in the bathroom.
Lots of disinfectant. Why?
A double chest ran along the wall facing the bed. I opened a top drawer. Bras and panties and hose and floral sachet in a packet. I felt around, closed the drawer, got to work on the one below, wondering what thrill Dawn Herbert had gotten from petty theft.
Nine drawers. Clothing, a couple of cameras, canisters of film, and a pair of binoculars. Across the room was a closet. More clothes, tennis rackets and canisters of balls, a fold-up rowing machine, garment bags and suitcases, more books-all on sociology. A telephone directory, light bulbs, travel maps, a knee brace. Another box of contraceptive jelly. Empty.
I searched garment pockets, found nothing but lint. Maybe the dark corners of the closet concealed something but I'd been there too long.
Shutting the closet door, I snuck back to the bathroom. The toilet had stopped gurgling and Cindy was no longer talking.
Had she grown suspicious about my prolonged absence? I cleared my throat again, turned on the water, heard Cassie's voicesome kind of protest-then the resumption of mommy-talk.
Detaching the toilet paper holder, I slid off the old roll and tossed it into the cabinet. Unwrapping a refill, I slipped it onto the dispenser. The ad copy on the wrapper promised to be gentle.
Picking up the white box, I pushed open the door to Cassie's room, wearing a smile that hurt my teeth.
They were at the play table, holding crayons. Some of the papers were covered with colored scrawl.
When Cassie saw me she gripped her mother's arm and began whining.
'It's okay, lion. Dr. Delaware's our friend.' Cindy noticed the box in my hands and squinted.
