Blood Song

pretended, flipping the pages while my mind was a mil ion miles away. I could feel the stares of the

other people in the waiting room but pretended not to notice.

The receptionist reappeared after only a minute or two. That she came to me instead of others who’d

been waiting longer raised a few brows. I didn’t care. I was too raw, the pain too fresh for me to bear

being in public for too much longer.

“Dr. Scott wil see you now.”

I fol owed her down a long wood-paneled hal way lined with impressionist paintings in gilt frames until

we reached a heavy set of mahogany doors. Despite their apparent weight, the receptionist pul ed one

of them open and held it for me with silent ease.

I stepped over the threshold and took a long look around.

To say Dr. Scott’s office was spacious was an understatement. The house I grew up in probably

would’ve fit inside. Although the house had a bathroom. Come to think of it, there probably was one

behind one of the pair of doors on the north wal .

The entire west wal was windows, so that even through the thin film of cream-colored drapes I could

see a wide expanse of ocean, a spectacular sunset coloring the clouds and water with shades of

mauve, orange, crimson, and purple. It was just the sort of sunset that Vicki and I had watched only a

few weeks before in her room, sipping on chil ed iced tea with a hint of peach while breathing in the

tangy ocean air.

The sunset expanded into this room, decorated to incorporate the view—the golden tans of sand with

the blues and greens of the sea and sky. Dr. Scott sat behind a table made from glass and weathered

driftwood. Instead of the traditional suit, he wore khakis and a melon-colored polo shirt that showed off

his dark skin and the shining silver of his hair and beard. Loafers with no socks completed the outfit.

“Come in, come in.” He gestured toward a conversation grouping in an area far from any stray

patches of sunlight. “Pardon my appearance. I’d scheduled the day off—”

He gave me a penetrating glance, taking in the red eyes, the chapped nose that was already healing.

“I don’t need to tel you, do I?”

I shook my head, tears threatening again while my stomach wanted to relieve itself of contents, and

mumbled, “No.”

He moved behind the desk, settling into the enveloping leather of a high-end executive chair. “Has

word leaked to the press?”

“Not from me.” My voice sounded tight, not surprising. It was al I could do to force words past the

lump in my throat. “I was on my way here for a visit when her ghost manifested in my car.”

“Considering how close you were and the strength of her force of wil , I’m not surprised.” He shook

his head sadly and modulated his voice. “I’m so very sorry for your loss. Please be assured we did

everything we could. Unfortunately, based on her medical records, we always knew it was a

possibility—”

I lowered myself into the enveloping chair without answering. I hadn’t known it was a possibility. I’d

never asked anything about Vicki’s medical history. He could be tel ing the truth or lying through his

teeth. I had no way of knowing.

“Which was why we had procedures in place to care for her in an emergency.” He continued

speaking without hesitation. If he sensed my mood, he ignored it. Leaning forward across the desk, he

addressed me respectful y, his expression earnest. “As is the case with any death of one of our

patients, we’ve reported the incident to the authorities, and they wil launch their usual investigations. I

don’t expect them to find any negligence.”

Neither did I. Even if there was a problem, there was enough money floating around this place that I

was betting it would be handled discreetly. But I wasn’t going to say that. It would be rude. And while I

am more than capable of being rude when the occasion cal s for it, I wanted information.

“I appreciate your concern. I know that Vicki chose Birchwoods because of its stel ar reputation.”

“Thank you.” He gave me a gentle smile. “Can I get you a drink? I’d offer food, but the only guest

we’ve ever had with your condition wasn’t able to process solids, so I’m not sure it would be

appropriate.”

So, the closed drapes were no coincidence. Gerry must have cal ed ahead, which also explained the

receptionist’s lack of reaction. I found it very interesting that they’d dealt with someone with my

condition … especial y since my condition was supposed to be pretty damned rare. I was curious, but

he wanted me to ask, so I perversely avoided the question and got to the point of my visit.

“Can you tel me what happened?”

It was a deliberate question, because I’m not part of Vicki’s family. He nodded, just the tiniest drop of

his chin, and folded his hands on the tinted glass. “Ms. Cooper left the appropriate written permissions

for us to speak with you frankly. You’re probably aware that, as is the case with many high- level

psychics, Vicki frequently suffered from both migraines and severe insomnia.”

Okay, that I did know. Vicki was always trying the latest homeopathic treatments for headaches

—from weird herbs to gadgets that would change the lighting in the room and even magic charms to

change her “energy patterns.” And she was forever cal ing me on the phone at weird hours. But I never

real y related those things to her psychic ability. Lots of people get migraines and can’t sleep.

I got caught up in memories and nearly missed what he said next. “It was the late-shift nurse’s duty to

check on her when she came on duty at eleven and again at two. If Ms. Cooper was having trouble

sleeping, at two A.M. she would be given the option of taking sleeping medication.”

I nodded. This wasn’t news.

“The file shows that when the nurse checked at eleven, Ms. Cooper was fine. She was using the

mirror you gave her to channel her visions and seemed quite happy and pleased with the results.

Nurse”—he flipped to a page in the file to check the name—“Phil ips states that Vicki indicated it was

her best birthday ever, and said that she would be going to bed after a bit.” That made me smile. I’d

worked hard to have that mirror made so it would respond perfectly.

He read from the notes on his desk, “‘When she saw the light stil on at one forty-five, Nurse Phil ips

knocked on the door. When there was no response, she entered and found Ms. Cooper unconscious

and unresponsive on the floor. She cal ed in a code blue and immediately began CPR.’”

I was trying to listen to what he was saying. I heard the words. But I couldn’t seem to concentrate on

their meaning. It seemed wrong, and I couldn’t figure out why until it hit me between the eyes.

“Wait. She died last night?” At nearly the same time as I did—? “Then why did she only manifest in

my car a few minutes ago? And why hasn’t anyone contacted me until now?”

His brows rose just the slightest bit. “But we did try to contact you. Repeatedly. I presumed you were

coming now because of my messages.”

Crap. So I’d been dealing with my own piddly problems while my best friend had been lying here,