She pushed the table away from her bed and closed her eyes. If she was married to Mack, she had so many questions. Tons of them. And her brain was spinning. Just what the doctor had told her to avoid. He’d prescribed cognitive rest for a few days. He said they’d once recommended it for much longer, but they’d since learned that the so-called cocoon therapy that limited the brain from even the most basic tasks of checking email, social media, et cetera, had detrimental effects. She was thankful her neurologist was up to date on treatments. The sooner she could get back to work, the better.
She grabbed a notepad and started jotting questions for Mack. She filled a page. Then a second one. But her head started hurting worse, the very sign the doctor told her to watch for. If any symptom became more exacerbated, she should stop. She wanted to be able to review her files when Harris brought them over, so she set down her pen and relaxed her muscles until she fell asleep.
She dreamt of a faceless man standing over her. His tone oddly comforting as he gently pried the phone from her hands.She trusted him. At least that was the feeling she was getting. She would do what he said and not question him.
A knock sounded on the door, and she bolted upright. Taking a deep breath, she raised the head of her bed even more from the already high position that the doctors insisted she maintain and pressed her hand over her hair to settle wayward strands into place.
“Come in,” she called out and expected Harris to walk through the door.
Mack poked his head inside. “Is this an okay time to check in?”
“Okay?” she asked, not sure how to answer. “I guess.”
He strode into the room, his booted feet pounding on the floor. He’d shaved and changed clothes since he’d left, and he looked refreshed, if still tired. He smelled fresh too—mint and musk combined in a scent that tugged at her memory but failed to produce one.
He came to a stop next to her bed, looking down at her, his presence seeming to fill the room. He held out that same tin of mints. She shook her head, and he popped one in his mouth before pocketing them. “Harris been here yet?”
Addy shook her head and straightened her covers.
Another knock pounded on the door.
“Maybe that’s her now.” She called out for her to enter, keeping her gaze pinned to the door.
A burly man with shocking white hair and wearing a black suit with a green shirt stepped inside.
“Agent Leigh?” he asked. “I’m Detective Oliver Palmere with the Portland Police Bureau. I was hoping you were up to answering some questions now.”
“Sure,” she said, thankful to have someone else in the room before the conversation with Mack turned personal.
Palmere looked at Mack. “And you are?”
“Addy’s husband, Mack Jordan.” He glanced at Addy, likely trying to see her reaction to him sharing their relationship thatshe had yet to confirm. He swung that intense gaze back to Palmere. “I’m a Deputy U.S. Marshal out of D.C. Mind if I sit in with the two of you?”
“Two Feds to interview. What could be the problem with that?” Palmere’s sarcasm was liberally applied to his tone, but he didn’t tell Mack to leave.
Addy pulled her blanket up to her chin, bracing for Palmere’s questions, but first she had one of her own. “Could you be sure I get my service weapon back before discharge?”
“I’ll have someone bring it by.” He got out a small notepad and pen. “Tell me about the accident.”
“I don’t remember much, but I do remember feeling off as I was driving. Woozy. Unable to focus. Blurred vision.” She swallowed before the memories actually played before her eyes. “But the tox screen will tell us what happened for sure.”
“How could someone have drugged you?” He pursed his lips.
“I don’t know.” She fidgeted with the edge of the blanket to calm her nerves. “I mean, I just don’t remember where I was going or anything before getting behind the wheel.”
“You’re a huge coffee drinker,” Mack said. “Did you stop for a cup?”
Did she? She shrugged. “Maybe there’s a cup or mug or something in my car that can be tested for drugs.”
“I’m way ahead of you there.” Palmere puffed out his chest. “When I heard that an ICE agent had wrapped her car around a tree without attempting to stop, I thought it was worth looking into.”
Likely to find fault with a Fed. Addy had half a mind to mention it, but what good would it do to accuse him of wanting to call out a Fed? None. In fact, it might make things worse, so she clamped down on her lips.
“So I had your car hauled into the state crime lab,” Palmere continued. “They’re processing it as we speak. And in answerto the coffee question, you had an empty paper coffee cup and a warm travel mug in the car. Enough coffee was left in the spill-proof travel mug to take into evidence.”
She nodded. “So I was probably drinking it around the time of the accident, and it could contain a drug.”
He kept his focus pinned to her. “Tests are being run. Should know something soon.”
