Page 74 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t want to know what kind of swamp-folk medicine you got from someone Pell recommended.”

I raise my brow, then wince at the pain it sends through my still-healing face. “Dr. Khan went to Harvard, thank you very much. She just has some gambling debts she’s working off by moonlighting for your nemesis.”

“Pell wishes he was my nemesis.” She tosses her head in agitation, and her thick, straight hair swirls around her face before obediently falling back in line at the base of her neck. Fifteen years. Same haircut. It’s both comforting and a little scary.

I texted Quinn after dragging myself home on Thursday. Only afterward did I piece together the sequence of events that followed: she reluctantly reached out to Pell, who probably annoyed the shit out of her while he arranged for a doctor to come check on me without involving a paper trail or law enforcement.

“And?” she asks testily without turning around.

“And she showed up on Thursday, ran a bunch of tests I barely remember, and left me with meds and written instructions.”

“Then vanished into the night, no doubt,” Quinn grumbles as she puts down the spoon and picks up the folded sheet of paper on the island. Her brows lift when she sees the list of pupillometer readings in feminine script, but she doesn’t ask.

“Vanishing into the night is the general MO for doctors doing illicit house calls for the scariest guy we know.” I shrug. “She came back on Saturday to check on me. Called me her star patient. I even got a lollipop.”

Quinn turns to face me, her expression even stonier than usual. “Did you tell her anything incriminating while you were out of it?”

“No.” Probably not, anyway. I don’t completely remember. “But even if I did, it’ll stay with Dr. Khan until she dies.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then Pell will feed her to his pet alligator.”

She snorts. “That man doesn’t have a pet alligator. He’s not responsible enough.”

“Yes, Pell not remembering to walk and feed his pet gator is what makes that rumor unreliable,” I say. “Anyway, Dr. Khan kept me alive, and I’m grateful. What do I owe you?”

She’s turned back to the stove and is stirring the stew with such vigor that I know she’s feeling an emotion she doesn’t want me to see. Since she lets me witness her disdain for Pell on a regular basis, my guess is she’s relieved I’m okay, annoyed about that level of relief, and working overtime to snuff out both of those sentiments.

Sure enough, when she turns around, her face is as round, pale, and serious as ever.

“Nothing,” she says. “Call it an early birthday gift.”

My birthday was in March, but I don’t remind her of that. Instead, I say, “You’re the best friend I have. You know that, right?”

This earns me an eye roll. Quinn Brady must have the strongest ocular muscles known to man.

“The roses still look great.” It’s a blatant attempt to change the subject, but I relish the compliment anyway, especially when a smile touches her usually severe lips as she takes in the blooms visible through the kitchen window.

“Yep.” I nod, partly to show her that I can do that and keep my head on my neck. “It’s amazing what good rain and a little sunlight can do.”

Her lips twitch into a smirk. “Yes. Rain, sunlight, and our felonious bone meal. The unsung heroes of out-of-season roses.” Then she turns and starts ransacking my drawers.

“How’s your semester wrapping up?” I ask over the racket.

“You need to reorganize.” She brandishes the ladle she was looking for. “This is incredibly inefficient.”

The words be my guest are on the tip of my tongue when I realize she’d enjoy transforming my already orderly kitchen way too much. The chemistry lab she oversees as part of a research grant at her university is organized to a psychotic degree, and I’m scared if I give her an inch, she’ll bust out the label maker.

“I’ve never had any complaints,” I say instead.

This pulls an almost-smile from her. “Complaints from whom, hermit?”

She grabs two bowls, fills them, and slides one across the island to me like an old-timey bartender, sending a spoon gliding over the granite top right after it. Apparently she’s forgotten that a concussion patient’s reflexes can be a little slow because I barely stop the bowl from sliding off the edge, and I miss the spoon entirely. It clatters to the floor, and she wordlessly plucks another one out of the drawer and walks around the island to set it carefully next to me.

“Please tell me you don’t have any murders planned for anytime soon,” she says as she retrieves the floor spoon.

I flash her my gooniest Dr. Mohr grin when she straightens. “Aww, you really do love me. Quinn and Hugo sitting in a tree, S-T-A-B-I-N-G.”