9.

9.

“Jarred Simmons ran his truck off Bassler Road in April,” I say, eyes closed, rubbing my temples, trying to massage away the persistent ache that’s taken root there. “He drove right into a huge Adirondack pine. Airbag malfunctioned and he suffered massive head trauma. According to the tox screens, he’d also been plastered.”

“His wife had committed suicide four months before,” Gavin says, “his children had disowned him and due to the revelation of the whole affair his law practice was failing. I’d say the man was suffering.”

“Well, at least this story I can verify.”

“How?”

I open my eyes, drop my hands and drum my fingertips on the tabletop. “Because, Gavin. Jarred Simmons is still in a coma, at Clifton Heights General. Has been since he got out of surgery after the accident.”

Gavin raises an eyebrow, looking pleasantly surprised. “You’ve kept tabs on him?”

I wave away his quiet admiration. I’m really not that altruistic. “The case just seemed so . . . odd. Forensics guys dete