accustomed to having the final answer, he moved quickly when he realized he didn’t have one.
“Thomas. Upstairs.”
He hung up.
Then Dr. Reeves returned.
Apparently dismissal lasted only as long as it took him to become curious.
“What are we doing now?”
I stood.
“Checking the ventilation.”
His expression turned dismissive.
“For what?”
“The smell.”
He breathed in.
“I smell nothing.”
“That doesn’t mean there’s nothing.”
His eyes narrowed.
Nathan said:
“Enough.”
Reeves looked at him.
“I’m trying to prevent medical decisions from being driven by housekeeping impressions.”
I almost laughed.
“Environmental exposures are medical.”
“I know that.”
“Then you know chronic symptoms can come from things outside a lab report.”
He stared.
“You’re very confident for a nanny.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“I’m curious.”
That was different.
And, judging from his expression, more irritating.
A man in work clothes arrived carrying a tablet.
Thomas Grady.
Late forties.
