“Sounds reasonable. Who was the first person to deny she was in the room?”

“I’m not sure. Probably just the person at the information desk, but we’d have to ask Caden. I know he talked to several people who sent him up the chain, saying they couldn’t find a record of her being there. He didn’t have a warrant or anything for the information—and wasn’t going to use his badge on unofficial business—so he couldn’t really do much better than you or I would have. Then he finally talked to Dr. Kilgore, who told him the same thing.”

Gavin stroked his chin, pulling on the hair while he thought. “So, what about this scenario? The first person to answer a query about Brianne would be the receptionist taking calls on the main line.”

“Right.”

“If that person said she couldn’t find a record of Brianne, then it’s possible Brianne was just completely removed from the system.”

“Which meant Donna and the doctor couldn’t admit she was there or say she went home without someone questioning why she’d disappeared from the database—or whatever they use.”

“So . . . they had to get their stories straight in case someone came around asking questions,” he murmured. “If there’s a story to get straight. You realize this is all pure speculation.”

“So, how do we find out for sure?” She spoke the words out loud, but he had a feeling she didn’t expect him to answer. She was working on the solution all by herself.

“I have an idea,” he said.

She blinked. “Oh. Okay. What?”

“We check the security cameras.”

“They’re in the hallways for sure,” she said, “but not in patient rooms.”

“She had to go through the hall to get to the room, right?”

“Yes. But there’s no way Caden would agree to use his badge to get that footage.”

He pursed his lips. “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, but I don’t need Caden or his badge.”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t.”

“Well, all right then. You can work on that while I see if I can talk to Dustin’s doctor. The mental health unit is on the opposite side of the building. Can you take me over there? I’d walk, but riding sounds much better.”

He shook his head and cranked the truck. “Stubborn.”

Gavin drove around to the psych ward and parked, noting the gray sedan that pulled into a parking space not too far away from him.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Nothing, just keeping an eye on things.”

“Once paranoid, always paranoid?”

“Something like that.”

“Do you have—” She broke off and looked away.

“What? PTSD?”

“Yeah.”

“No, not really. I have a bad dream every once in a while, but I’m one of the fortunate ones.”