Sarah stood. Gavin reached up and squeezed her hand. “You’ve got this,” he said.

“I can’t lie to her, Gavin.”

He rubbed his chin. “Look at this like a journalist. You’re here to do a job and get the facts on your brother. Period. Who knows? You may write his story one day.”

She pulled in her bottom lip. “Right.”

“Sarah?”

“I’m coming.”

Heart thundering, conscience nagging, she nevertheless followed the woman into the back, then down the carpeted hallway to a door that had Dr. McCandless’s name on the nameplate. The woman twisted the knob and pushed the door open. “Have a seat. The doctor will be with you in just a moment.”

“Thank you.” Sarah walked in and settled herself in one of the comfortable chairs facing the window. Had Dustin sat in this very seat? Had he looked at the same view? Had he felt the same trepidation now pounding through her?

She stood to pace.

Four times to the window and back. Why did doctors always do that? Why make you wait in their office? Why weren’t they ever seated in the room to welcome you when you walked in the door?

Maybe it was so the client would be so anxious, they’d just spill everything? Or maybe it was so the client would have time to gather their thoughts before being required to voice them?

Or maybe it was because the doctor simply needed a restroom break between sessions.

Whatever the reason, Sarah just wanted to get this over with.

Gavin’s phone rang and he snatched it, his eyes still on the double metal doors Sarah had passed through. “Hello, Son.”

“Dad, hey, how are you doing?”

“Doing well. I got your message and thought I’d call to make sure I understood exactly what you needed.”

Gavin rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin. “I have a favor to ask.”

“You know I’ll do whatever I can to help you out. Lay it on me.”

“I have a friend. She was wounded in Afghanistan and is home to recuperate. She’s been discharged.”

“I see.”

“She loves what she does and she’s good at it. Google the bombing of the orphanage six months ago in Kabul and you’ll see the piece she wrote. She also helped bring down an organ trafficking ring at one of the orphanages in Kabul and received national recognition for it. Anyone who hired her would be getting a prime investigative reporter. Her name is Rochelle Denning, but she goes by Sarah.”

“Sounds interesting. I’ll look her up.”

“So, here’s the favor. Once she’s recovered, she’s going to need a job. She’d be an asset to any paper or television station. I know you have contacts in this area.”

“Of course.” His dad blew out a sigh. “I take it this young woman is someone you care about?”