When she finally met my eye, she hesitated before speaking. “What if I believe two crazy things?”

“I would say that people believe all kinds of things and that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re crazy. Sometimes people just need to talk through what they are thinking and then things make better sense. Do you want to share your two things with me?”

“What if I believe in Joseph Wither and what if I believe that Violet and Jordyn were the ones who hurt me?”

My blood ran cold. Had Cora been hiding the fact that her best friend was the one who stabbed her? Had a twelve-year-old girl really tried to kill her best friend? In my few sessions with Violet I hadn’t got the sense that she was the perpetrator. Was I wrong? My first impression of Violet was that of a very frightened, confused little girl, which was perfectly understandable given the circumstances. But what I wasn’t clear about was the source of Violet’s fear. Was she afraid of the attacker or was she afraid of being caught?

“Was Violet the one who hurt you, Cora? Is that what you are saying?”

She didn’t respond and I noticed that her face had gone a shade paler and a thin sheen of sweat had appeared above her lip and her eyes had a glassy glint.

“Cora, are you feeling okay?” I leaned forward and laid the back of my hand against her forehead and was met with surprising heat. “You have a bit of fever,” I told her, though I was worried that it could be much more than that. “Let me go get your nurse and have her take your temperature.”

“Okay,” Cora said as she closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. It’s easy to forget how exhausting it can be carrying on a conversation after a significant injury.

I stepped out into the hallway and flagged down a nurse. “I think Cora Landry may have a fever. Could someone check her temperature?”

After a few minutes, a young woman wearing pink scrubs breezed in. Cora’s nurse. “Hey there, Cora,” she said. “I hear you’re feeling pretty crummy. Let’s check you out.” She smoothly pressed a thermometer into her ear and after a few seconds it beeped. “One hundred and three. You don’t mess around, do you?” Cora managed to open her eyes to narrow slits but they fluttered shut.

“Infection?” I asked.

“It looks that way. I’ll call the doctor and I imagine she’ll order another course of antibiotics.” To Cora she said, “I’m going to take a peek under your dressings, Cora, okay? I promise I’m just looking—I won’t poke around.” Cora nodded weakly.