The pill bottles were bulging from her pocket and Deven pulled them out to look closer at the labels. Were these the medications from the overdose? It was probably still too soon to hear back from the police for the toxicology, but now this seemed like some incriminating evidence to further solidify their suspicions about the woman in the morgue. Maybe it wasn’t wise to mention the medicine to anyone, not even Benji. Not until she found out what the hell was going on.

Deven eyed the prescription labels. Mirtazapine was an antidepressant written out to Kennedy. So was the Tramadol which was for pain (though it didn’t indicate where). Deven placed the bottles in her cup holder and fished in her pocket for the next two. Diazepam she knew was for seizures and anxiety. She was about to put it down when something else on the label caught her eye. Erika Garrett, the label read. Not Kennedy. Deven picked up the other bottle and zeroed in on the name. This one was Yolanda Hyatt. Who were these women and why was their medicine in Kennedy’s bathroom?

The sudden vibration startled a gasp from her lips. Deven released a breath and took a weary look at her phone, the unfamiliar number glaring against the translucent screen. She hesitated, only briefly, before deciding to answer. At this point, what else could surprise her?

“Hey Deven.” Paul’s voice floated through the receiver to greet her. An unexpected welcome. He seemed to have a knack for that.

“Uh, hey.”

“I saw you called me,” he explained at her prolonged silence. “I was wrapping up with a patient. You didn’t leave a message.” There was an awkward pause. “Is everything okay?”

The question was the needle to pop her restrained emotions, and Deven’s tears erupted like a cannon. Paul’s voice was inaudible through her sobs, but she detected the concern, which for some reason made her cry even harder.

“I’m on my way,” Paul was saying. “Where are you? At home?”

“No.” Deven felt a wave of embarrassment. “I’m . . . outside.”

“Outside where?”

“Your office.”

His shock was nearly tangible even through the phone. More silence inflated between them until Deven was sure he had hung up. Probably fed up with her bullshit. Then she glanced up through the windshield and saw him emerge from the building, his eyes scanning the parking lot, the phone still clutched to his face. “Where are you?” he asked. “Come inside. Please.”

Obediently, Deven hung up and towed herself from the vehicle. The crying had exhausted her, not to mention the added humiliation once Paul looked her way. To her surprise, and appreciation, he looked anything but pitying at her weakened state. Only worried. They walked in silence into the building, Paul leading the way up the stairs to the second-floor suite.