“What do you mean, she left town?” Dr. Julian Marcus shouted into the phone.

“My mother decided to go back to the States.” Maryann was slightly embarrassed that her mother had not contacted the doctor personally.

“But the treatment! The protocol!” He sounded frantic. “This will not bode well for the scientific legitimacy of our findings if she does not complete the series of treatments!” He sounded as if he were close to foaming at the mouth.

“Dr. Marcus, I am very sorry, but there was nothing I could do to stop her from leaving.” Maryann was starting to get her bearings. Who the hell does he think he is, yelling at me like this?

“You should have phoned me,” he said, softening his voice. He knew that if he didn’t get his hands on some cocaine soon, he was going to lose it entirely.

“I thought I could talk her out of leaving, but she insisted. She packed her bags and left yesterday.” Maryann waited for the next barrage of criticism.

“Very well, then. I trust she will continue the protocol with Dr. Steinwood in Aspen?” He was hoping their latest cash cow would continue her treatment once she returned to the States.

“I suppose, but she is spending time with some friends in Virginia before she heads home.”

Marcus erupted again. “Did she at least take her supplements with her? I warned you that patients can get disoriented. This is not good, Maryann. You gave me your assurance you would monitor her.”

“Dr. Marcus, I appreciate your concern, but I can do nothing more than try to convince her to act in a certain way. I am neither her jailer nor her caregiver. My mother is a grown woman with her own mind. And given her list of accomplishments, it is clearly a very fine mind indeed.”

“The very state of her mind is the issue!” He continued to rant. “I cannot be held responsible should something happen to her.”

Maryann was growing frustrated but held her ground. “I totally understand, Dr. Marcus. Will you contact Dr. Steinwood, or shall I?”

“That’s all right. I’ll handle this. Good day!” He slammed the phone down on his desk so hard that it scratched the leather inlaid surface. “Damn it,” he shouted to no one. He picked the phone up and scrolled through his contacts, looking for the “delivery boy”—the one who would bring him his weekly supply of the intoxicating white powder.

After punching in the numbers, he sent a text: Coffee. Three sugars. That was code for an eighth of an ounce of cocaine, although he thought he should probably get more. It seemed he was running out of it faster lately. He sent a second text: Coffee. Six sugars. He hoped the idiot understood what he meant.