A spittle of tomato sauce strikes her cheek. “God, Ray, didn’t your mother teach you to swallow your food before talking?”

He smiles, revealing a piece of eggplant caught between his yellowed teeth. “Sorry. I’ve been dieting for six months. Feels good to eat again. So what do you think?”

“I told you, I think sixth place is terrific, especially for your first contest.”

“What can I say? You inspired me.”

“Now tell me about Foletta. What we first met, you said something about the board and medical staff being upset when he arrived from Massachusetts. What did you mean by that?”

“This stays between us, right?”

“Right.”

Raymond washes another mouthful of food down with a swig of beer. “I have a good friend whose father sits on the state board. In fact, he was the one who helped me get the job at the treatment center. Anyway, the word is that Dr. Reinike, Foletta’s predecessor, will be back sometime next month to run things again.”

“Really? But I thought she retired. Foletta told me her husband had terminal cancer.”

Ray shakes his head, inhaling another bite. “It was all bullshit. My buddy told me Reinike’s been on paid leave since September. Turns out there’s a brand-new asylum opening up in Tampa in three weeks, and Foletta’s been promised the directorship.”

“Wait, if Foletta’s leaving in three weeks, then he must have known he was getting the Tampa job before corning to Miami. Why push Dr. Reinike out, just to take the Miami job for three months?”

Ray points his fork at her. “Because of your former patient. The asylum in Massachusetts was closing, and Tampa wasn’t ready yet. Reinike’s a stickler for detail. Apparently, somebody with a lot of pull wanted Foletta in charge so there’d be no risk of your boy Gabriel getting reshuffled in the system.”

Or receiving a proper evaluation. God damn you, Foletta.

“What’s the matter, Sunshine?”

“I made a deal with Foletta. He promised me that Mick would be placed in the care of one of our rehab teams no later than January.”

The yellowed teeth smile at her. “Guess you got lied to, girl. In three weeks, Michael Gabriel will be long gone.”

The sleek, cherry red Dodge Intrepid ESX2’s electric motor whines as it kicks in, assisting the 1.5-liter three-cylinder diesel engine as it accelerates up the steep southbound ramp to I-95.

Dominique stares out the passenger window as Raymond whips the car in and out of traffic. She grits her teeth, angry at Foletta for deceiving her. I should have known better. I should have trusted my heart.