The caged sconce over Archie’s bed was on and he was sitting up, on top of the white sheets, the wafer-thin pillow folded behind his curly brown hair, a thick biography open on his lap. He had graduated from scrubs the month before, and now got to wear his own clothes, a sweatshirt and corduroys, slippers instead of socks. He’d lost weight and from a distance he looked like the man Henry had met fifteen years before, good-looking, healthy. Whole.

Up close, the furrows on Archie’s forehead and worry lines around his eyes told a different story.

Archie’s dark eyes fixed on Henry, and Henry felt a strange unease. Archie’s affect had changed. Henry didn’t know if it was the meds they had him on, or the fact that he’d been high on painkillers for two years and now he wasn’t. It was like he had gotten older, stiller. Sometimes Henry couldn’t believe he was only forty.

“What’s happened?” Archie asked.

Henry shot a look up at the camera mounted in the top corner of the room. It still made him feel strange, being monitored like a prisoner. He pulled up the guest chair on Archie’s side of the room—light plastic, so you couldn’t hurt someone if you threw it—and sat.

“Can I have a minute?” Henry asked the nurse.

“Don’t wake Frank,” she said, and stepped out of the room. Henry looked at Frank. A sheen of saliva collected at the corner of Frank’s mouth.

Henry swung his head back to Archie.

“There’s a crime scene,” Henry said. He reached into the front pocket of his black jeans and pulled out a pack of gum. “They found a spleen at a rest stop east on eighty-four. There are hearts drawn on the wall. I need you to come take a look.”

Archie didn’t react at all; he just sat looking at Henry, not moving, not blinking, not saying anything. Frank made a gurgling sound like a dying chicken. A tiny light blinked red on the surveillance camera. Henry slid a piece of gum from the pack and unwrapped it and put it in his mouth. It was licorice flavored, warm and soft from being in his pocket. He held out the pack to Archie.

Archie said, “It’s not her.”

Henry folded the gum back in his hand and repocketed it. He would never understand Gretchen’s pull on Archie. He knew about Stockholm syndrome. He’d read half a dozen books on it since Archie’s captivity. He understood his friend’s obsession. They’d hunted her for a decade, living and breathing her, working her crime scenes. Only to discover that she was right under their noses posing as a psychiatrist consulting on the case. It had been hard on all of them—hardest on Archie. “What if it is?” Henry said.