A receptionist at a desk just inside the entrance asked my business with a polite smile that didn’t reach her eyes. I didn’t blame her—I’d hate a job where I had to smile at everyone all day long. When I told her I was a detective from Chicago and why I was in Lawrence, her expression seemed to say that Chicago detectives hunting missing persons grew like ragweed in summer.

“I found Sonia Kiel last night—early this morning, really—after she had called to say she had information about the people I’m trying to find. She’s in intensive care right now, so I’m hoping there’s someone here who could talk to me about her.”

The woman’s plastic mask cracked into real feeling: annoyance. Yes, the police had been out first thing, they’d talked to Randy Marx, the facility manager. This was just one more way that Sonia Kiel showed why she had no business being at St. Raphael’s.

“How long has she been living here?” I asked.

“Too long!” the receptionist snapped. “On and off for three years now. Everyone here has a story, everyone here is a diva one way or another, but most people understand that our rules are for the benefit of the whole community. And most people who violate them don’t get ten chances to redeem themselves.”

“I’m sure that’s frustrating,” I said with spurious sympathy. “Is there a therapist or social worker I could talk to about her? I’m hoping I can find someone to give me some context for what she said on the phone.”

“I’ll get Randy for you. He’s a social worker besides being the day manager. Sorry to lose my cool.” She forced another smile. “I guess I should sit in on the anger-management session.”

The woman gestured at a whiteboard on the far wall, and I saw the day’s schedule written in blue. R. Marx was currently leading an anger-management group in the Buffalo Grass Room. L. McCabe would conduct group art therapy at 1:20 in the Arrowfeather Room.

The receptionist phoned down to Marx. They’d be finishing in ten minutes; I was welcome to wait in the Sprangletop Room. She pointed toward a hall. Sprangletop was at the end; I was welcome to coffee from the kitchenette along the way. I poured a cup from the outsize urn, even though I knew it would be overboiled and bitter. Prediction confirmed and then some.

Slogans were taped on the walls, reminding us that recovery is a marathon, not a sprint; one day one minute at a time; every recovery begins with one sober minute. In between the slogans were photos of groups and of families, everyone smiling, even the receptionist. One set was labeled “Labor Day Picnic at Lake Clinton.” I squinted at the volleyball players and barbecuers, trying to see if Sonia was in any of the shots.