“What is, these days?” She stroked Cutter’s head again. “Talking to dogs, apparently?”

“I could do worse,” he said, and she thought the tiniest edge had crept into his voice. Then, even more briskly, “You remember why we’re doing this?”

“Of course.”

“Tell me.”

“I hit my head.”

“Remember what day it is? No checking your phone.”

“Tuesday by now, no doubt.”

“All right.” He started to back away.

“Aren’t you supposed to ask if I remember who I am?” It just figured he’d do a half-assed job at this.

“I don’t have to. It’s obvious you know.”

Her brow furrowed. “Why?”

“Because you remember how much you hate me.”

And then he was gone, closing the door quietly behind him. She stared after him, feeling oddly chilled by his words. She wondered why. It wasn’t like it wasn’t the truth.

He’d left Cutter with her. She could see the dog looking at her by the faint reflection of what light there was in his dark eyes. He put one paw up on the bed, politely.

“Are you allowed?” she asked.

He gave an almost indignant sound that nearly made her laugh. “All right, then.”

And the moment the animal jumped up and plopped beside her, she was able to think more clearly. Even if she still didn’t understand why Adam’s words, the look in his eyes, had made her so unsettled. Over the last five years she’d never questioned her feelings about this man. She’d always solidly placed the biggest chunk of blame after the shooter himself squarely on Adam Kirk’s shoulders. So why on earth would the knowledge that so did he change anything? Shouldn’t she be pleased, or at the least satisfied that he knew his own culpability?

She vaguely remembered when, in the depth of her grief, a few of her father’s colleagues had tried to defend him, saying any one of them might have done the same in that situation. She hadn’t wanted to hear it.

She still didn’t. Did she?

She gave herself an inward shake. Cutter nudged her slightly, and she began to pet him again. If she was going to be lying sleepless thinking about anything, it should be what had happened today—yesterday—not Adam Kirk.

But he was the one who pulled me out of the car. The burning car, at the time.

She pushed away the reminder, focused on the puzzle. Although she supposed it was possible Trevor Malachi had orchestrated this from the state prison—she’d heard of such things—she couldn’t see what it would gain him. Adam had been right about that, at least. He wasn’t eligible for parole, so it wasn’t like there were parole hearings that she attended to stop them from releasing him. She’d been spared that, at least.