“We don’t know,” the detective said.

Dr. Charles made a clicking noise with his tongue. “Well, if the equipment used was contaminated with infected blood, Mr. Gaffney could be at risk of hepatitis B, hepatitis C or tetanus.”

“Ah, man,” Gaffney said.

“I’m around if you have any more questions,” the doctor said, excusing himself.

Duckworth put a comforting hand on Brian’s arm. “I want to take your picture,” he said.

“Huh?”

“I’m going to go to Knight’s, see if anyone remembers seeing you.”

Gaffney nodded resignedly. Duckworth took a quick head shot with his phone, glanced at it to make sure it was acceptable. “You want me to get in touch with your parents?”

Gaffney thought about that. “I guess,” he said finally.

“Why so hesitant?”

“I’m . . .”

“What is it, Brian?”

“I guess . . . I’m embarrassed. I’m ashamed of what’s happened to me.”

“It’s not your fault,” Duckworth said, although he didn’t know that for certain. Maybe Brian had consumed far more alcohol than he’d let on. Maybe he’d allowed someone to do this to him, but had no memory of it. But his gut told him that wasn’t the case.

Gaffney half shrugged. “I guess you should let them know.”

Duckworth had him write down his parents’ Montcalm Street address and phone number on his notepad. He decided he’d go there before heading to Knight’s. He was just pulling out of the ER parking lot when his phone rang. It was Maureen.

“Hey,” he said to her over the Bluetooth. “You at work?”

“Yeah. We’ve got a bit of a lull.” Maureen worked at an eyeglasses shop in the Promise Falls mall. “Am I calling at a bad time?”

“It’s okay.”

“How are you?”

It was an innocent enough question. She’d always asked how he was when she called. But now, when she asked, he knew she was asking him something more. She was really asking how he was doing. She was asking how he felt. She was asking how he was managing.

Even ten months after returning to the job.

Not that he didn’t ask himself every day how he was doing.

“I’m fine,” he said quickly. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” she said.

But he could tell from her tone that it was something, and her most frequent source of worry, after him, was their son, Trevor. Twenty-five now, back living at home with his parents, and looking for work.

He’d had a job driving a truck for Finley Springs Water. Randall Finley, the owner, had been mayor a decade ago, but was voted out after his dalliances with an underage prostitute became public. He’d made a comeback last year, though, after becoming something of a local hero, and presided over city hall once again.

Wonders never ceased. Nor, Duckworth thought, did the public’s willingness to be conned.

Trevor—like his father—despised Finley and everything he stood for, and when he found another driving gig with a local lumber company, he quit the water bottling plant. But with the housing industry still taking its time to recover, and the demand for building supplies weak, he was laid off three months later. He kept his apartment another six weeks, but with money running out, he’d given his notice and moved back in with Mom and Dad while he looked for something else.