No wonder, Marge thought. The doctor was wearing sweats and a sweater. Internal chill. Her face appeared childlike, probably because of her eyes. The size of beach balls, they seemed to take up half her face. Big, brown irises, red-rimmed at the moment. Between the orbs sat a button nose spangled with freckles. Her mouth was wide with lush lips. Woolly henna hair was pulled back into a ponytail. At a quick glance, she looked to be barely twenty. But with smile lines apparent and ripples in her neck, Marge figured her age closer to forty.

“Dr. Fulton.” Oliver took out his badge and ID. Fulton gave it a cursory glance, then motioned them across the doorway. “Please, come in.”

The living room had been decorated pseudo-country. Cheerful floral prints covered a traditional sofa and two matching chairs. A wall-sized bay window was topped with a pleated valance and the tiebacks were sewn from the same flowered fabric. The actual window curtains were drawn, made from lace that allowed light to pass through. At one in the morning, the outside view was a screen of still shadows. In the middle of the bay stood a polished pine rocker resting on bleached oak flooring that had been pegged and grooved. The fireplace was going full blast. It was hot, and Marge could feel wet circles under her armpits. The hearth was masoned from bouquet canyon stone, the plaster mantel hosted a half-dozen photographs of a chubby toddler boy.

“Sit wherever you’d like,” Fulton whispered.

Oliver chose a chair, Marge took the sofa. The doctor stood next to the fireplace screen and rubbed her hands together. “I shouldn’t be here. I should be there…at the hospital…helping.” She brought her hands to her face and cried into them.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to sit?” Oliver asked.

“No.” She wiped her eyes with her fingers, folded her arms across her chest. “What happened?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Marge said.

“Was he kidnapped? Carjacked? I mean no one would have hurt him if they had known who he was, right?”

Oliver took out his notepad. “You sure you don’t want to sit, Doctor?”

“Positive.” She shook her head. “I mean…why?”

Oliver said, “If you could help us with the why, you’d be doing everyone a service. When was the last time you saw him, Doctor?”

“Last night. At our research meeting.”

“The Curedon meeting,” Oliver clarified.

“Yes. How did you—You’ve spoken to Dr. Decameron, then.”

“Yes.” Marge took out her pad. “You have regularly scheduled meetings?”

“Yes and no. Dr. Sparks sends us a memo when we’re to meet. It works out to about once or twice a week.”

“You don’t mind that?” Marge asked.

“Mind what?”

“That he sends you a memo at his…discretion?”

Fulton threw Marge an impatient look. “He’s a very busy man. Of course, we work around his schedule.”