Stella flashed him a warm smile. “Do you like working for Dr. Randolph?”

He adjusted the position of his stapler a millimeter. “Yes.”

“The center is highly recommended.” Mac tucked the brochure back into its slot.

“Josh is good at what he does,” Reilly said.

“But patients relapse, right?” Stella sounded innocent as she pried information out of the admin.

Reilly straightened a stack of Post-it packs. “Josh can only do so much.” He glanced at the phone. The red light had gone out. “He’s done.” Reilly slid out of his chair. Then he carefully lined up the armrests with his keyboard tray before straightening. “Follow me.”

He led them down a carpeted hall, then knocked and opened a door. “Detective Dane is here to see you, Josh.”

“Thanks, Reilly,” a male voice responded. “Please show her in.”

Mac followed Stella into the office. Behind a mahogany desk, a leather chair faced a sleek laptop. A tall, lean man rose. About forty and fit, he wore jeans, an Earth Day T-shirt, and trail running shoes. His dark hair was a half inch past needing a cut, and wire-rimmed glasses gave him a nerdy look. He rounded the desk.

Stella introduced Mac. “Mr. Barrett is assisting with my investigation.” Her tone warmed. “I must say, Dr. Randolph, you’re not exactly what I expected. I was expecting someone more . . . formal.”

Was it wrong for Mac to be instantly jealous over the smile Stella gave the doc?

“Formal doesn’t help people relax.” The doctor gestured to a circle of leather chairs in the corner. “Please, call me Josh.”

“The center looks like a mountain lodge.” Mac eased his body into a low-slung seat. He wasn’t sure if fancy digs would have helped or hindered his own recovery. The utilitarian decor of the center he’d attended had made the process feel serious. Rehab was not a vacation.

“I don’t see any reason for people to be uncomfortable while they recover.” Josh removed his glasses and polished the lenses on the hem of his shirt. “People come here voluntarily. They should feel good about their decision to make their lives whole again.”

Mac took in the expensive-looking, modern furniture. “You don’t take insurance, do you?”

Josh shook his head. “No. All my clients pay privately. This is a small facility. I prefer to keep it that way.”

So what motivated the doctor? Money?

“Why do you do this?” Mac asked.

Josh sighed. “When I was a teenager, my older brother died of an overdose. He’d suffered from depression all his life. Drugs were his escape.”

“I can understand that.” The words slipped out of Mac’s mouth before he could stop them, but the doctor’s words had struck a nerve.

The doctor’s gaze was too sharp. Too understanding.

Mac shifted his position in the chair. “You want to prevent others from the same fate.”

“That’s the idea.” Josh smiled.