“I was gone for less than an hour,” John said in a low voice, leaning in so Jessica could hear him over the sound of the hospital waiting room’s TV. “I came back, and he was lying there. If I had just stayed with him a little longer …” He trailed off, and Jessica gave him a sympathetic look. He grabbed his backpack off the floor and put it in his lap, touching the front pocket to reassure himself that Theodore’s head was still where he’d stuffed it.

“Do you think it was just someone with a grudge?” she asked, then flushed. “I don’t mean ‘just,’ like it’s not a big deal, but I mean, I’m sure Clay made his fair share of enemies, being the police chief. It probably didn’t have anything to do with …” She glanced around and lowered her voice. “Anything to do with us.”

John looked down at the backpack in his lap. “The door … was shredded, Jess.”

Jessica looked nervously down the hallway, like she was worried Clay might hear them. “Well, regardless, it’s not your fault.”

A heavy silence settled in between them, only punctuated by the half-crazed voices coming from the TV, which was showing a montage of ghastly faced clowns. For a moment, John was distracted, searching for a glimpse of the apparition who had silently passed him in the street, but she was not among the crowd.

“People are going crazy this weekend,” Jessica said, recalling his attention. “Dressing up in those costumes—did you hear about the kid who got kidnapped?”

“Yeah,” John said. “Clay told me about it. Actually, when I went to see him—” John broke off as a nurse in blue scrubs walked up purposefully.

“John, Jessica?” she said as if she already knew the answer.

“Yeah, that’s us,” Jessica said, with a hint of anxiety.

The nurse gave her a smile. “Chief Burke wants to see you. I tried to tell him visits are supposed to be immediate family only right now, but, well. Chief’s orders.”

The room was only a few doors down the hallway, but the bright lights and slick, grayish surfaces were disorienting. John squinted to ward off the offensive glare. Jessica was in front of him, and he bumped into her before he realized she had stopped just short of Clay’s door.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, confused as to why she was standing still.

She turned around and moved close to whisper: “Can you go in first?”

“Yeah, of course,” he said, understanding. “He’s not that bad, Jess, I promise.”

“Still.” She made a concerned face and stepped back so John could approach the doorway.

The door was open: He could see Clay, apparently asleep. He was in a hospital gown, and with the blood cleaned from his face, his skin looked sallow. A line of black stitches ran from his forehead to his cheekbone, splitting his eyebrow.