“Thank you for coming, Dr. Bard. We appreciate it.” I lead the coroner through the house to the office where Commodore is waiting.

“No problem at all. I’m still writing my report, so I can’t give you all the details, but I’ve made notes so—”

“Sit down, Bard,” Commodore says, interrupting the coroner. “What the hell is going on here, and why didn’t you come to us directly instead of giving the transplant coordinator information that could be damaging to my family?”

I look skyward, wishing that Commodore wouldn’t put our guest on the defensive before he has a chance to tell us a goddamned thing.

“Well, I . . . You know . . .”

I intervene, calming Bard’s flustered nerves and sputtered words. “We understand that your first responsibility is to make sure you follow protocol, Dr. Bard. Please excuse my grandfather; he’s very upset about my mother’s death, and we all want to understand exactly what’s going on here. My mother would’ve wanted to help as many people as possible with her passing, and we’re confused about what could have possibly prevented her tissue from being acceptable.” I may be laying it on thick about my mother, but Bard doesn’t need to know the truth.

The coroner’s posture relaxes after my explanation, but his worried gaze still cuts to Commodore, like he’s expecting the royal inquisition.

“Why don’t you have a seat, Dr. Bard. Can I get you a drink?” I ask.

“I’m still technically on the clock, so I shouldn’t.”

“If you change your mind, let me know. Sometimes a little Scotch goes a long way to making the end of the day bearable.”

His shoulders lift to around his ears, and just as I expect, he relents. “Maybe just a splash.”

Commodore sits stone-faced behind the desk as I pour and then take the seat beside Dr. Bard. It feels a little like good cop/bad cop, but then again, that’s life with my grandfather.

“Why don’t we cut to the chase, Bard,” Commodore says. “What was in Sylvia’s system that made her tissue bad?”

“It wasn’t bad, per se,” Bard says.

“What my grandfather means to ask is, what exactly prevented it from being acceptable to donate?” I clarify his question, sliding into my good-cop role.

Bard takes a sip of the Scotch. “If there’s any chance that someone is using illicit drugs or had some kind of opiate addiction, we automatically disqualify them. We’ve had some issues in the past, and it’s one of our bright-line rules now.”

“Drug user? Opiate addict? My mother?” Shock permeates my tone. “What the hell would make you think that?” And the good-cop portion of this session is over.

“We found evidence of a highly addictive painkiller in her bloodstream that was never prescribed to her, according to the medical records we reviewed.”

I can’t for the life of me picture my mother popping pills, but then I remember my conversation with McKinley. If my mother had any kind of drug problem, Harrison would know, and we still haven’t been able to track him down.