She pulled out another old file folder and started typing the contents into the computer. She wished she felt better. She had a thermos of soup, having forgone her usual coffee—she only had the one thermos. But there was coffee in the office. She’d put a quarter in the kitty and hope it was enough. Banks never fussed when she got it out of the office coffeepot anyway. She supposed that he considered that her making it entitled her to drink it.

She was reminded that Joceline Blackhawk, the administrative assistant for her husband, Jon Blackhawk, over at the local FBI office, refused to make coffee at all. That chore fell to agent Murdock. There had been some very inventive threats about ways to stop him from making it, one of which was a shovel and a pickup truck...

She laughed out loud, picturing FBI agents from Jon’s office in ninja gear carrying agent Murdock out to the truck in a big sack.

The door snapped shut and Banks came down the steps. “What are you laughing about?” he asked.

“Agent Murdock,” she said, and laughed some more.

“God!” he snorted. “If I ever have to speak to Jon Blackhawk on a case, I take my own coffee. Once, he even tried to buy it from me!”

“I am not surprised,” she returned.

He stuck his head in her door and frowned. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked suddenly.

Her eyebrows arched. “What do you mean?” she asked innocently, and ruined the pose by coughing so hard that she hurt her chest.

“You’re sick,” he said.

She swallowed. “I am...not,” she argued. “It’s just a cough.”

He moved closer. “It’s not. What’s wrong with you?”

“I got chilled,” she said stubbornly.

He put his big, lean hand out and felt her forehead. The frown got worse. “Clancey, you’re burning up with fever. Let’s go.”

“No!”

“Yes. Do you want me pick you up and carry you out of here?” he added.

“You wouldn’t dare!” she said haughtily.

“Stop struggling or I’ll drop you,” he muttered as he reached his SUV. He balanced her on one upraised thigh while he opened the door. He put her inside and closed the door on her furious muttering.

He got in beside her. “Fasten your—” He glanced at her. “Good girl.” He cranked the SUV. “Who’s your doctor?”

She swallowed, hard. “I go to the nurse practitioner on Saturdays at Fred’s Pharmacy.”

He looked at her, shocked. “You don’t have a doctor?”

She bit her lower lip and fought tears.

He recalled where she lived, how she lived. Stupid question, he chided himself. He turned the truck toward Hal Marshall Memorial Hospital.

“I can’t afford this,” she exclaimed as he marched her slowly into the emergency room.