He sat by the atrium’s small central pond, trailing his fingers absently in the water for the fish to nibble, looking at her curiously. She was in a modified recliner, a grand antique couch fit for a desert queen but augmented with an arrangement of dense, sloping cushions that created the right position for her limbs and spine. The couch was broad enough and sturdy enough to support the heavy brace that held her emaciated body. It was also wide enough for her to spread papers and files within easy reach of her hand.

Khabir gave a small shake of the head and indicated the papers with a disdainful lift of his chin. “You don’t have to do that.”

She smiled, a rarity since the accident. “I’ve told you my theory. I only have to prove it.”

“That’s what I mean. You don’t have to prove it. Grey has been convicted. The murders have stopped.”

She tilted her head, scrutinizing his expression. “Tell me about my accident. How did it happen?”

“Miranda, what are you saying?” His voice was pitched low in warning. “Do you really think that had anything at all to do with the case?”

“No need for that. I haven’t gone off the deep end yet. But I’ll tell you what might keep my mind occupied. There’s at least a routine police report for my accident, am I right? Can you bring me a copy of it?”

He brought his hand out of the water, flicked droplets briskly from his fingertips, then got up and slowly walked toward her with a concerned frown. “Will it occupy you or distress you? Be honest.”

“Honestly? Boredom drives me crazy, and something isn’t right. Let me pick at it. If it looks like it’s doing me harm, you can just take it away from me.”

He stopped, stared down at her, and nodded slowly. “Fair enough.”

“Khabir,” Miranda said softly, “I really do appreciate everything you’re doing for me. Let me work, even if it’s make-work. I can keep my mind sharp at least.”

“Fair enough,” he repeated, giving her a resigned smile. He leaned over and pressed a gentle hand to her shoulder. “Be good. I’m going back to the office. I may have something for you when I return.”

As Khabir passed under the arch of the atrium and into the foyer, the Trickster risked a whisper. “Ever the mother,” he said, his words sly but admiring.