“I might be able to find out,” Marion says. “I’ll poke around.”

Marion never hacks; she swears she doesn’t know how to hack. She “pokes around” and “explores.” Since the Dread Pirate Roberts went down, she’d been skittish about poking and exploring.

“Thanks,” Rose says. “That would be one load off my mind.”

“Maybe the … What do you want to call it? The nervous breakdown? Psychotic episode? The incident?”

“Spell,” Rose says with a smile. “Spells are such delightful things.”

“Is it possible your recent spell was brought on by drugs—not theirs, yours? Sleeping pills? I remember you once lost a night to Ambien. Drug-induced amnesia.”

“I don’t remember.”

Marion laughs. Rose loves making her sister laugh.

“Wine?” Marion asks. “During your first divorce you lost a night to alcohol.”

Marion’s memory is too good. Unfair, Rose thinks.

“More than usual,” Rose admits. “But not blackout, not even close.”

“Medication?” Marion asks. “Medication” means cannabis.

“Nothing unusual, that I remember.” Rose supposes she’ll be tacking that caveat onto her statements for some time to come.

“Antidepressants?”

“I suppose.” Rose is too tired to sit up. She curls down on the kitchen tiles in the fetal position.

“Are you on them now?”

“No. I’ve taken nothing but those red capsules. I doubt they were antidepressants. They did knock the big nurse out,” Rose says.

“Better call your doctor and get him to phone in a prescription for you,” Marion says.

Rose hates being reminded. Twice she’s tried to go off antidepressants. Both times were disastrous, complete with hallucinations and attendant psychic phenomena.

Marion doesn’t push it. “Maybe the mix of the various medications, plus the shock of Harley being killed, and you living in a strange house full of boxes, in a strange town full of strange people, created a situation where you lost it for a week or two. Flynn gets you help. You get better. Does that work?” she asks.

“It is possible,” Rose admits.

From Marion’s end of the phone she hears a cat complaining. She aches for Honey Cat and Laura Lei. Nothing is as comforting as the feel of fur and the sound of purring.

“Tell me about Longwood,” Marion says.

Rose thinks for a moment. Loathing of the place tries to force lies onto her tongue. “Longwood,” Rose says slowly, “is upscale. Nice décor. The people are professional and kind. The food is good. The bathrobe was sturdy and hard to cut. The bedspread ripped nice and straight. My shackles were soft and fleecy. My drugs were powerful and quick acting. Not a dump.”

“Not a dump,” Marion agrees.

“How would you know?” The complacency in Marion’s tone is irksome.

“I researched it online. You don’t think I’d stand by while you were put in some hellhole, do you?”

“Well, I don’t believe it now,” Rose says. “For a while there I was wondering.”