Chapter Twelve

Twelve

The text was from someone Dylan had named Trevor the Chemist. And it read simply: WHERE R U?

Trevor the Chemist. Sounded like a drug dealer—albeit a pretentious one. Maybe he went to Harvard, too.

While I'm not normally one to text and drive, I'd used the voice option to reply while I was still stuck in traffic. I am not Dylan, but I have his phone. I am trying to help his parents find him. Where are you? Can we meet?

There had been no reply. I'd waited for another ding all the way to Optima Urgent Care, where Rhonda Lewis was employed—an unassuming-looking building with a very crowded parking lot on what was otherwise a mostly residential street.

While waiting at the end of a rather lengthy check-in line, I looked at Dylan's texts once again to see if Trevor the Chemist had responded back when I'd been distracted by road rage. He hadn't. I tried calling his number. It went straight to voicemail. The mailbox was full, which felt kind of irresponsible for a drug dealer.

I scrolled through the rest of Dylan's texts as I moved closer to the front of the line. None were very interesting—mostly spam and old appointment reminders for Lamborghini tune-ups and body waxing. As far as his personal life went, I imagined Dylan was more of a Snapchat kind of guy, disappearing texts and all. I started to move on to his stored images. The most recent was a dick pic. Of course it was. I closed it quickly. Why can't somebody invent an app that makes you unsee things?

I was next in line now—just behind a young couple with a shrieking baby that they were both trying unsuccessfully to soothe. I turned my attention to the medical receptionist—a pale, wan guy about my age, with a tattoo of a phone booth on his forearm. TARDIS, from Doctor Who . I wouldn't have known what TARDIS was until a year ago. Tom Gorman was a huge fan of the British TV show—a Whovian, if you will, with a DVD library that dated back to early episodes from the seventies and included every single one of the fourteen doctors. Back when we were dating, he'd made me dinner and treated me to a Doctor Who marathon. And though I must confess that Tom had treated me to other marathons I'd enjoyed a good deal more, I did like the show. While the receptionist was checking the young family in, I went to the Doctor Who Wiki Fandom and refreshed my memory.

After the woman in front of me finished signing in, I stepped up to the desk. Mr. TARDIS glanced up at me with tired, watery eyes. He was wearing blue scrubs that matched his tattoo. His nametag said Steve . "How can I help you?" Steve said in an exhausted monotone.

"First things first," I said. "Who's your favorite doctor?"

He frowned. "Here?"

I shook my head and pointed to the phone booth on his forearm. "You know what I'm talking about."

His face lit up. "Wait, seriously?"

"Come on. Everybody has a favorite."

"Ten," he said.

"Ah, David Tennant. A class act," I said. "I like thirteen, of course."

"Of course. Everybody loves her."

"Yeah, but if we're talking favorite doctor of all time…I'm going with the War Doctor. No contest."

"The War Doctor," he said. "That is a deep cut."

"I'm a deep individual."

"What's your name?" he said.

"Sunny," I said. "Like Jaz Samuels's toy rabbit."

"No way."

"Yes way," I said. "And believe me, you're the only person I'll talk to today who gets that reference."

His smile broadened until he positively glowed. "I'm Steve," he said. "Like Steven Taylor."

I pretended to know who that was. "Ah! Well, it's very nice to meet you, Steve," I said.

"Likewise."

"I'm wondering if you could help me out with something."

"Of course," he said. Still beaming. I imagined this guy didn't get a lot of attention from women—especially ones who shared his Doctor Who obsession. "By the way, you ever go to the Who-cons?"

"No, but I've always wanted to." I was improvising now. "I heard there was a good one in Worcester."

"You haven't lived," he said, "till you've been to the London one."

"I bet."

He sat there, gazing into my eyes, a look on his face like he was about to book us two plane tickets for Heathrow. This was starting to get uncomfortable.

"So what can I help you with?" he said.

I exhaled. "Do you happen to know Rhonda Lewis?"

"Oh. Sure," he said, the glow fading. "She works here. Well, I mean, she's on temporary leave right now. But…yeah. I know her."

"What's your opinion of her?"

He shrugged. "Nice lady. Good at her job. Why?"

"She ever mention the name Dylan Welch to you?"

"Um…I don't think so, but the name sounds familiar. Was he ever a patient?"

I shook my head. "Doubt it," I said. "He runs an energy drink company."

"You mean the one that killed Rhonda's kid?"

"Well…"

"That stuff is so unhealthy."

I cleared my throat. "There's warning labels."

"Kids don't read warning labels."

I looked at him. "That's true," I said. It was.

"I'm a private investigator," I said. "Dylan Welch has gone missing and I've been hired to find him. We found some texts from Rhonda on his phone, and I wanted to ask her a few questions about him, but I don't have any of her info."

He started typing into his computer. A nurse appeared and called out a name, and a woman stood up, her bloody hand wrapped in a towel.

"Just what I thought," Steve said.

"What?"

He cleared his throat. "If you want to give me your contact info, I can pass it on to Rhonda," he said, all business now. "And I promise not to exploit your friendliness and spur-of-the-moment Doctor Who research."

My face burned. "That isn't fair. I really do like the show."

He smirked. "Sure, Sunny," he said. "Regardless, thanks for looking me in the eye and talking to me like a fellow human. It's not often that happens in here, so I don't much care about the motivation behind it."

I took out my card, embarrassment coursing through me. I made an early New Year's resolution: Stop underestimating people.

I wrote my mobile number on the back of the card. "That's the best way to reach me," I said. "A lot of times—now, for instance—I'm not in the office."

I handed it to Steve. He looked at it.

"See?" I said. "My name really is Sunny."

He put the card in his wallet. I was about to say goodbye, but he stood up. "I can walk you out to your car, Sunny."

"That isn't necessary," I said.

Steve pulled on a coat. "I'm due a break anyway."

"Okay," I said, but I felt a little uneasy. I pulled my coat tight around me, my purse held close to my side, so that I could feel the compact weight of my .38. I grabbed my car keys out of my purse and clutched them in my hand, sharp edges out like claws. What if he's genuinely angry about the way I faked being a fan? What if he's angry enough to hurt me? An overreaction, to be sure—no doubt due in part to my conversation with Richie. Still, I did need to stop underestimating people, for the worse but also for the better. "Really, you don't have to," I said.

"I know." Steve pressed a buzzer on his desk. A nurse came out, and he told her he was taking a quick break. She took his place at the desk just as more people came in. It was an elderly couple, the woman leaning against the man, limping miserably, the man so frail he could barely hold her up. Never had I seen two people so completely focused on getting from point A to point B. They were sure not to notice a large man in scrubs and a puffer coat, leaving the building a little too quickly, a nervous-looking woman in tow.