Page 108 of Cold, Cold Bones
My dentist’s robot had called to remind me of an upcoming appointment.
Nguyen had news to share.
I checked my texts.
My breath caught in my throat.
Katy. Sent the previous day.
Sorry no contact. OOT backpacking with army pal. Going off grid soon.
She closed with a smiling emoji.
I thumbed in a response.
Call me please? Before you lose signal?
I watched for the three dots that would indicate she was typing a response. Nothing.
I read the brief message three times, simultaneously confused, relieved, and angry. Out of town? Where, Mogadishu? Why couldn’t I reach her? Why hadn’t she phoned? Did she really wish to be left alone? Why? Was her thinking so distorted that she had zero regard for my feelings? Could she be that self-focused? Could PTSD cause such a change in behavior?
Katy’s texts tended to be detailed and, if anything, overly long. Why was this one so brief? So ambiguous? And who the hell was this army pal?
The landline cut short my speculation.
“Dr. Brennan.” I’d asked Nguyen many times to call me Tempe.
“Yes,” I said.
“Could you please come by my office in about an hour?”
“Of course.”
“I have news that will interest you.”
Her tone suggested the news would not be pleasant.
Nguyen was at her desk, hair in its usual bun, reading glasses midway down her nose. When I entered, she raised the half-moons to her head and leaned back in her chair.
“Dr. Brennan. Please have a seat.”
I sat.
She watched me a moment with troubled eyes, saying nothing.
“Has a new anthro case come in?” I asked.
“You knew Charles Hunt, did you not?”
“Yes.” Anxiety prickled my gut.
“You stated that you found his suicide surprising.”
“I did.” The prickle strengthened.
“Are you aware of any medical conditions Mr. Hunt may have had?”
I shook my head, baffled about where this was going.
