An act of bravery? No, I had given her a power-dose of pethidine. It worked so well that she asked if I could get her a year’s supply. I looked for signs of infection around the two knife wounds but couldn’t find any: no pus, no redness, no swelling, no heat. If lucky, I might just avoid a malpractice suit. “What do I owe you, doc?” she said, comfortably asprawl on the bed. The purplish-blue lines on her throat were fainter and the ring of red sores on her wrists and ankles—rope burns—were almost gone. But there were still marks beneath her eyes like bruises under the skin of an apple. “Just a few more details.” Céleste adjusted her pillow, folding it in two to make it higher. “About …?” “Bazinet.” She groaned. “Don’t do this,” she entreated, her bloodshot eyes begging me to leave her alone. “It’s not the right day. How about tomorrow?” “How about today, how about this very second? It’ll be like climbing a ladder. We’ll go up one rung at a time.”
