“I know you do.” Connie walked around to the opposite side of the examining table and pulled over her stool. Seated, she took Sloane’s hand in hers, palm up. “I could give you a lecture on how far you’ve come. I could reiterate that it would take the digital nerve six months to regenerate under ideal circumstances, which yours clearly are not. I could remind you that with complicated hand injuries, there are no guarantees, especially when you’re talking about the fine motor skills needed to shoot a pistol and rejoin the FBI. I could say a lot of things. But you know every one of them already, and it doesn’t make your situation any easier to bear. So why don’t we do some passive bending exercises and scar massage first. I’ll do the work, you do the talking. Then we’ll switch. You’ll do active extensions and gripping exercises, and I’ll talk. So start. Tell me what’s going on in your high-powered life.”
“Nothing cheerful.” Sloane watched Connie put lotion on the scar-tissue massage tool, then begin a gentle motion with its roller ball, softening Sloane’s skin and soothing the scars around her incision. “I’m involved in two missing persons cases. One of the subjects is an old childhood friend. The other’s a college kid. Neither case looks too promising in the way of a positive outcome.”
“That’s terrible. No wonder you look so upset.” Connie continued her work. “Are there ransom notes?”
“Nope.”
“Is it possible that either or both of them took off on their own?”
“Possible. Not likely.”
“Well, you never know what’s going on in someone’s life. Remember Lydia Halas?”
“Hmm?” Sloane’s mind had drifted off for an instant as she pondered the unlikely prospect that Penny was alive. She switched her attention back to Connie. “You mean Lydia Halas—my nurse?”
“Yup.”
“Of course I remember her. She took care of me after both my surgeries. She was superefficient, but always compassionate. She gave me daily pep talks about how I’d recover and be myself again. Once she even sneaked me up a pint of Ben & Jerry’s when I was losing my mind from the hospital food.”
“That’s Lydia.” Connie smiled, bending Sloane’s fingers to check her range of motion. “Anyway, she left here right before Christmas.”
“She moved to a different hospital?” Sloane asked in surprise.
A shrug. “No clue. One day she just didn’t come in. It turned out she didn’t just leave HSS, she left Manhattan. The police checked it out, and apparently she and her husband had separated a few months earlier. There were rumors of abuse, but I never saw a mark on her. I know the separation was difficult for her. Apparently, she went to start over. I have no idea where. The point is, maybe your friend just wanted a new life. And a college student? They’re the ultimate free spirits. Maybe this kid got bored and ran off to find some excitement. That sounds reasonable to me. So don’t assume the worst. You could be surprised.”
Sloane smiled fondly. “Connie, you’d find something positive to say if I told you I was having a tooth extraction without novocaine. I wish I had your nature.”
“We can’t all be that lucky.” Connie’s eyes twinkled, and she placed a wad of medium-resistance therapy putty in Sloane’s palm. “Squeeze that for me with your entire hand. Then shift it to the space between your index and middle finger and squeeze again. And, while you’re doing that, tell me about the guy.”
“Guy?” Sloane complied, curving her fingers around the putty and exerting as much pressure as she could. After a minute, she placed it between her middle and index fingers and repeated the process. “What guy?”
“The one who’s been on your mind all week. I recognize the signs, although they’re new with you. I haven’t seen you distracted by a man since—him.”
Sloane grimaced. She’d told Connie about Derek months ago, during one of her weaker moments.
“Is there pain?” Connie asked.
“What?”
“Pain. You’re wrinkling your face up. Is the pressure too much for your finger?”
“No.” Sloane glanced down at the putty. “It’s fine. That’s not the problem.”
“Ah, the guy. Who is he?”
“He’s him,” Sloane replied with a sigh. “In the flesh.”
“Derek?” Connie’s brows shot up. “What do you mean in the flesh? He’s here in New York?”
“Yup.”
“How do you know? Has he called you?”
“Worse. I saw him in person. He’s assigned to the New York field office. And lucky me—he’s the agent of record on my missing friend’s case. So guess who has to work together?”
“You’re kidding.” Connie stared for a moment, then sucked in her breath and resumed treating Sloane’s hand. She took away the putty and handed Sloane a spring-loaded hand-and-finger exerciser. “That’s the usual pound-and-a-half resistance. I’m hoping we can move to the three-pound resistance sometime this month. Now grasp and squeeze.” She watched as Sloane complied. “Did you know he’d been transferred to New York?”
“I knew he wanted to be. I haven’t exactly followed his career. It’s not the best way to forget someone.”