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picked up a white thermal blanket that was folded neatly at the foot of the bed, and tucked it around her shoulders. She realized that he was treating her for shock.
    She wasn’t sure she minded. The blanket was very soft, the coffee warm in her hands. She took a sip. Not too sweet and definitely chocolatey. “God, this is so good.”
    â€œIf I had a dollar for every time a woman told me that.”
    â€œGillane?”
    He sat beside her. Began rubbing her shoulders. Tiny firm motions with strong fingers. He was a tall man, long-legged, and up this close she could smell some kind of soap or aftershave, spicy and slightly sweet.
    â€œShe didn’t have a chance in hell, did she?”
    â€œYou think I could have saved her and didn’t bother?” It was a measure of his confidence that he did not seem offended.
    â€œNo. But we didn’t find her for a while. She was under that bed, scared and whispering, and we were all over the place.”
    â€œDrink your coffee. No, sweetie, she had an eight-centimeter gash in her liver, and even if I’d had her in here the second after she got that gut wound, those small liver lacerations are hard to contain, you can’t stop the bleeding. It wasn’t a nice death, but if she hadn’t gone then, she’d be hanging on for another twenty-four hours, going slowly from peritonitis, and that’s nobody’s idea of fun. Survive that, and she’d have worn her colon in a bag on her hip.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œThey used to tell us in medical school—and you never really know if they make this stuff up, do you? But supposedly. In medieval times. They get a victim with a wound like this, they feed him onion soup.”
    â€œOnion soup?”
    â€œThen you sniff the wound. If you can smell the onion, you know your patient’s a goner.”
    Sonora remembered the leak of IV fluid from the wound.
    â€œWhat happened out there?” Gillane asked.
    Sonora took a breath, knew she was starting up the rumor mill. “It was some kind of home invasion. Two men and an angel broke a pane in the kitchen window, surprised the teenage daughter and toddler in the kitchen. She—the mom—was in a back bedroom, doing laundry and watching the baby.”
    â€œI saw the baby.”
    â€œShe’s okay. Everybody else, dead. Nobody went nice. Slit the daughter’s throat. The little boy—God, Gillane, a two-year-old, maybe three. We found him in the living room with his neck broken. Quick though. Sometime in the middle of all this the father came home. They took a chair out of the kitchen and tied him up with the drapery cords. Looks like he witnessed a lot of it, his wrists were torn to shreds. And they had a dog. They killed him too.”
    â€œDid you say an angel?”
    Sonora shrugged. Took another sip of coffee.
    â€œAre you still seeing that Jerk?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œNot my word. Sam’s. He ratted you out. I heard you were pretty hot and heavy.”
    â€œNope, that one’s history.”
    â€œGood. I’ll call you.”
    â€œI’m not going to have one second to spare for you or anybody else, and by the way, your timing is absolutely crappy.” She put the coffee cup down on his desk, balled up the blanket.
    â€œMay I offer you a Twinkie before you go?”
    It gave her pause. The Jerk would never have offered her a Twinkie. He seemed to derive his greatest pleasure from doing without. Food eaten cheaply, no frills, simple nutrients, gave him more happiness than a really good meal. He would have made an excellent religious fanatic, a fabulous monk. In the boyfriend category, of course, that sort of thing didn’t rate.
    â€œActually, yes, I would like a Twinkie.”
    Gillane bent down and pulled an open box from under the bed. Tossed her a cellophane wrapper that had two Twinkies, nestled side by side. “I’ll call you.”
    â€œI won’t be