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the doorway with Leigh following. Then he walked forward slowly, addressing the agitated man. “Is there a problem, sir?” He kept his voice modulated, casual, doing his best to sound concerned and not authoritative; hands in plain sight, palms extended in a nonthreatening manner. Settle down, buddy. “Can I help?”
    The man crossed his arms, glared at the ward clerk, then looked past Nick to pin his gaze on Leigh. “Are you the doctor who’s treating my wife?”
    Leigh took a step closer to the man, and Nick moved to stay between them.
    “And your wife is . . . ?” she prompted.
    “Linda,” the man said, a play of emotions twisting his features. “Linda Baldwin. I got a message from a chaplain. She said my wife was brought in here by ambulance.” His hands balled into fists and he cursed again. “I’m telling you, no one’s going to stop me from seeing her. Not a doctor and not some rent-a-cop security guy. I’ll take this place apart if I have to!”
    Nick widened his stance but kept his voice calm. “Mr. Baldwin, I see that you’re worried about your wife. I can understand that, trust me. I worry about mine.” Leigh shifted beside him. “But let’s take this down a notch.”
    “And who are you to tell me . . . ?”
    Nick met his eyes directly. “I’m a police officer, Mr. Baldwin. Nick Stathos, San Francisco PD. And if you’ll cooperate, I’ll be glad to help you get the information you need. Deal?” He watched the man’s eyes, saw his anger recede visibly. Whether out of fear of police intervention or relief, Nick wasn’t sure. But he’d take it.
    “Okay. Okay.” The man turned his attention back to Leigh. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”
    “Yes. I’m Dr. Stathos, and I’m treating Linda.” Leigh beckoned. “Step this way, would you?” He followed her as she walked away from the desk, and Nick did the same, at a distance. But close enough that he could protect Leigh and overhear what she was saying.
    “Your wife’s in stable condition, Mr. Baldwin. I’ll take you in to see her. But I want to explain something first. She’s given me permission to talk with you about her treatment, or I couldn’t do that because of confidentiality. You understand that?”
    “Right. But what’s wrong with her?”
    “I’ve had to pump her stomach. She took what could have been a lethal overdose of several medications, complicated by the fact that she’s consumed alcohol.”
    “Alcohol?” Mr. Baldwin pressed his fingers to his forehead. “Linda doesn’t drink.”
    Leigh glanced toward Nick. She faced Mr. Baldwin, crossed her arms, and sighed. “She tells me she’s been despondent. Can’t sleep or eat or work—doesn’t know how she’ll live anymore—because you left her for another woman.”
    Ah . . . no. Nick stepped back to lean against the corridor wall, guilt making his stomach churn. Then saw Sam watching him from the nurses’ desk.

Chapter Three
    Leigh squinted into the noon sunshine, closing her eyes and wondering if the San Francisco Bay air smelled different than the breeze at Pacific Point. Same ocean. Couple of hours south by car. A safe cushion of space from heartbreak and loss. From Nick, my broken marriage . . . and the miscarriage he knows nothing about. Yes. Better air there. Safer. Even when it was threatened by that pesticide scare. She shuddered at the memory, then turned to Riley, seated beside her on a bench outside the ER. “Did we finish off Mrs. Cappy’s health nut cookies?” she asked, setting her knitting aside.
    “One left. Split it?” The assistant chaplain, eyes as blue as her native Texas sky, fumbled one-handed with the ziplock bag sitting between them.
    “Need help with that?”
    “Nope, I’ve . . . got it. Voilà!” She lifted the pecan-sprinkled cookie like it was a trophy. “Think the occupational therapist would count cookie snagging with my nondominant arm as progress?” She rolled her eyes. “No, I’d probably have