Page 100 of The Boy Who Cried Bear
“Because the conversation isn’t necessary before morning, and Casey is too tired to participate, which doesn’t mean she won’t participate, just that she won’t participate well.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“I got your back.” Anders winks and then turns to Yolanda. “Casey is exhausted. We need to recharge her batteries and get her at full capacity for data processing.”
“I’m an android now?” I say.
“Of course not. Androids can’t get pregnant. Yet.” Back to Yolanda. “Let Casey rest. Let us all rest. Stick around if you want to play Scrabble or just hang out. But theorizing—or anything related to the kidnapper—is off-limits until morning.”
“Fine,” she says. “Also, you’re going to lose. I can see Eric’s tiles. Call it, and deal me in to the next game.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
When I finally fall asleep, I’m still on the sofa, and apparently, I’m not the only one who dozes off in place, because Dalton doesn’t carry me upstairs. I wake to find our living room looking like the scene of a teen party, with empty beer bottles across the coffee table, a carpet of smushed cheese puffs, and three people sleeping on the floor.
I gingerly lift my head. My stomach rocks with the motion, and my low groan has Dalton opening his eyes. Without a word, he rises, comes over, and scoops me up over his arms.
When I struggle, he whispers, “Shh, it’s still nighttime. I’m taking you to bed.”
I look at the window, with sunlight streaming under the blind.
“That’s an illusion,” he says. “You’re getting more sleep. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re a doctor now?”
“I can get April to write you a note, if that helps.”
I shake my head. I don’t argue. I’m still tired, and my stomach says I’m not ready to get up yet. I let Dalton put me into bed and then say, “You’re joining me, right?”
“Course. If my detective is sleeping, there’s no reason for me to be up. Unless my wife wants me to make breakfast.”
“She’d rather have you in here,” I say, pulling back the covers.
He strips off his shirt, and I try to stay awake for the rest of the show, but I’m gone before that shirt hits the floor.
* * *
I don’t know how long Dalton stays in bed with me. Not long, I’ll guess. He’ll try to sleep, but then he’ll be up and getting things done, and I wake to find myself alone with a thermos of tea, two fresh-baked ginger cookies, and a note.
Walking S.
< 10 m
I smile. His note writing has not grown any more eloquent since I first arrived. At least this one is clear enough. He’s walking the dog and will be back in less than ten minutes.
I’m still stretching when the front door opens. Voices tell me it’s not just Dalton. Anders is with him, Yolanda having presumably left.
“I’m up,” I call down. “Thanks for the cookies!”
“Thank your sister,” Anders calls back up. “She put in a special order, in hopes the ginger would be easy on your stomach.”
Dalton jogs up the stairs and peeks around the doorway. “How is your stomach?”
“Better. Sleep probably helped.” I struggle to uncap the thermos. “I’m going to take it slow, but I’d like to speak to Max in about ten minutes if someone can warn Dana.”
“That’s not taking it slow.”
“In fifteen minutes then.”
