It's just me and Tasha now. And Dexter, I suppose, not that he's good for much. I try to talk to Tasha about what happened to John, but she gives me an accusing look and won't speak. So I tell her about what happened with Meena. The look changes, I'm not sure for the better.

"Cried wolf," she says, shaking her head. "That's poetic. What about her shit?" I look blankly at Tasha. "Her possessions. Where did she keep the timing records?"

"Her tablet was destroyed," I say. "She must have flung it at the ground or something."

"How do you know?" Tasha asks.

I spread my arms in submission. "I heard so many things from so many people."

"Was it backed up to the cloud?"

"Probably? Why?"

Tasha shrugs. "Bet it's not there any more."

I start to think I see what she's getting at. "What did you do?"

"Nothing."

"Bullshit. You're a tech whiz. Tell me the truth."

A strange specter crosses Tasha's face. "I did not do anything to Meena's files."

"Did you look at them?"

"I told you I looked at them. I told you what I found."

"You never did."

An annoyed look flashes across her face. "Then I guess I told Dexter."

"Well, he never told me."

"You two should talk more."

"What did you find?"

She sighs. "How do you not know?"

"Tell me what you found. Now."

That same strange specter. "I found her stupid-ass approach to correlating entry and exit times with deaths on the ward. She just lined them up and put a little star by any death closer than ten minutes after an entry. Do they not teach you medical professionals basic fucking statistics?" She shook her head. "Anyway, I guess she had the sense to actually go to a statistician with the problem, because she had a new little macro that she was trying out. She hadn't applied it to anyone yet, because she does the whole thing by hand and it must take fucking hours, but of course if you can tell your ass from your elbow in any half-decent programming language—"

I screw my eyes shut and squeeze the flesh between my eyebrows. "Tasha, if you're going to tell me you know who the Kevorkian is and you haven't told me—"

"Come on," says Tasha, and her voice has changed, her eyes have changed. She's concerned, her admonition urgent. "Come on, Drake. Put it together. You can't keep hiding from this."

"Oh God," I say, the words sour in my mouth, and Tasha's eyes flash with hope. "The insanity, the destroyed file." Tasha actually nods, like I'm an infant pulling itself up on the edge of a chair. "The blood on her mask that day. She wouldn't take it off."

"Right," says Tasha. "Go ahead."

"It's Meena."