Free A Cure for Madness by Jodi McIsaac Page A

three cans of cheap beer.
    I stumbled into the bathroom and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I winced. A shower was definitely in order.
    Once dry, I pulled on my jeans and an old The Clash T-shirt, then drove downtown. I needed street tacos. I hoped Rosa’s was still open. How many times had Latasha, Kenneth, and I gone on a late-night taco run to fuel our study sessions?
    The ache in my chest grew as I drove under the canopy of leaves that arched over the road. I passed the brick-faced building where my dad had once worked. The farmers’ market we’d gone to almost every Saturday to buy fresh-pressed apple cider and warm Belgian waffles. The 200-year-old cathedral Wes had broken into once, convinced that a dear friend of his was being sacrificed in a satanic ritual. That had been arrest number two.
    The tiny hole-in-the-wall shop was still there. Two green plastic chairs and a stained wooden table stood on the sidewalk—the extent of the patio. A well of nostalgia rose up in my throat as I parked and stepped out into the muggy heat.
    The door opened, and I automatically moved to the side. Then I saw who it was.
    “Kenneth.”
    He looked nonplussed for a few seconds; then a wry smile cracked his face. “Looks like we both needed some comfort food.”
    “I guess.” Why did I feel so self-conscious? It wasn’t like I’d followed him there. “I thought you’d still be at the hospital.”
    “I’m done for the day. Thought I’d get something here before picking up Maisie at my mom’s.”
    “Oh. Well, I should let you go, then.”
    “Sure.”
    “Unless . . . you have time to stay? For a few minutes?” Was I pushing him too far? Maybe he’d just been acting polite at the hospital. Maybe he was annoyed I was back in town. But I couldn’t help it. I needed a friend.
    He hesitated, then sat down in one of the plastic chairs. “I’ll wait while you order. Try the shrimp tacos. They’re new.”
    I ducked inside and returned a few minutes later with a Styrofoam container filled with shrimp tacos.
    “How are the arrangements going?” he asked once I sat down.
    “Fine, I think. Actually, I don’t really know. My Uncle Rob is taking care of most of it, which is amazing.” I told him about the visit from Officer Danley.
    “I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he said. “I’m sure they’re just trying to be thorough.”
    “I know. But it bugs me when people jump to conclusions about Wes. I mean, I can see how it looks, and I know he has a history of violence. He doesn’t think like you and me. But hell, they know who did it. Do they really think Wes convinced Terry to shoot our parents? That’s insane. Wes is a gentle soul on the inside. He really is.”
    “He’s lucky to have you,” Kenneth said. “And how was the family meeting?”
    “Nonexistent, actually.” I told him what had happened.
    “I’m sorry; that’s quite unprofessional. You deserve to have a full picture of your brother’s condition before he’s released to you. But I can’t say I’m surprised.”
    “Why not?”
    “The doctors you were supposed to meet with were at the same meeting I was attending. All senior personnel were there.”
    “With the CDC? What’d you find out?”
    He looked down at his hands. “I’m not supposed to say anything . . .”
    I leaned in closer. “Come on, who am I going to tell? I don’t even live here anymore. You said it might have something to do with my parents’ death. And if it could affect Wes, I should know.”
    “It won’t affect Wes. At least, no more than anyone else. But I’m really not supposed to say. They don’t want to start a panic.”
    “Have you ever known me to panic? C’mon, you can trust me.” The reproach in his eyes made my cheeks burn. Of course he didn’t trust me. He had every reason not to. “Never mind,” I muttered.
    “Hey,” he said. “I’m over it, remember? And I do trust you not to call up half a dozen reporters. Nothing is