Addiction Read Online Free

starting to think like me. Actually, they are. Liam Jensen is running the clinical trials.” Jensen was a doctor who worked with Channing in the Drug and Alcohol Rehabilitation Unit. Channing slowed down until a middle-aged couple walked past. “I’ve got most of my final report drafted. The final stats are being reviewed now.”
    â€œSounds like you think they’re out to get you.”
    â€œYou think I’m being paranoid?”
    â€œIt’s not paranoia when you’re surrounded by assassins,” I said. “After all, you’re the one who’s still fighting greed, injustice, and the American way. I think you’ve got it written into your job description.”
    Channing didn’t smile. “How much longer, I wonder? You’ve heard the other allegations against me?”

    â€œI haven’t.” I tried to keep my head out of the noxious cloud of gossip that floats around the Pearce.
    â€œYou’re probably the only one, then. They’re questioning my clinical judgment.”
    Clinical judgment —a euphemism vague enough to cover just about anything. That and not a team player were the terms used to brand those who didn’t go along or get along.
    â€œThey’re saying that I behaved inappropriately. Got too close. Violated the boundaries.”
    I paused, midstep. “You?”
    Channing laughed. “Oh, come on, Peter. I’m not that much of a prig.” She gave me a sideways glance. “Well, maybe I am.” She took my arm and pulled me forward. “Anyway, some people find it credible. The worst part is that these allegations are being made in a way that I can’t confront them. Character assassination by innuendo.”
    We stopped near the edge of the parking lot, at the foot of an enormous concrete lion. The creature had his mouth open, his mane curling about his head as he hugged a shield emblazoned with the word Veritas. Channing glanced up at the beast and shivered.
    â€œTruth,” she said, spitting out the word. “I know that’s what this place is supposed to stand for. But sometimes I wonder if we’re embracing it or devouring it whole.”

    By the time I got back to the lobby outside the lecture hall, someone had disconnected the coffeepot and carried it off. I scooped up the last cookie crumbs and ate them.
    â€œI didn’t realize you and Channing Temple were such good friends,” Kwan said, coming up behind me. He was munching on what must have been the last Lorna Doone on the tray.
    â€œActually, we met ages ago. Back when we were both undergrads.”
    â€œI wonder if she’ll weather the storm,” Kwan said.

    â€œThe article in JAMA ?”
    â€œThat, and they’re saying she …”
    I held up my hands. “Don’t. I know as much as I want to know.”
    Kwan put his hands over his eyes, then over his ears, then over his mouth.
    â€œRight,” I said. “Besides, it’s all bullshit. And she’s an old friend.”
    â€œAh,” Kwan said, as if that explained something. “She’s married, isn’t she? Is he one of the Temples?”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œBoston Brahmins. Old money.”
    â€œSounds right.”
    I knew Drew Temple didn’t have your typical day job. When people asked him what he did, he’d mumble something about managing property and financial assets. I’d always found him pleasant but distant. Part of it was the age difference—people sometimes assumed he was Channing’s father, especially early in their marriage. And part of it was just who he was.
    â€œBack Bay, I’ll bet,” Kwan said.
    I fished Channing’s card from my pocket. Kwan pounced on it. He whistled. “Marlborough Street. Nice neighborhood. Saturday night?”
    â€œShe’s having a dinner party.”
    His eyes drifted over to my Harris tweed jacket. He eyed my fish tie as if it were an actual dead