Royal Pains : Sick Rich (9781101559536) Read Online Free Page B

and a good psychiatrist.
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œKev never really recovered from losing him. I almost didn’t either.” She offered a weak smile and then sniffed back tears. “His schoolwork suffered. He quit baseball and basketball. Started using marijuana.”
    She took a deep breath and stared beyond me toward the wall for a minute. I waited, giving her time to get the story out at her own pace.
    â€œHe became withdrawn,” Rosemary continued. “Moody and sullen. Didn’t often go out with his friends. Still doesn’t. And that used to be a constant problem. Really the only thing we argued over. He wanted to be with his friends all the time, but we wouldn’t allow him to be out every night like he wanted. Now he stays locked up in his room. He rarely eats and has lost . . . I don’t know . . . I’d guess twenty pounds. He certainly didn’t need to.” She fell silent and stared at her hands, now folded on the table before her.
    â€œWhat happened today that prompted you to call us?” Divya asked.
    â€œHe’s different.”
    â€œHow?” I asked.
    â€œHe’s hyped up. Jittery. He seems confused and doesn’t make much sense when he talks.”
    â€œConfused?” Divya asked. “In what way?”
    â€œI made breakfast this morning. He didn’t really eat any. Maybe a few bites. The whole time he talked about all sorts of stuff. Jumping from one topic to another. Like a runaway train. Kept tapping on the table and bouncing his leg.” She looked at me. “It’s drugs, isn’t it?”
    I nodded. “Could be. How old is Kevin now?”
    â€œSixteen.”
    â€œCan I go talk with him?”
    â€œPlease.” She stood.
    â€œI mean alone.”
    She hesitated.
    â€œIt might be best. He’s more likely to tell me the truth.”
    She collapsed into her chair again. “I suppose that’s true. Lord knows he won’t talk to me.” She nodded toward a hall across the dining room from where we sat. “His room is the last door on the right.”
    I grabbed my medical bag and walked that way. The hallway was lined with family photos. Some were of Rosemary and her late husband. Others were older. Black and white and grainy. Probably the grandparents. But most were of Kevin. As a baby, in a crib, butt bare, head up with a wide toothless grin. As a very young boy in a cowboy outfit, cap pistol aimed at the photographer, black hat pulled low over his eyes, a snarl on his face. Trying to look like an outlaw, no doubt. Others were school and sports photos, several of baseball and basketball teams.
    I rapped on the door. “Kevin?” No response. I rapped harder. “Kevin?” I called, a little louder this time. Still no answer. I pushed the door open.
    Kevin sat at a desk, his back to me, earbuds jammed in his ears, a music video on his laptop, head bobbing, hands playing air drums.
    â€œKevin?”
    Still no response.
    I walked over and tapped his shoulder. He jumped and whirled around, tugging the buds from his ears.
    â€œWho are you?”
    His face was sweat-slicked, pupils dilated. His gaze bounced around the room.
    â€œYou don’t remember me?” I asked.
    He stared blankly.
    â€œI’m Dr. Lawson. Your mother’s doctor.”
    â€œOh. Yeah?” His knee bounced to an internal rhythm now.
    â€œShe wanted me to talk with you.”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œMay I?” I motioned toward the bed next to his desk.
    â€œSure.”
    I sat.
    He wiped his palms on his jeans and eyed me suspiciously.
    â€œHow are you doing?” I asked.
    â€œFine. What’s this about? I mean, I have things to do so I don’t have much time.”
    â€œWhat things?”
    That seemed to confuse him.
    â€œYou know. Things.” He looked around the room. “Lots of things.”
    â€œKevin,” I said. His gaze snapped back to me.