"Is this a joke?" I wonder as we pulled up to the building Stiles had indicated. In spite of the rain and darkness I can still read the sign that reads "Doctor of Veterinary Medicine" over the door.
"This guy knows a lot about just about everything," Stiles assures me. "I know it seems like a long shot, but he'll be able to tell us something. He's my buddy Scott's boss." He pulls the note out of his pocket and taps the side of his nose with it. "Come on, Miss Martin. Trust me."
To my utter chagrin, I find that I do. Or at least, I'm still too shaken to do anything but agree when I'm looking into those warm brown eyes. In an attempt to salvage my dignity, I declare, "Very well, but I'm paying good money for this, and I expect prompt results, Detective Stilinski."
I hear him mutter once again as he tags along after me through the rain to the door, "I said you could call me Stiles." I ignore his words.
The door is opened by a pleasant-looking man in his early forties with dark skin, no hair, and extremely penetrating eyes. "Doctor D!" Stilinski says, reaching out to shake his hand. "Glad we caught you. I need some help with a case."
"Come in out of the rain. Stiles," the doctor says, looking at me. "May I be introduced?"
"Oh. Miss Martin, this is Doctor Alan Deaton. Doctor D, this is Miss Lydia Martin. She's a client, and there's a very dangerous man trying to kill her. I'm trying to catch him first."
Doctor Deaton's eyebrows jump up at this. "Is there a reason she's here with you instead of in protective custody?" he inquires. Stiles hems and haws, but I spare him from having to reply.
"I don't intend to sit around waiting to find out if I'll live or die," I say. "I am a lawyer and I know something about investigation. Detective, would you mind getting to the point of our visit?"
Stiles fishes the note out of his suit coat and hands it to Deaton. "This note was under her door this morning. Can you tell me anything about it that might help us?"
Deaton takes the note and reads with a carefully neutral expression. "Peter Hale, I take it?" he says. He fixes me with his gaze. "What on earth did you do to offend such a dangerous man?"
I straighten my back; of this, at least, I can take some pride. "I put him behind bars," I say.
I can't tell whether Deaton is impressed by this or not – all he does is nod slightly, then beckons us into an adjoining room. It appears to serve as an operating room and a laboratory, lined with shelves and with mysterious equipment on the counters.
Stiles jerks his head towards the other room. "Doctor D, I'd like to use your phone to make a quick phone call, if that's all right."
Deaton nods, and Stiles leaves us alone. I sit in silence, watching as the doctor's clever fingers make short work of analyzing the note. He sniffs it, licks it, even tears off a small corner and chews it thoughtfully. Then he takes off more pieces and drops them into different liquids, squinting at the results in the light. He burns one and sniffs the smoke. He takes a swipe of the pencil onto a cotton swab and analyzes it under a microscope.
I watch in vague interest, but the image of Peter looming up behind me is still so vivid that I am mostly engaged in not jumping at every shadow in the quiet clinic.
"It's all right to be afraid," Deaton says, so softly that it takes me a moment to realize that he was addressing me.
"I'm not afraid," I scoff. "I'm the brightest up-and-coming lawyer in California. Firms from L.A. and San Francisco have been fighting over me since I passed my bar exam. I've won more cases in the past five years than most lawyers see in ten."
"Firms in L.A. and San Francisco?" Deaton sounds intrigued. "And yet you're still in Beacon Hills?"
I shrug, trying to pass it off as casual. "My mother lives here. She'd be heartbroken if I moved too far."
"I see." Deaton glances at my hands and says, "Would you mind telling me what's happened that's got you so rattled? It's more than just a note, I can tell."
I realize I have my handkerchief out of my reticule and that I've been fiddling with it in my lap until it's almost torn to bits. "Oh," I gasp. "How – how silly of me. I didn't notice."
"You may not realize this, but there's no law that says you have to face all your problems on your own," he says gently, moving the handkerchief away and taking my hands in his. The warmth and strength of his grip serves as a reminder of just how cold and fragile I felt. "Also, Stiles Stilinski is a tenacious young pit bull, and he won't let anyone harm you." He considers for a moment. "Well, more of a whippet. But he's one of the good ones."
