Philip Whitewell was coming toward me, hands outstretched.
“How is she?” he asked. “Is she all right? Is she—”
“She’s in a hospital.”
“Oh,” he said, and then after a moment, “Oh, my God!”
“Mental,” I explained.
He was staring at me as if I’d driven a knife into his chest.
“Amnesia. Doesn’t know who she is, who her friends are, or where she came from, or what has happened. Otherwise, she’s in good health.”
“At Reno?”
“Yes.”
Philip Whitewell looked at his dad. “We must go at once,” he said.