I Love You to Pieces

by Lori Flynn

  He’d been worried she’d brought him there to extract information, information he’d received from Abigail that he was sworn to withhold—even from her. He was wrong.

  Ben stewed in silence, listening as Catherine and Nanny recounted episodes they’d witnessed or were made aware by household staff members, each omitted from the file. They spoke of Olivia’s broken toys and unfortunate pets that were no match for Elizabeth’s wrath. When Catherine described Olivia’s captivity in the small attic room, Ben leaped from his chair and paced with long quick strides, rubbing his tightly-clenched jaw.

  “Why wasn’t this reported?”

  Catherine slumped in her silk-covered chair, unable to stop her tears. Nanny reached over and rubbed her arm. They exchanged a soulful look.

  Catherine lifted her head. “At the time, we thought we did the right thing. Tate told us we would have a difficult time proving our case in court. We feared child services would step in and take her. Olivia couldn’t testify; she couldn’t remember. After hearing from Abigail, I understand why.” They’d done what they could to fight Elizabeth’s evil. It hadn’t been enough.

  Ben accelerated from the parking lot, speeding onto the highway. He’d nowhere to go for hours and needed time to cool the temper he swore not to have. He’d concluded years before, in law school, anyone was capable of murder. Elizabeth Harding Crawford should count her blessings she wasn’t in his path at that moment. Not even Abigail Matthews could save his life if she were.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Abigail

  Fidgeting in her chair, Abigail sighed. She hoped it didn’t collapse and had her plunge to the floor. I should’ve known Detective Baker would keep me waiting. I could tell he was pissed when I called. I made him wait weeks for this meeting. Now, he’s returning the favor.

  He’d shown her to a conference room and then disappeared. The room seemed indistinguishable from others she’d seen, with dated, worn-out furniture. Overhead, there were watermark-stained ceiling tiles that warned of a failing cooling system.

  The wait incensed her, partly because of the musty smell. She wanted to wail like a banshee, curse like a sailor, and pictured slamming the door as she stomped away. But she knew better. They were watching her through the over-sized two-way mirror. Biting her tongue, she pulled a Chanel Mocha lipstick from her purse, stood and walked to the mirror, and reapplied. She winked before returning to her chair, prepared to play their game and wait it out.

  I can’t lose—won’t. For one thing, a loss like this would follow me like a three-legged hungry hound. For another, Olivia was innocent.

  Ten minutes later, Detectives Baker and Spazioso nudged open the door, hauling a respectable showing of files and a bulk of swagger. They gathered around the distressed conference table. Abigail watched while Baker arranged his papers. Spazioso adjusted his tie, looking as though he might burst from the suspense.

  “Coffee, Ms. Matthews?” Detective Baker nodded toward a glass decanter balancing on a roundtable that held a dark amber substance resembling something closer to tar than coffee.

  “Whatever’s in there isn’t liquid. I’d need a knife and fork.” She playfully smiled at Spazioso and noted the scolding glance Baker afforded him when he laughed.

  “This meeting’s taken close to a month to happen. How long do you think you can keep your client from us?” Baker asked. “It’s my job to see that our victim and his family have a timely resolution of his murder. No more antics. We’ve had enough of your stalling.”

  Baker’s angry breath nearly seared her face as he leaned over the table and delivered this well-prepared speech. She imagined he’d practiced in the mirror, picturing her quaking in her pumps at its conclusion. A different woman with less ammunition, he might have had a chance.

  “Judge Watters granted my request for a psychiatric evaluation to prove competency. Olivia has as long as she needs. But you already know that, since the court sent you a copy of the order.” She shifted her eyes from Baker to Spazioso. “We agree on one thing,” she continued. “This has gone on long enough. If you knew anything about me, you’d know I’m a firm believer in victims’ rights. We need to establish who the victim is in this case.”

  Abigail stood and straightened her shoulders. The men muttered among themselves. When she slid a document over the table, they silenced.

  “What the hell is this?” Detective Spazioso asked.

  “Something one of my antics turned up. It’s a copy of the real Howard Welker’s birth certificate. Take notice of the date of birth.”

  “You want us to believe our guy died of old age instead of that crack on the back of his head?” Spazioso said flippantly and gained a dark stare from his partner.

  Baker scowled. “He wouldn’t be the first traveling salesmen to use an alias. The man was on the road and intended to employ an escort service. He wanted to throw his wife off his trail. We’ll find his real identity, but I doubt it’ll affect your client.”

  Abigail grinned. She imagined herself cartwheeling across the sad little room without ripping a single stitch from the seam of her pencil skirt. In actuality, she placed the damning FBI Wanted Poster on the table. "Let me introduce you to Henry Wheeler.

  “Years before taking his final exit on the floor of the Biltmore, your victim was serving three life sentences for rape and murder. On the night of the gala, this upstanding citizen planned to continue his evil ways. Evidence proves my client fought to escape with her life.”

  Baker’s tone darkened with his eyes. “The fact remains: a man died, and your client left that room alive.”

  “We should be grateful. Henry Wheeler escaped an inept prison system and stayed at large for three years. Olivia Harding, who hasn’t had so much as an overdue library book, came close to becoming a casualty of the system that should protect her, a system you’re part of. And you want to prosecute her?”

  “We do, as well as Delila Marie Jennings. No one will believe she just stepped off the Mayflower. Not even you can spin that.”

  “What’d you find when you fed her name into your search engines?” Abigail asked.

  “Not a damn thing,” Baker said. “But we’re prepared to take it to trial and let our forensic evidence speak for itself.”

  “Good luck with that.” Abigail collected her files. “Maybe I’ll sell popcorn at the door for when the judge takes away your bus pass, your library card, and then he’ll have you disbarred for wasting his time with that bullshit. I can prove the negligence of law enforcement put my client in mortal danger. She resorted to drastic measures to escape. I’ll make this as big and ugly as I have to.”

  The men stood as she crossed the room. “There’s a reward offered on that FBI poster. Mention it when you speak to your captain. You can bring a check when you come to apologize.”

  She inhaled, thrust out her chest, and headed to her car. Pulling away from the lot, she knew the detectives would plead their case, but ultimately, the decision to proceed was out of their hands.

  Worse case, she had the insanity plea, which would confine Olivia to Palm Haven for a considerable amount of time. Then there was diminished capacity, which would only work to reduce the charge.

  Abigail weaved through traffic, aided by her horn and middle finger. Waiting for the decision sucked. With Olivia’s fingerprint and Delila’s employment application, Baker and Spazioso intended to charge them both. Would Olivia’s secret change everything? She visualized a month at her favorite spa in Milan while cranking up the radio until the windows shook.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Dr. Coffield

  Sidney Coffield eased through the towering security gates at Palm Haven Mental Health Facility and parked in his reserved space. He relished this time, the quiet hours before dawn, alone in his office without the flurry of daytime interruptions. His mind seemed younger, sharper.

  He walked the ornate hallway and rounded the corner where, in the dim light, Olivia anxiously patrolled his door. Her arms wrapped h
er willowy frame. She’d been on the verge of a breakdown, or a breakthrough, for days. He hoped for the latter. He’d soon find out, at the expense of his morning ritual.

  “What’s on your mind, Olivia?” He unlocked his door and escorted her in. “There’s something I’d like to discuss with you, too.”

  “Sorry about the ambush in the hallway, especially so early. What time is it?”

  He glanced at his watch. “Olivia, where’s Connie?”

  She shrugged. “Don’t know. Running late?”

  He shook his head. “Not since I’ve known her. What’d you do?”

  Olivia lowered her eyes and exhaled loudly. “You know I’m not violent. I just wanted one conversation without her here. She’s like an unnecessary piece of furniture—an ottoman you trip over.”

  “Where is she?” Dr. Coffield demanded.

  “Locked in my room. I swiped the key the millionth time she washed her hands. When she volunteered to go back for my sweater before our sunrise walk, I put it to use. What’s she gonna do, tell the cook to leave the cheese out of my breakfast omelet?”

  Olivia pulled the key from the pocket of her jeans and dropped it into the doctor’s open palm.

  “Can I trust you to stay here?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you?” Dr. Coffield asked from the doorway.

  “No. Just surprised how good it felt. Think Delila is a bad influence?”

  “I can certainly see her hand,” he said, leaving.

  *

  Dr. Coffield returned with Nurse Connie following a few steps behind. She tossed Olivia her sweater before heading for a chair in the corner of the room. He took his seat behind the desk.

  “So, what brought you here today, Olivia?” he asked.

  “Where’s Delila’s ledger?”

  Dr. Coffield tilted his head. “It’s here. I have it. After what happened on the night of the hurricane, Sophie feared the police might show up at the apartment. She took it, along with the blood-stained purse, and hid them in your closet. Ms. Matthews brought them here.”

  “That’s another checkmark for Sophie.” Olivia dropped into the loveseat and hugged her knees.

  Dr. Coffield pursed his lips, trying not to cringe at the dark pools beneath her eyes monopolizing her pale, pinched face. She lacked food, sleep. A light breeze could tip her. He’d given her space. It was time to short-leash her.

  “Delila wants you to read it,” he said. “She thinks it’ll stop your imagination from running amuck. Her words—not mine. She made me promise not to turn it over until I feel you’re ready.”

  Olivia jerked to her feet as if shoved. Raking her hand through her hair, she walked the room for several minutes and then settled in the chair she most preferred near his desk. “Think I am? The ledger’s her testimonial, who and what she did.”

  “I do,” he said without hesitation. “Who told you about it?” Dr. Coffield hurriedly thumbed through his considerable notes. “I don’t believe I mentioned it.”

  “You didn’t. I remembered.”

  The doctor paused, swallowed hard, and then raised his hands. “You made another breakthrough! Congratulations.”

  “And you celebrate everything. I’d like to see it. Can I?” she smiled.

  “Sure,” he returned her smile while retrieving the ledger from a locked drawer behind him. At that moment, Olivia’s dark eyes and far too slender body seemed stronger. From her lovely face beamed a new emotion—hope.

  “There’s something else. It’s a platinum bracelet. A gift I believe?” she said.

  “That’s here too. Would you like to see it?”

  “That can wait.” She held the ledger, secured by a single rubber band. “You wanted to talk about something?”

  “That’s right. Sleep is as vital to your recovery as everything else. I understand your aversion to medication, but I can’t continue to ignore your insomnia.”

  “All right, Dr. Coffield, I give in. Help me with Delila’s ledger, and I’ll let you shoot me with your tranquilizer dart. Deal?”

  “What I have in mind isn’t quite so harsh, but I’ll take the deal.”

  She opened the ledger to the first page, but then turned and made eye contact with Connie and sneered. “Stay on your toes.”

  “Olivia!” Dr. Coffield shot her a piercing look.

  She didn’t apologize, just offered a half-grin and a quick wink.

  *

  By midafternoon, Dr. Coffield was anchored at his desk, documenting the new developments since his arrival. The capabilities of the human mind never ceased to amaze him, even though he’d studied it for most of his adult life. He learned from his setbacks and celebrated every breakthrough.

  He believed Olivia’s desire for normalcy allowed her to embrace her therapy. And now, as she waded through the pitfalls of integration, he hoped for the success of her attorney. As far as Olivia had come, she was too fragile for the rigor of a trial and could be lost, perhaps forever, if incarcerated.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Ben

  Ben paced his office with long, purposeful strides. The thought of his next appointment had him tied in knots. He thought about brewing his fifth expresso from the Jura Z6 Coffee Center that he kept in the corner of his office and then decided against it. The announcement of his arrival made him flinch. Practicing law had hardened his nerves, but this was different—personal.

  “Dr. Coffield, thanks for seeing me. I’m surprised you suggested meeting here. I would’ve come to you.” Ben shook the doctor’s hand and offered him a chair and coffee.

  “I’m glad to have a chance to chat for Olivia’s sake. She wanted this but on your terms. I came here to prevent a chance encounter with you in the hallways of Palm Haven. I have her consent to answer whatever questions you have. How can I help you, Ben?”

  He’d successfully pushed the thought of seeing her again far from his mind. It had been five weeks to the day, and it all came rushing back. What would he say if given the opportunity? He felt sucker-punched, forced deeper into his chair. With a deep breath, he fired his first question.

  “I’ve done my research on Dissociative Identity Disorder, Dr. Coffield. What I don’t understand is how this other personality kept me in the dark, never mind Olivia.”

  “The others didn’t want either of you to know.”

  Ben leaned back with surprise. “Did you say others? How many are we talking about?”

  “There are two, other than Olivia.”

  Ben’s eyes widened with the weight of the doctor’s words. He lowered his head and cradled it in his hands.

  “I find Olivia fascinating and incredibly brave the way she is. Be that as it may, it’s her wish to be like the rest of us. She’s made great strides in therapy. Believe me when I tell you it hasn’t been easy. The memories crashing back could bring the strongest of men to their knees. Are you ready to hear about the others, Ben?”

  “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Forgive me, Dr. Coffield. This is a lot to absorb.” His expression darkened.

  “What you should remember is these personalities are pieces or slices of Olivia. There’s no need for fear. Try to embrace them as Olivia is attempting to do. I can assure you they feel the same way toward you as she does.”

  For the better part of the afternoon, Dr. Coffield recounted what he knew of the entities Delila and Sophie. He spoke of them with ease and fluidity as he divulged their distinguishing characteristics.

  Ben listened to the familiarity and admiration in Sidney’s voice and felt a pang of envy. The conflicting emotions overwhelmed him.

  “Why didn’t they let me meet them?” Ben asked, giving the crease in his forehead a hard rub.

  “I can offer an educated guess. Sophie struggled to convince Delila you belonged to Olivia and kept her from jumping your bones from the first day she met you. I told you before; they all have the same affection for you.”

  “Is ‘jumping my bones’ a medical term?” Ben rip
ped the words out impatiently.

  “I was quoting Sophie. She has the most delightful grasp of the English language.”

  “Can I tell you, Sidney? Not all of us are finding the delight in this,” Ben said as he stood and began to pace. “I don’t want to make her sound like Humpty Dumpty, but do you think it’s possible to put Olivia back together again?”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. The progress she’s made is unprecedented. She’s extremely determined to get her life back—fights every minute of every day for it. Olivia wants you to know that she realizes how hurt you must be, and she understands if you can’t forgive her enough to stay in her life. I can tell you she hasn’t forgiven herself.”

  Ben gasped as if Sidney’s words siphoned the air from the room. His knees felt like rubber, prompting him to sink slowly into the chair behind his desk. With time to think, his anger grew.

  Olivia blamed herself and planned to release him. His muscles tensed so tight he could bounce quarters off his thighs. He jumped when the defenseless pencil he held snapped in two.

  Sidney Coffield rose from his chair in concern for the young man before him. He studied Ben’s flushed color, short breaths, along with the pencil fragments he clutched.

  “Olivia blames herself for her illness?” Ben asked, his voice harsh and demanding.

  “Yes, it’s one of the many issues we’re working on. How are you doing with all this? May I suggest you give yourself time to digest everything? I understand that where I find the human mind enthralling, most prefer never to deal with matters out of the range of the ordinary. Feeling a certain amount of correctly-placed anger is perfectly normal. I would be happy to help you with it if you’d like.”

  Ben pushed back in his chair. “How am I doing? I was aware the love of my life was born with a silver knife in her back. Now I know how she dealt with it. I’m ready to light the torches of the angry villagers, storm the castle, and slay the Elizabeth monster. Is that the kind of correctly-placed anger you’re referring to, Sidney?”