“I told Mrs. Jones as much. I advised her to send Chelsea to Dr. Jacob Tannon in Boston. At the time, he’d already worked with many cases like Chelsea’s. And I knew he’d be able to better help her.” He paused. “By chance, do you know if Mrs. Jones followed up on my recommendation?”
“I’m guessing not. Two nights after Chelsea’s last visit with you, the Joneses’ home caught fire. Delores and her husband were asleep in the house at the time. They didn’t survive.”
Swenson closed his eyes. “Oh, dear God. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“You said you made an assessment of Chelsea Dutton. Can you explain?”
“Of course. I had speculated that Chelsea suffered from dissociative identity disorder.”
Lang frowned and shook his head.
“You may know it by a more blanket term—multiple personality disorder.”
“Different people living in one body?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes, but it’s more complicated than that.”
Lang had no idea that was even a real diagnosis.
“DID is far more common than multiple personality disorder, actually. It affects millions of people around the world. It happens mostly in young children as a kind of protective mechanism. The personality ends up fragmenting to protect a centralized ‘me,’ if you will. This personality doesn’t always have control over—or even know about—the other personalities.”
Lang thought about the imaginary friend Katherine had told him about: Elizabeth.
“So, you’re saying Chelsea had this?”
“Yes. I believed her to. But like I said, that sort of diagnosis is a bit out of my league.”
“But I’ve spoken to Chelsea Dutton several times. How could someone have this condition and it go unnoticed?”
“DID is very good at hiding. It does not want to be found. Many people don’t get diagnoses or even suspect it until they’re well into middle age. And some people go their whole lifetimes undiagnosed, not even realizing they have it.”
“She just switches back and forth between personalities?”
“Not always at will. And I don’t believe it was in Miss Dutton’s case.”
Dr. Swenson threaded his fingers together and set his hands on his desk. “From what I observed, there are two very distinct personalities. The gentle, well-behaved, but very vulnerable, Chelsea. And the aggressive—and from what you’ve told me, maybe even psychopathic—protector personality, Elizabeth.”
Lang sank deeper into his seat, trying to wrap his head around the strange concept. “You’re saying that Chelsea has been hiding Elizabeth this entire time?”
“Oh, Chelsea probably isn’t hiding her. That’s the thing. The host personality is usually unaware of other personalities. She’s most likely unaware that Elizabeth isn’t real. When Mrs. Jones brought Chelsea in to see me, it was very clear to me that Elizabeth was aware of Chelsea as the host personality. But not vice versa.”
Lang was confused. “But Chelsea knew about Elizabeth. She said she was her friend. That they met at the hospital, and they lived in the same apartment building. Chelsea gave me Elizabeth’s phone number and apartment number. But both were fake.”
Dr. Swenson nodded. “Sometimes to justify the existence of another personality, a dominant personality will subconsciously create an entire life for it. They may see the other personality as an actual person.”
Lang remembered how Chelsea never struck him as dishonest. He had never glimpsed even the remotest hint of deceit. But if she had another personality—and thought that person was real—then, in her mind, she hadn’t been lying.
Dr. Swenson nodded. “I know. It’s a lot to digest.”
Lang nodded. “So why would Chelsea try to slit her wrists after going through all that work to kill Boyd Lawson?”
Dr. Swenson took off his glasses, set them on his desk. “Again, just conjecture, but it might not have been Chelsea who killed him. It might have been Elizabeth. It’s possible that after everything she’s been through, Chelsea’s brain couldn’t take the additional emotional trauma.” He leaned forward. “I will say this, though: Of the types of personalities that would resort to suicide, Chelsea is at greatest risk.”
Lang slowly processed the information Dr. Swenson was giving him.
“The woman I saw in the hospital the other day. She didn’t seem like Chelsea at all. Do you think she could have been Elizabeth then? Just playing along?”
“Perhaps, but—and here’s another place where it’s purely hypothetical—it’s rare for one personality to impersonate the other. Unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“Unless Chelsea’s personality really did die . . . or at least became silenced when she slit her wrists.”
Lang furrowed his brow, again confused.
“At that point, Elizabeth, the subordinate personality, could have become the dominant one—possibly even taking over completely. It’s not common, but it has been known to happen.”
“So, you’re saying that there’s a possibility that Chelsea’s personality is dead?”
“Yes. It’s a possibility.”
“Now the person walking around somewhere out there . . . she could be Elizabeth?”
“Yes. But let’s hope that’s not the case.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because Chelsea served as the conscience in their dualistic personalities. The healthy, caring yin to Elizabeth’s sociopathic yang. Without that stopgap, Elizabeth will go unchecked. And from what we’ve both seen, she appears to be a very dangerous woman.”
CHAPTER 42
BACK AT THE motel, Lang finished packing. He was taking a red-eye from Logan International to Miami International. There’d been several sightings of Chelsea in the area, and he wanted to meet with their FBI field office.
“You’re saying Elizabeth might have committed those murders and Chelsea might not even know about them?” Janie asked, folding one of his shirts and placing it in his suitcase.
“From what Swenson told me, it’s definitely a possibility.”
“God, the things she’s been through in her short life. I feel horrible for the poor girl.”
“Me, too.”
Lang got a lump in his throat. He’d wanted good things for Chelsea. He’d been rooting for her. And now she might be dead, so to speak. As though sensing Lang was thinking about his owner, Harry jumped up on the bed and meowed. Lang pet the cat for a moment, then grabbed his carrier. He knew Chelsea had loved the cat, and he hadn’t had the heart to let Garcia’s officer take Harry to the pound. Janie had agreed to bring him to Victoria. They’d provide a good home for him, and Nicky would get that surprise he’d asked for.
They left the motel and headed for Logan. As he drove, Lang sighed. He was still having a difficult time with everything he’d learned. He wanted nothing more in this moment than to help Chelsea. He realized the best thing he could do was catch up with Elizabeth and take her into custody. And that was what he was going to do.
He was as determined as ever.
Lang wondered where Elizabeth was tonight. Now that he knew whom he was really looking for, it was a matter of when he would find her, not if.
As he pulled in to the passenger drop-off area, he let his thoughts wander back to everything Dr. Swenson had shared with him. The power of the mind and how it protected itself. He’d been protecting his mind, too. With Janie. Victoria was right. Janie was a gift not to be taken for granted. He knew that most men would never find a Janie during their lifetimes. He had to stop protecting himself. He had to stop waiting for the perfect time to start living his life, because there wasn’t going to be a perfect time. There never was . . . for anything. He needed to start living in the now.
Standing next to the car, Lang stared into Janie’s brown, almond-shaped eyes and pushed a few strands of her blonde hair behind her ear. He studied the crinkling around her eyes. The same crinkling he saw every morning when he looked in the mirror.
/> God, at the age of forty, she was still a stunner.
Possibly more than she had been seven years ago when they’d first met. She was also very wise. In his younger years, he had no idea he’d find that kind of wisdom so attractive. “Things are going to be different when I get back, okay?”
“Yeah? How so?”
“You’ll see. We’ll have a long talk. Figure some things out.”
“Well, that’s a bit cryptic.”
“Trust me, okay?”
She smiled. “I do.”
A jet flew overhead, its engines splitting the night sky, and he kissed her goodbye.
CHAPTER 43
ELIZABETH APPLIED HER makeup in the hotel mirror.
Just outside her window, crystal-blue waters gently lapped the white sands of Key Largo. Canvas lounging chairs, hammocks, and palm trees dotted the beachfront, along with a dozen or so hotel guests. Mostly baby boomers, quite a few of them divorcées with money, sat drinking and talking loudly at a twenty-foot-long ocean bar.
But she didn’t hear any of it.
She was inside her head, remembering that Halloween night five years ago.
After seeing a shit-faced Ethan and Christine beginning to flirt, Elizabeth reached up and took over. Hatred flooded her middle as she sat on the couch, observing. Ethan was with Chelsea, and Christine knew it.
Pretending to be asleep, she quietly watched Ethan kiss Christine, then gather her in his arms and walk back to her bedroom. A minute later, thinking she was asleep, Amy retreated, too, to her own bedroom.
All alone, Elizabeth sprang off the couch and paced the living room. They were disrespecting Chelsea. What Ethan was doing was so wrong. What Christine was doing was wrong. He was a downright cheat. And she was a whore.
And Elizabeth was going to make them both pay.
She noticed the knife Ethan had used to slice Amy’s birthday cake sitting on the coffee table. She picked it up and curled her fingers around the handle.
Ethan and Christine grunted and moaned in Christine’s bedroom. A headboard smacked hard against a wall.
Think, think.
Come up with a plan.
A few minutes later, a door clicked in the hallway. Elizabeth heard footsteps, then a door open and close. Pipes clanked in a wall, and she heard the pounding water of the shower.
Elizabeth was plotting when Ethan suddenly appeared. His eyes just slits, it was clear he was drunk or high. If not both. With a lopsided grin, he plopped down on the couch, reeking of sweat and sex. He was so out of it, he hadn’t even noticed the knife in her hand.
“I’m so hungry,” he muttered. “I could really go for a taco right now.”
She stared at him. His mussed hair, his sweaty scalp. She fought the urge to stab him right then and there. She knew that would be too dangerous.
She waited until his breathing became deep, rhythmic. Knife in hand, she stood in front of him and tried to figure out what to do. Just knowing she had the power to kill him right then and there was exhilarating, powerful. The feeling was so intense, she shook.
It was the same feeling she’d had the night she’d set the fire at the Joneses’ farm. That had been her first major victory. Her very first taste of killing, and it had been sweet. She and Chelsea had both trusted the Joneses. Even loved them. But they had been going to send them back into the foster system.
So the couple had gotten what they deserved.
After so many years of being on the receiving end of misplaced power, Elizabeth had found that setting fire to their house, then finding out they hadn’t made it out extremely pleasurable. And now she was going to get to do it again.
She heard a noise. She looked up and saw Christine, wrapped in a towel. Her blue eyes bounced between the knife and Elizabeth’s face and grew so wide, they looked like they might pop out of her head.
“Chelsea? What are you . . . ,” she asked, her voice quivering. Her towel fell away, and she darted down the hallway.
Elizabeth darted after her. Just before Elizabeth could catch up, the girl ducked inside her bedroom and slammed the door. Elizabeth tried to open it, but it was locked. She threw her body into it, but it didn’t budge. Elizabeth got a running start and threw her body into it harder. This time it swung open, and she crashed to the floor next to Christine, who had been hurriedly sliding her jeans up over her legs.
Getting a better grip on the knife, Elizabeth jumped to her feet and lunged for Christine’s back, but the knife sank into her shoulder instead. Christine screamed out in pain. She thrashed, windmilling her arms and catching Elizabeth in the throat. Elizabeth stumbled back and watched Christine run for the hallway. But Elizabeth caught up to her midway and sank the blade into her once more, this time getting her square between the shoulder blades.
She thought about how easily the blade carved through flesh. It was like semisoft ice cream, Jell-O even. She hadn’t expected that.
Christine screamed again, took a few steps, then fell like a sack of potatoes on the living-room floor. When Elizabeth caught up with her again, Christine tried to fight back, but she was too weak.
“Christine?” Amy called from her room.
Elizabeth sprang up.
“Christine? What’s going on?”
Elizabeth hurried toward Amy’s room. She didn’t want to do this. She’d always liked Amy. Amy had been very nice to Chelsea. She hadn’t done anything wrong. But Elizabeth didn’t have a choice. It was either Amy or them.
Amy appeared in the doorway, and Elizabeth lunged.
A few minutes later, Elizabeth, her shirt glued to her back from sweat and her heart thudding in her ears, returned to the living room. Ethan, still passed out cold, was snoring.
How could he not wake up through all the noise and activity?
He was worthless.
And she was going to treat him that way.
As she wiped the sweat from her forehead, an idea took shape in her mind. She carefully placed the knife on the coffee table, then went to the kitchen. Looking under the sink, she found what she needed.
Rat poison.
Amy had bought it hoping to kill a mouse they’d all seen running around the apartment. Elizabeth had watched enough true-crime shows to know that rat poison contained strychnine, which was fatal to humans. She also knew it tasted sweet, so she hoped it would be undetectable.
She poured some of it into a plastic cup, then poured some Diet Coke and Jack Daniel’s over it. She stirred it until it was well blended.
Then she set the drink on the coffee table, along with the knife, and went into Christine’s and Amy’s rooms, careful not to step in any of the blood spatter. Looking around, she picked up anything that could be incriminating, including Amy’s phone, which lay on its side on the dresser. Amy was always making YouTube videos, so God knew what was on there. She threw everything into a plastic shopping bag and set the bag next to the cup.
Then she walked back to the couch. “Wake up,” she demanded. “Let’s get some food.”
Ethan didn’t move.
She kicked his leg. Nothing. She tried to shake him. She slapped his face. He still didn’t move. So she kicked him, hard, in the ribs. He grabbed his side and rolled off the couch, onto the floor.
His eyes wide but bleary, he stared at her. “What the—”
“I’m hungry. Let’s get some tacos. My treat.”
He blinked and continued to hold his side. “Tacos. Yeah, sure.”
“I’ll drive,” she said, dangling the keys to his Lexus in front of his face.
“Okay.”
Ethan found his shoes and jacket, slipped them on, then stumbled down the hall toward the door. Elizabeth hurried him out to the car.
He plunked down in the passenger seat and motioned to the cup in her hand. “What’s that?”
She handed it to him. “A drink for the road. I made it special.”
After walking around to the driver’s side and getting in, she turned over the ignition and glanced up to see Et
han taking a swig of the drink. He winced. “Jesus, this is strong.”
“What? Can’t handle it?”
“Dude, I wasn’t complaining. I was just surprised is all,” he slurred. He flashed her a wide, tired smile, then drank more in silence.
She had just pulled onto Main Street when she heard the cup tumble from his hand and strike the dashboard. He’d passed out.
She stiffened when she passed the turn for Taco Havana and glanced nervously over at him, hoping he hadn’t noticed. But he was still passed out, his mouth hanging open.
A minute later, she took a right turn on an uneven country road, and they bounced toward their destination. She had driven out here twice since the fire, and both times the property had been abandoned. She hoped that was still the case.
When they came to a clearing, she realized she was in luck. The place looked just as deserted as ever. The Lexus’s headlights shone on the charred foundation where the farmhouse had once been. She passed it, then the barn, then the old trailer.
She kept driving until she got to the far side of the pond, where it was deepest. Once there, she parked the Lexus on the steep embankment and glanced at Ethan. As though he felt her gaze, his eyes popped open.
“Oh, God, I . . . ,” he suddenly murmured. He grabbed his throat.
Shit!
Ethan held his stomach, moaning loudly.
She tentatively turned the overhead light on and saw that Ethan’s face was green.
“Something’s wrong. I—”
He started to spasm. His neck, his shoulders. Then he arched his back. A guttural sound came from his throat, and his back arched again. He grabbed his throat with both hands, then vomited. The noises, the odor of the vomit, made her feel sick.
Her heart pounding, she climbed out of the car and threw all the evidence into the pond, one item at a time. An owl hooted in the distance, and she almost jumped out of her skin. After the last item had splashed its way in, she threw the driver’s door open again, lowered the window, and slammed the door shut. Then she crawled back through the open window and slid the car into neutral. She wriggled out of the car as it started its slow descent toward the dark water.
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