“I’m so sorry to hear that,” he said quietly. “It must’ve been very difficult for you.”
“It was.” I pushed the four scallops remaining on my plate into an orderly row. Counted them absently with the tines of my fork.
He leaned back. “Thank you for sharing with me, Daphne. I appreciate your trust and don’t take it lightly. Go ahead, finish your dinner, and I’ll let you get back to your room.”
But I couldn’t eat any more. Cerny refused to let me help with the dishes and, instead, escorted me up the rear stairs—his private stairs—past his room and the steps to the attic. We stopped at the far end of the hallway, where I could see the door to our room cracked open just the slightest bit.
“Goodnight, my circumspect friend.” Cerny bowed slightly, his eyes twinkling in the dark.
“One thing,” I said.
“Yes?”
“I wondered if I could get our keys. I left something in the car.”
“I’m sorry. We collect and keep everyone’s keys for the duration of the retreat. I hope you’ll understand.” Then he took my hand and turned it up, depositing the two packages of peanut-butter crackers, an apple, and the bag of M&M’s. Four, just how I liked it. “Sleep well.”
He left me there, standing alone in the dark hall, my hands cupped protectively around the snacks.
Friday, October 19
Evening
The open forest gives way to a tangled mass of branches that seems to exist solely to slow my progress. I do slow, then stop altogether. The woven tunnel is made of mountain laurels, their curvy, leggy jumble blocking my view. Layers of long dark-green leaves form an impenetrable canopy over my head.
I’ve been going in the right direction, I think. But now it’s impossible to know for sure. The fretwork of boughs blocks my view of anything more than a few feet in front of me. The only thing I can see is bits of the darkening sky above.
I can feel myself dipping into panic, counting the number of leaves on a branch near me. Counting roots at my feet, then the metal eyes on my boots. My brain is bubbling with half-formed thoughts, ill-conceived solutions. The reality is, I may be more afraid of the panic than I am of the man. I can’t lose control. He’ll catch me if I do.
So I won’t. It’s just that simple. I’ll claw through the branches, keep heading down, and hit a creek or a road, either of which I could follow to town.
I have to get to town.
Chapter Six
Monday, October 15
Four Days Before
Rain lashed at the windows, rattling the panes so hard I woke. I slung an arm around Heath’s body, and he twisted around, sleepy-eyed and warm. He rolled on top of me, then lowered his lips to mine.
“Wait, what time is it?” I mumbled into his mouth.
“Do we care?” His lips traveled down to my shoulder.
I thought of the monitors in the cramped attic room. The yellow legal pad.
“Yes, we care. I don’t remember. What did Reggie say? The cameras go off at five until . . .”
“Eight.” He propped on his elbows, and looked at the clock on the mantel. “And it’s five after eight. Dammit.” He flopped off me. “I hate this place.”
I smiled. “Ironic, since it was you who insisted we come here. But it’s going to help us figure everything out, so buck up, soldier. Also”—I bit his earlobe and whispered—“if you meet me back here at one thirty, the cameras’ll be off.”
He rolled over and looked into my eyes. “I can’t wait.”
“Anticipation’s half the fun.”
“If you think that, I’m not doing it right.”
I traced the line of his jaw. “Oh, trust me. You do it right.”
He sat up with a groan. “You’re killing me, woman.”
I stroked his bare back. His skin goosepimpled under my fingertips. “Any nightmares?”
“Nope. Not a one.”
I fluttered my fingers up his spine, smiling at how I raised a whole new crop of goose bumps with each move. I leaned close, my lips at his ear. “I found something interesting last night. In the attic. A room with a bunch of old-school surveillance equipment. I’m pretty sure it’s where they watch us.”
He whipped around to look at me. “You left the room last night?”
“Shh.” I grinned. “I woke up and we’d missed dinner. I was starving.”
“You shouldn’t have gone snooping around,” he whispered sternly.
“Why not?”
He turned back and made a little shrugging move so I’d keep on scratching. “It’s just that we don’t know the other people here. We don’t know Dr. Teague or Dr. Cerny.”
“Are you mad?”
“No. I just think you should be careful. And you heard the rules about places being off limits.”
“I was careful. You know, Jerry McAdam has a cell phone.”
He glanced around the room, like he was worried the camera could pick up on our body language. “You watched the other couples?”
“For just a minute or two, yeah.”
“Daphne, Jesus,” he said. “You’re not supposed to be spying on people. They’re here because they have problems, which makes them vulnerable. Besides that, maybe you’re somehow compromising the doctor’s methods.” He turned away.
I sighed. “I know. Okay? I know that.” I laid my head against his back. Let my hand travel around to his chest, then abdomen. “The door was open, and I was curious.”
He made a reproving sound. “What if they stumbled upon that room and decided to watch us? Watch you?”
“You mean to tell me, if you saw an open door with a wall of surveillance monitors, you wouldn’t feel the slightest bit intrigued? You’re telling me you would walk on past without even a peek?”
“I wouldn’t watch,” he said, so fiercely I pressed my lips together.
I wasn’t about to tell him about running into Dr. Cerny. I was pretty sure he wouldn’t be thrilled about me sharing a bottle of wine with the guy he was about to spend a week of intensive therapy with. Anyway, I was tired of whispering. So there was another secret. I guessed I could add it to the one I was keeping about reaching out to his ex-girlfriend.
A sharp knock startled me. When I opened our door, there was no one there, just an intricately scrolled silver tray at my feet, laid with an elaborate collection of china, crystal, and silver. The sharp scent of coffee and fresh-baked somethings that rose from it made my mouth water. I must’ve just missed Luca, the phantom, non-English-speaking cook.
A note sat to one corner, heavy cream stationery. I popped on my glasses and read it aloud to Heath while he laid out the meal.
8 a.m. Breakfast (room)
9 a.m.–9:50 a.m. Heath Beck session (sunroom)
10 a.m.–10:50 a.m. Heath Beck reading assignment (Dr. Cerny In Session)
11 a.m.–11:50 a.m. Heath Beck assessments (Dr. Cerny In Session)
12:30 p.m. Lunch (room)
1:30 p.m.–2:30 p.m. Free block (cameras off)
3 p.m.–3:50 p.m. Heath Beck session with Dr. Cerny (sunroom)
4 p.m.–4:50 p.m. Heath Beck writing assignment (Dr. Cerny In Session)
5 p.m.–5:50 p.m. Heath Beck meditation (Dr. Cerny In Session)
6 p.m.–7 p.m. Free block (cameras on)
7 p.m. Dinner (room)
8 p.m.–10 p.m. Free block (cameras on)
10 p.m.–12 a.m. Free block (cameras off)
I tossed the note on the bed. “According to this, you’ve essentially signed up for six hours of daily therapy.”
“It’s not all therapy.” He tucked into the scrambled eggs. “There are personality tests. Reading and journaling. Meditating.”
“Free blocks,” I couldn’t resist adding.
“Don’t knock it till you try it,” he said mildly, cutting a sausage in half.
“You’ve never meditated a second in your life.”
“That you know of.”
I sat opposite him and poured a cup of coffee.
There was nothing to say in response to that. He was right. There were probably a thousand details I didn’t know about him, a wealth of information that I had chosen to give up in exchange for peace of mind.
He put down his fork. “Come on, Daph, it’s not like I’m looking forward to this. But I’m doing what I have to do to get my head straight. So we can have a normal life.”
“We did have a normal life,” I said.
We bought overpriced organic goat cheese and Jerusalem artichokes and weird-colored olives with the lofty intention of trying new recipes but let them all go bad in the fridge in favor of takeout pizza. We watched terrible movies on Sunday afternoons and actually enjoyed them. We made love almost every night.
We had a normal life—until you flipped out.
After we finished, he went into the bathroom. I followed him, leaned against the door frame while he turned on the shower and peeled off his underwear.
“I just wish we could’ve stayed home and taken care of this in Atlanta,” I said.
“There’s no one like Dr. Cerny in Atlanta. He’s going to help me, Daph, I really have a feeling. He’s going to help me figure out my past—and we’re going to be better for it.”
He turned to face the stream of water. Ran his fingers through his dark hair. He looked fantastic. Delicious. I wished we could skip the morning’s schedule. No, I wished we could get in the Nissan and drive back down the mountain. Get a cabin of our own—one without big, dark, cobwebby furniture and velvet-fringed draperies. We could open a couple of bottles of wine and sit in a hot tub staring at the mountains and wearing each other out all week long.
Solve our problems the old-fashioned way. With sex.
Downstairs we met Dr. Cerny, who, in tweed pants and an expensive-looking black cashmere sweater, looked a little bit like an old duke hanging out at his genteel, slightly tattered countryside castle. When he entered the foyer at the same time we did, I couldn’t help but wonder if there were also cameras that tracked our movement through the house. The sensation of being watched never seemed to leave me.
“Daphne Amos,” I blurted, my hand shooting out at Dr. Cerny like an arrow. “Nice to meet you.”
He clasped my hand, his eyebrows raised. “Nice to meet you too, Ms. Amos. Matthew Cerny.”
His eyes twinkled, our secret obviously giving him some mischievous delight. I appreciated his playing along with my charade, but something about it unsettled me. Like the way he’d noticed the band on my wrist last night, picked up on my snack foraging. The odd toast that seemed directed at me.
That old saying ran through my head: He’s got your number.
“Thank you for having us on such short notice,” Heath said.
“I wholeheartedly approve of an emergency relationship intervention. Not to be glib about marriage, of course.” Cerny smiled at me. “I’m impressed with people as young as you who take their transition to the institution with such sobriety.” He turned to Heath. “Mr. Beck. A pleasure, at last.”
“Likewise,” Heath said in an even voice. He seemed tense—or coiled for attack, I couldn’t tell which.
Cerny rubbed his hands together. “Business first. Dr. Teague has gone down to Dunfree. Family issues, nothing to worry about. So, unfortunately, there’s no one who can show you around the property. Or pull up the correct papers for you to sign. Seems I’m helpless without my assistant.”
“Well, it’s not like we’re going anywhere,” I said. “And I can show myself around.”
And find where Reggie Teague had stashed our car.
“Excellent,” Cerny said. “Then Heath and I will have our first session. Meanwhile, I’d encourage you to find a spot outside where you can meditate or journal.”
I saw one corner of Heath’s mouth twitch.
“Will do,” I said.
“Mr. Beck? Ready?” Dr. Cerny gestured toward the hall that led to his office, then looked back at me. “I believe the rain has stopped. You know, Daphne, you ought to go outside and visit the bird garden. Watching the birds, I find, is quite a peaceful pursuit. For most.”
His dimples appeared, and I couldn’t help it—I flashed to Mr. Al. Then I glanced at Heath, but he’d already turned toward the doctor’s office, like he couldn’t wait to get started.
Chapter Seven
It hadn’t quit raining completely, but I wasn’t about to stay inside jotting my thoughts in a journal or go swanning around some bird garden. I needed to get out of this house. Pull off the tentacles of claustrophobia that had started to curl around me and do something proactive.
For starters, I needed to track down a knife. That morning in the shower, I’d suddenly remembered Heath kept a spare set of keys under the car, secured with a zip tie. There was no way the flimsy cuticle scissors in my makeup bag were going to slice through the zip tie, but a kitchen knife should do the trick. Once I got the key, I’d be able to hide in the car and check the iPad to see if Annalise Beard had come up with any answers for me.
What I would do after that, I was less sure of.
Maybe I’d just lay it all out on the table. Tell Heath that he didn’t need Dr. Cerny, because I knew what had really happened to him. Maybe it had been an abusive boyfriend of his mom’s, some guy who had tormented him physically or, God forbid, sexually. Whatever it was, I’d reassure him that it didn’t have to ruin his life, that we could handle anything together, privately, without interference from a therapist.
After we talked, after the truth was out, we’d get the hell off this mountain. Go home, back to the safety of our little house and our orderly lives. Back to the way things used to be.
In the kitchen I nicked a paring knife off the end of a magnetic rack, tucked it up the sleeve of my sweater, and headed back down the front hall to the porch. Outside, the air had taken on a noticeable chill, and everything shone, still slick with rain. The Baskens property was clotted with mountain laurels, oakleaf hydrangeas, and multiple varieties of pine, oak, and maple. The vegetation was thick and lush and heavy with droplets of water. I could hear the faint roar of the waterfall somewhere above me, but hidden from sight on this side of the house, it just sounded like a throaty rumble. I hugged my old, lumpy fisherman sweater around me and hoped the clean-washed air would blow away the thoughts squirreling around my mind.
Just beyond the house, I found where the cars were parked. There were five of them—an old silver Mercedes, a white minivan, a forest-green extended-cab Tacoma, Heath’s blue Nissan, and an ancient brown Buick. And at the end of the row sat a John Deere Gator.
I scooched into the bushes and ducked under the front bumper of the Nissan, settling onto a bed of soggy leaves. I planted the knife in the dirt and ran my hands all under the greasy grille, but didn’t find the key. I repeated the same thing under the rear of the car. No key there either. Dammit. Had Heath used the spare key recently and not mentioned it?
I palmed the knife and strolled away from the cars toward the backyard. A sad collection of damp chairs and tables was arranged around the mossy stone patio, including an old potting bench that was pushed up against the house. Behind the patio lay a grid of raised beds with the bedraggled remnants of a summer garden. Farther back, set against the line of trees, sat a small, unpainted outbuilding, its lopsided double doors chained closed. No bird garden that I could see.
I ambled to the structure, a barn from the looks of it. The trees ringed it, the tips of their overhanging branches, encased in dense caterpillar webs, reaching like a parent’s protective arms. The double doors were fastened with a large, rusty padlock. I fiddled with it a minute, then let it drop with a clank against the door, pressing one eye against the crack and waiting for my vision to adjust to the darkness. The only thing I could see was what looked like a bunch of old furniture draped with dingy sheets. A trio of white moths fluttered in the gloom.
Up at the house a door slammed, and instinctively, I flattened myself against the side of the barn. A woman, maybe in her sixties, stood on the back patio, dres
sed in hiking clothes—cargo pants and a thermal top and a bandana holding back her hair. Mrs. Sieffert. The woman who’d been watching us as Reggie Teague showed us to our rooms. The woman I’d seen fighting with her husband last night.
I held my breath, watching her. She tucked a water bottle into a small backpack, then slung it over her shoulders and took off at a brisk clip, crossing the yard and then the drive, moving in the direction of the mountain.
After a second or two, I pushed the knife between the cracked barn doors, hoping no one would venture in and find it on the floor. Then I followed her.
The trail was astonishingly steep. A twisted path—merely a rut in a few places—that seemed to climb forever. I stayed far enough back that Mrs. Sieffert wouldn’t hear me, which was easy enough to do, because apparently she was in excellent shape and covered an impressive amount of ground with a practiced stride. As for me, after three days of no running, I felt like my lungs had atrophied.
Trees crowded the path, blocking the sky and turning the light around me gray. The leaves were close to peak color—oaks and maples and dogwoods in blazing yellows and reds—with hemlocks and ferns and moss on the fallen trees providing the evergreen accents. The woods smelled faintly of smoke, from campers, most likely. The musty scent made me queasy.
I never could quite believe that people did that voluntarily—drove to the middle of nowhere, pitched a tent, and sat around a fire all night. The people who ran the girls’ ranch took the girls up to Amicalola Falls once a year for a while. I hadn’t gone, my first year there, and then after that they’d cancelled the trip indefinitely. I hadn’t felt like I was missing anything. Even now that I was an adult, the mountains spooked me, with their overhangs and gaps and twisting paths. You never knew what was just around the next corner.
After what seemed like forever, the land leveled out, and I stepped out onto a wide rock ledge. It, in turn, opened onto a stunning vista. The spreading ranges of southern Appalachia. A sea of mountains at my feet. The wind was fierce up top—it whipped my hair into my mouth and stung my eyes—but the sun was strong too, beaming some of that late Georgia heat, now unimpeded by the canopy of trees. I squinted one eye in the light. The woman was standing on the far side of the ledge, hands on her hips, gazing out over the view. She seemed perilously close to the edge.
Every Single Secret Page 6