by Julia Derek
The idea had popped into my head at some point and had lingered there only to crash and burn now. Shane had not been with Jacob and Zelda, nor had he gone home like he’d told Lisa. I, too, remembered clearly what I had been doing the day before Alice was found. I had been working on a romantic comedy novel and needed to be done that same night. When Shane told me he was going over to Jacob and Zelda’s to play a card tournament, I remember clearly how pleased I had been. I got a lot more done when Shane wasn’t around. He had a tendency to ask me a million and one questions throughout the day, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him to leave me alone so I could work.
I tried to remember what time Alice had been estimated dead. Had it been before noon or after? But I couldn’t, primarily because I’d had no reason to know about it, and it wasn’t like Lana and Chris had announced the time of death, either. Why would they? The death had been deemed an accident. A freak accident, but still an accident. Fourteen-year-old Alice Tate had been an enthusiastic bird-watcher, and May was a great time to spot lots of species. The day before she was found dead, her neck broken and her skull shattered, she had told her parents that she would go out scouting for birds, as it had been a beautiful, clear day. She had brought her binoculars and sandwiches to eat and water to drink in a small backpack. It would be an all-day excursion.
It wasn’t until the next day that everyone in the area realized that Alice had not returned home from her bird-watching excursion. Lana and Chris and Beth went knocking on everyone’s door at nine in the morning to see if maybe Alice had spent the night there. Why she would ever do such a thing without telling her parents I still can’t figure out, but I guess when you’re panicking as much as the Tate’s had done that morning, you didn’t think things through. It didn’t take long until the authorities had been alerted to Alice missing, and a search party was established that combed through the woods where Alice was thought to have gone. The trees, primarily fir, pine trees, and oaks, grew plentiful and tall there, and for miles without any people around.
Alice had been found beneath a small mountain on which a few large trees grew. The detective investigating the death had determined that she had climbed one of those trees, likely in search of a bird’s nest or an even better view of the birds in that area. There had been broken branches in the pine tree right above where she had been found on a large stone shelf thirty yards below. The death had been instantaneous from what I had been able to understand.
That I still believed. Unfortunately, I also believed my son had been the one taking all those upsetting photos of Alice. The question now was what to do about it.
13
I went to bed that night without confronting Shane. When reality had sunk all the way in, I decided that I definitely needed to talk to him about the photos, see what he had to say about them. For a few crazed seconds, I had actually pondered pretending I had no idea about them. Sticking my head in the sand was obviously not an option. But it was too soon; I needed more time to process what I had discovered. More time to figure out the best way to broach the subject. I’d sleep on it and see how I felt about it the next morning. The fact of the matter was that, even if Shane had been involved in Alice’s death, me confronting him about it wouldn’t bring her back to life. In other words, there was no rush. Really, it would only serve to bring me clarity to a problem I secretly resented was mine to deal with. I preferred to wallow in denial for as long as possible.
I slept fitfully that night, waking up about once an hour despite having taken extra pills. By the time it was seven in the morning and the sky had brightened outside my bedroom window, I gave up trying to get more rest. It was time to deal with my life. My tossing and turning hadn’t been all bad, though, as it had produced one useful result: Instead of confronting Shane right away, I had decided that I would go see my old therapist, talk to him about how to best deal with the situation. I simply couldn’t stomach the idea of asking Shane straight out about the pictures in his phone. I needed guidance in how to do that. Consulting with a mental health professional before broaching something this delicate was likely the wisest approach. Surely, Dr. Wilkins would give me valuable advice how to talk to Shane about the pics. It wasn’t exactly something you discussed every day.
As soon as Shane had gone to school that morning, I found Dr. Wilkins’s contact information in my phone. I had seen him for a few months after Peter’s death, then I’d felt there was nothing left for us to discuss. I felt better, like I could go on with life and cope with reality on my own, be a good mother to my son. So I’d stopped going.
I had never revealed to Dr. Wilkins that my son had been born with psychopathic tendencies. I hadn’t dared doing so at the time. I knew that Dr. Wilkins had a professional obligation to keep quiet about Shane’s condition, but I still didn’t want to tell him. No one, absolutely no one, could know about it. It was too risky. What if it accidentally slipped out of Dr. Wilkins’s mouth when he was drunk at a cocktail party or at dinner with a hot date? Maybe he wanted to show off his vast knowledge about a kid who’d accidentally shot his father, whose mother he was treating? Reveal secrets that had been kept from the public, such as the kid might develop into a full-fledged psychopath due to his flawed brain? If only there was a way to determine that people with such brains always became dangerous psychopaths, then we could have them institutionalized before they could inflict harm on others. Save all the innocent people. Exactly like in the movie Minority Report…
The chance that Dr. Wilkins would ever do something like that was unlikely, but still a possibility. So I’d kept the secret. Besides, my plan had been to make sure Shane didn’t hurt anyone else again, so what was the point telling anyone about it? I’d watch him like a hawk. Everyone would be fine. Everything would be fine.
Too bad it seemed I hadn’t watched him as closely as I had promised myself.
I had gotten lax in my supervision, mostly because Shane had been such a great kid after we had dealt with Peter’s death. As the years passed and he continued to behave exemplary, there were times I forgot he was born a psychopath. I could no longer be sure to keep the promise I had made to myself. Well, it looked like I might have already broken it. While I’d of course try my best to ensure Shane didn’t hurt yet another person, I couldn’t be with him 24/7. Besides, if he had indeed killed Alice, he needed to pay for it. Make amends. I couldn’t just let him get away with it. What kind of precedent would that set? I hoped it wouldn’t be that bad, of course, and that he had only shown bad judgment in taking the pics and then stayed silent about it. It would be understandable, as, having taken them, people might think he was also behind her death. I had to take the right precautions, see to it that I did the right thing here and that everyone was safe, including my son. I had to talk to someone about it, and my old therapist seemed to be the safest person to do that with. Dr. Wilkins was not allowed to report a crime that had already been committed, so I risked nothing. If I didn’t tell him I knew for a fact Shane was a psychopath who’d experienced trauma in his formative years, he’d also have no reason to go to the authorities and warn them about what my son might do in the future.
Shane would be safe while Dr. Wilkins advised me on how to deal with him.
I left a message on the therapist’s voicemail and told him that I needed to see him again.
He called me back an hour later.
“Hi there, Jennifer,” he said in that incredibly soothing voice of his. “It’s been a while. Everything okay with you? You sounded tense in the message you left me. More than I can remember you’ve ever sounded.”
I couldn’t believe how good his memory was. It was at least five years ago since I’d spoken with him last. With all the patients he saw, how could he know who I was so quickly? But I guess that was a good thing.
“Yeah, I know,” I said and let out an awkward chuckle. Unfortunately, the fact that he remembered me so easily must also mean he remembered how rudely I’d ended our therapy. “Sorry about just disappear
ing like that. I really did think I was coming back after the break I took.”
“Oh, no worries. I wasn’t offended at all. So, what’s going on with you? Something’s happened?”
“Well, I guess you could say that. I need to see you. I could use some advice on how to cope with some stuff. Do you have any openings in your schedule?”
“Let’s see… Could you come tomorrow at one o’clock? Or do you need to see me today? I might have a slot later.”
“No, tomorrow’s fine. One works great. Thanks so much. See you tomorrow then.”
The day moved at a snail’s pace followed by another night of poor sleep. I arrived at Dr. Wilkins’s office at a quarter to one and spent the remainder of the time flipping through old health and fitness magazines in the small waiting space.
The door to his office opened at a minute to one and a gray-haired woman dressed in black with red-rimmed eyes exited, avoiding my gaze. When she had left the area and I was alone, the door opened again and Dr. Wilkins appeared in the doorway. An average-looking man in his fifties, he glanced at me with a compassionate expression. His round face was as always clean-shaven and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses sat on the prominent nose, magnifying somewhat his beady eyes. He had a high forehead made even higher because of his semi baldness. What hair he had left was a mousy brown-gray color and grew in a fringe around his head like a monk’s. Instead of a suit, he wore a dreary-colored cardigan over a button-down dress shirt and dark slacks that looked comfortable. His clothes were on the bigger side but still failed to camouflage his potbelly.
He smiled, revealing teeth that were uneven and could use some bleach, and motioned for me to enter his office. He did a double take when he realized I was on crutches. My leg was still wrapped up, but I wore loose linen pants that effectively hid this fact.
He stared at me as I made my way toward him.
“Oh dear. Whatever happened to you?” he asked, holding the door for me so I could enter.
“I was in a little car accident a while ago. I just need a few more weeks on these crutches and then I’ll be back to normal. Well, kind of. I’ll probably need a cane for a while.”
“Hmm. Can’t have been that little,” he commented in a soothing voice and closed the door behind me. “Well, it’s good to see you, Jennifer.” He went around the small desk while I took a seat on the dark green wingchair he used for his patients. Still the same chair after all these years, I couldn’t help but note. I hoped he had it cleaned once in a while. I crossed my legs and leaned back into the well-worn seat. He intertwined his sausage-like fingers before him and peered at me through his glasses.
“Tell me, what’s going on with you, my friend?” he asked casually.
“It’s my son. I found these very upsetting pics in his phone and I don’t know what to do about it.” I had pondered pretending this was some other kid, a friend’s son, but at the last second, I’d changed my mind. Not only would it be hard for me to keep track of all the lying, but Dr. Wilkins would see through me sooner or later, and then I would have wasted all this time. I would just have to do my best so he didn’t realize what I really feared was my son posing a threat to society in general.
“About the pictures in his phone?”
“Yes. The other day I accidentally spotted pictures taken of a dead girl. About fifteen of them.”
“Go on.”
“It was of a girl who’d fallen to her death from a mountain upstate. Well, a tree on a mountain. She slipped from one of the branches.”
“Is this a girl your son knew?”
“Yes. We all knew her. She was the daughter of people who live near my parents’ country house in the Catskills. Friends of mine actually. My son and I go there on the weekends and during the summer.” I shifted in the chair.
Dr. Wilkins nodded pensively. “And you found pictures of the girl in your son’s phone? You mean after she had fallen to her death?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Have you asked him why they are there?”
I smiled awkwardly. “No. For some reason I can’t make myself do it. That’s why I called you.”
“I see. Why do you think you can’t make yourself ask him?”
I turned my head and glanced out the one window in the man’s office. It showed a quiet road and some trees with red and yellow leaves against a gray, clouded backdrop. A green sedan drove by.
“Jennifer? Why can’t you make yourself ask your son about the photos?”
Finally, I turned my head so I was facing Dr. Wilkins again. I sighed heavily. “I’m dead scared he has something to do with her death.”
14
Do you think he killed her?” Dr. Wilkins asked, removing his glasses and rubbing the root of his nose.
I stared at him, a little shocked by the bluntness of his question. It wasn’t like him to be so direct. But that’s what I had come for, wasn’t it? I needed to have those words spelled out for me by someone else. I was too much of a coward to deal with them on my own.
“That is my fear, yes,” I replied slowly. There, finally I’d said it. I reached for the small wooden hourglass that he always brought with him from home and put on the desk, careful not to turn it over in case he was using it to time our session. I supposed he was worried that the other two therapists who also used this office might steal it from him. The slightly pink sand inside it, which seemed full of tiny jewels it glittered so much, was making its way into the bottom part. I don’t know why I had suddenly grabbed it, but something about it was soothing. Holding it in my hands and watching the sand pile up made me feel better. I tossed Dr. Wilkins a glance to see if my action bothered him. He didn’t appear to mind, his attention on my face, not the hourglass.
“Do you think it might have been an accident?” he asked.
“I don’t know. That would of course be preferable over it having been done intentionally. But I don’t understand why he would take photos of her in that case. I’d think he’d want to hide it if it was an accident, not take pictures of her afterward. Doesn’t really make sense.”
Nodding slowly, he intertwined his fingers, then brought the tips of his index fingers to his lips. “That is very curious indeed. Which leads me to believe it wasn’t an accident. What about you, Jennifer? What do you really think?”
I didn’t answer, just kept touching the hourglass, stroking the curved glass and smooth wood. Watching the sand trickle down into the lower part. The shimmering grains had an almost hypnotizing effect on me.
“Deep inside, I believe you know better than anyone what the truth is,” Dr. Wilkins continued softly. “And it isn’t pretty, is it? The question is, can you deal with it? That’s why you’re really here, isn’t it? To let me help you cope with the truth. Tell me the truth, Jennifer. Let me help you deal with it. Put the hourglass back on the desk.”
Automatically, I did as he wanted, putting the hourglass back where I had found it. Then I buried my face in my hands and closed my eyes, hot tears burning the back of the lids. Oh God, my son was a cold-blooded killer… I needed to finally deal with this fact. Dr. Wilkins was right. That’s why I’d come here today. To deal with it at last. Yes, of course it was so. I simply hadn’t known how to cope with it. He would show me how.
I could hear Dr. Wilkins get to his feet and walk over to me. He stopped beside me and I knew what he was holding in his hand—a box of Kleenex.
Steeling myself, I lowered my hands from my face and pulled out a few tissues. I used it to blow my nose, dab at my wet cheeks.
“Take the whole box, Jennifer,” Dr. Wilkins said and deposited it in my lap before he went back to have a seat behind his desk.
I used a fresh tissue to dry my eyes that kept filling up with tears.
“Yes, I do think he did it on purpose,” I stuttered at last. “I just can’t see how someone accidentally pushes someone to their death and then stays silent about it. Acts normally afterward. I remember the night of her death quite well. Shane was his usual happy self. The
re was nothing about him that suggested he had done something terrible. Killed someone. Nothing at all. And I don’t understand why he would take those pics afterwards. At least I can’t imagine a single normal reason for him to do something like that.”
“Why would he do something like this?” Dr. Wilkins asked with a grave expression. “I mean, kill someone on purpose if that is indeed what he did. Did he have something against the dead girl?”
“Not as far as I know. To be honest, I thought he really liked her.” Another convulsion of sobs went through me that I did my best to suppress. “She’s a couple of years older than him. About fourteen. She loved animals and had a special interest in birds. She often went out in the woods to look for them. Study them.”
“Okay. Has he ever done anything like this before? Killed on purpose?”
I thought about his question. I was now highly doubting the story Shane had told me about Macy having rabies and attacking him. Yet, even if he had killed the cat on purpose, that was not as bad as having killed another human. Like having shot his own father. But could I really call what Shane had done to his father so many years ago a premeditated murder? Dr. Wilkins obviously knew the story, but he, as everyone else, was under the impression that it had been an accident. I had sworn on it and the police had agreed with me after talking to the child therapist who’d evaluated Shane. It had definitely been an accident. Of course it had been an accident only, everyone had agreed in the end. I decided that it wasn’t possible for so many people to be wrong. I raised my chin, looked the therapist straight in the eye and said with emphasis, “No, never. This is the first time he’s done anything like this. Killed someone in cold blood.”