by D. J. Palmer
Giving birth is a single act, but parenting was the culmination of thousands of acts, large and small, done selflessly each day. It was the sum total of those experiences that had cemented an indelible bond, one that blurred the lines between parenting a biological child and an adopted one. To that friend, Grace had said simply she would do for Penny exactly what she’d do for Jack and Ryan, because she didn’t think of Penny as her adopted child. She was her daughter.
The archival research had been a demoralizing exercise, so when her cell phone rang, Grace allowed herself to feel a tickle of hope that Jack’s efforts had been more fruitful. It isn’t easy digging up information on somebody, especially without formal training in the craft of detection, but Jack could be as doggedly determined as Grace (and Arthur) when it came to solving a problem.
The problem he’d set out to address was learning all he could about the victim, Rachel Boyd. She’d never been a priority until this moment, because until a few days ago, Penny’s guilt was never in doubt. Now they needed to learn everything they could about Rachel in order to figure out why someone other than Penny might have wanted her dead.
“Got some intel, Mom,” he said excitedly.
The only information Grace had on Penny’s birth mother was what had been in the news (both when Penny was first found and again after Rachel’s death) and what the lawyers had told her. She lived in Lynn, the same city where she grew up. She was a known drug user. She had been arrested before Penny was born, charged with drug trafficking, but was acquitted in court. Four years later she got arrested again after she abandoned Penny in the park, when she was charged with child endangerment and the courts took away her parental rights. She pled out, then got probation on the condition she attend drug treatment. She lived in Rhode Island for a time, but moved back to Lynn for reasons unknown. She had rented the bottom unit of a multifamily home, which is where she was murdered.
Grace didn’t know much about Rachel’s employment history or her family background, but since dissociative identity disorders aren’t hereditary, she hadn’t made it a priority to find out. Besides, trying to get that sort of detail would have involved hiring a private investigator to track down Rachel or asking Attorney Navarro to dig it up, both of which would cost money Grace didn’t have.
Enter Jack, who had experience with things like doxing—which he had explained was using the Internet to reveal and discover personal information.
“What did you find out?”
“For starters, I got the name of the bar where she worked back then,” Jack said into the phone. “That wasn’t in the papers.” Grace rose creakily from the dusty floor of the cramped little room. Food wrappers littered the wastebasket and a musty odor perfumed the air.
“What’s the name?” asked Grace.
“Lucky Dog,” he said.
“Fantastic,” Grace exclaimed. “Someone there has to know something about Rachel’s past. Maybe they’d seen some sort of abuse, who knows? Great work, Jack. How’d you get all that information?”
There was a lengthy pause.
“Yeah, better we don’t go there,” Jack said.
From what Grace knew of doxing, it had a malicious end in mind, and frequently hackers were the ones who did the dirty work. Perhaps Jack had a friend in the computer science department at Emerson who had put his or her specialized skills to the test. In this case, Grace felt comfortable that the end justified the means, whatever those were, and the fact that her son had discovered something of potential value, an entry point into Rachel’s past, lifted her sagging spirits. She had high hopes this single lead would uncover truths about Penny’s past.
“Annie and I are going nowhere fast with these files,” Grace said. “We’ll check in with Ryan at the restaurant, then shoot over to that bar, see what we can learn.”
“I want to go with you,” said Jack. “I’ll find some way to get to Swampscott so we can drive together.”
Grace furrowed her brow. “Why?” she asked.
“I’m part of this too, Mom,” he said. “The film is one thing, but she’s my sister … guilty or not, I want to help her any way I can.” He spoke in a raw, heated voice. “I think she’s trying to tell us something, but she can’t. She’s afraid for some reason, I feel it. I want to help put that fear to rest. I owe her that. Wherever this ends up, whatever the answers—guilty, not guilty because of insanity, or somehow, some way she’s innocent—I have to help get that answer.” He paused, and Grace heard him take a shaky breath. “And I’m not going to give up until I do.”
“Meet us at the restaurant at two,” Grace told him. “Better together, as your father would say.”
* * *
When two o’clock came around, Jack strode into Big Frank’s looking quite satisfied, his phone clutched in his hand. He had texted his mother to let her know he’d borrowed a friend’s car to drive himself to Swampscott, and Grace wondered if this friend of his was the same one who had helped him dox Rachel Boyd.
“Ready, Mom?” asked Jack.
Grace and Annie were standing near the door, hoping to make a quick exit before Ryan came out of the storeroom. Grace had thought it would be a good idea to check in on her older son, who—despite living at home, sleeping in the same bedroom he had once shared with Jack—was barely on speaking terms with her. Oftentimes, she had to address him through his closed bedroom door, as though she were living with a moody teenager again. Then, what she got from him were mostly curt answers to her plaintive questions.
But when she arrived at the restaurant, Grace found Ryan in an especially foul mood. The fact that she and Annie had made good on their pledge to devote their time and resources to the investigation had upset him enough, but an incredibly low turnout at the lunch hour had sent Ryan over the edge. Grace wasn’t about to raise the point that some days business was better than others, or that the cloudy weather and threat of rain might have kept people away. He was being irrational, and anything she said would be like pouring gasoline on a fire.
Jack was holding the door for his mother and Annie when Ryan emerged from the kitchen. Grace froze when she saw the tense look on his face.
“What’s up, Jack?” Ryan said derisively. “Stopped by to see what the end of Dad’s business looks like?”
“Hey, Ryan,” said Jack with evident discomfort.
Ryan approached, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists. “Mom told me you found out a lot of stuff about Rachel Boyd. Good job helping a lost cause. Guess now I can add you to the list of people responsible for our demise.”
“Honey, please don’t be like that,” Grace urged. “It’s going to be all right. You’ll see. We’ll get the business booming again before you know it. All right? We have to go out for a bit; we’ll be back soon.”
“Don’t rush,” Ryan said, gesturing to the empty dining area. “I think I can manage fine on my own.”
Jack let go of the door he’d been holding open to approach his brother. His breathing turned shallow, and his eyes blinked rapidly. Grace sensed trouble brewing.
“Why do you have to keep being such an ass?” Jack spat out the words. “What’s your damn problem?”
Ryan got right in Jack’s face. “You know the problem.”
“She’s your sister.”
“She’s nothing to me,” said Ryan, eyes narrowing. “She let Dad die.”
Ryan’s fierce gaze intensified. Grace went cold inside.
“It’s not her fault. Why do you keep blaming her?”
“Bullshit it’s not.”
“Boys, please, don’t—”
Jack gave his brother a look of disgust. “I don’t know who you are anymore,” he said. “Something is off with you, and has been. Why’d you really quit school? You wait until senior year to drop out? Come on. What happened that you’re not telling us?”
Jack poked Ryan in the shoulder. Sensing an escalation, Grace moved to intervene. Before she could put a stop to it, however, Ryan took hold of Jack’s flannel shirt
, swiveled at the waist, shifted his weight to the right, and took thin Jack with him. When Ryan let go, Jack went airborne, arms and legs flailing. His long hair, free from its ponytail, rose up behind him like a dark, silky wave. There came a thunderous clatter when he crashed hard into a set of chairs around an empty table, sending them, and him, onto the floor.
With startling agility, Jack scrambled to his feet, fury flaring in his brown eyes. He let out an angry grunt before charging at Ryan, leading with his head like a bull targeting a matador. Ryan easily sidestepped the counterattack before seizing Jack in a brutal headlock that reminded Grace of the boys’ scuffles in their younger days. Jack threw a series of haymaker punches that failed to make contact.
“Stop it!” Grace yelled as she threw herself into the middle of the skirmish. Ryan, who used a headlock to latch onto Jack’s neck, spun his younger brother in an erratic circle that eventually brought him into contact with his mother. Down went Grace, hard, and she let go a loud whoosh as air exploded from her lungs.
Ryan released his grip on Jack the instant his mother hit the floor. Immediately, his rage turned to shock and shame. Righting himself quickly, Jack scrambled over to Grace and helped her to her feet, giving her a good look at the red mark Ryan’s hold had left around his throat.
For a few tense moments, nobody spoke. Grace brushed bits of grime off her pants. She rubbed her hands clean on her blue knit sweater before straightening her hair, then checked in with her body, especially the knees, which thankfully felt fine.
“We are a family,” she said, breathing hard, her heart still racing. “Your father would be devastated to see this behavior, and I won’t tolerate it.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Ryan said, in a sincere apology.
“Sorry isn’t enough,” Grace answered him sharply. “From this point on, no more fighting, no more anger, no more talking to me through a closed bedroom door, no more disrespecting this family.”
“But the restaurant…”
“Oh, enough with the restaurant,” Grace snapped. “Your father’s gone, so he’s not here to tell you what I know he’d say. Family first. Do you hear me?”
Ryan shifted his gaze to his feet, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his pants. Jack hovered nearby, trying to catch his breath.
“Your sister comes before the business,” Grace continued. “If we have to close this place down because we’re out of money, so be it. I’ll turn the key in the front lock one last time and won’t regret for a single second my decision to put Penny above the family legacy. Not one single second.” Grace paused to try and regain her composure, but it was to no avail. Anger swirled inside her like something molten.
“If you so wish, please help us keep the lights on here, as best you can, but you need a big-time attitude adjustment, and it needs to happen starting right now.” She pointed her finger in front of his face, using it to punctuate her decree to Ryan, as if the words were floating before his eyes. “No more outbursts or pissing and moaning about any of this.” She gestured to the empty restaurant. “Penny is locked up in a wretched place, and she might end up somewhere even worse, for the rest of her life … forever. So spare me your attitude. Honestly, I don’t have the time or the patience for it.”
Without another word, Grace threw open the front door and stormed out into a humid, gray summer day.
CHAPTER 35
“HOW YOU DOING, EVE?”
Mitch got a thumbs-up sign from the girl in the doorway, along with confirmation that it wasn’t Penny or any of her other alters who’d come to see him. He noted how Eve had a slight hitch to her step as she entered the therapy room, and observed the ring of blue-and-red bruises, mixed together in a watercolor palette, that encircled her neck like a collar.
After getting settled in her seat, Eve craned her head back and kept a lookout until the guard gently closed the door behind him. This was her first time in the therapy room since the attack, and Mitch was on high alert for signs of traumatic stress, extra anxiety, any indications she might be suffering PTSD. It was Ruby and Penny, not Eve, who’d been attacked, yet somehow she knew what had happened to her. Naturally, that got Mitch’s curiosity radar pinging. Was her memory retrieval conveniently selective or was it another indication of consciousness leaking?
“I told the CO to remain outside until we’re through,” he said. “Darla is still in restrictive housing, so I don’t want you to be nervous.”
Eve giggled and gave an eye roll that reminded Mitch she was only a teenager.
“‘Restrictive housing’? Are you buying into Whitmore’s soft-tone crap? Next you’ll start calling us ‘guests.’” She cocked her head to one side, stuck out her tongue, and scrunched up her face as if to say everything here was crazy. Her expression reverted to normal Eve. “Really, Dr. Mitch. Call it what it is, please … solitary confinement.”
“Right, solitary,” said Mitch. “I saw you limp a bit coming in. Are you injured?”
“Every muscle in my body is sore,” said Eve, slumping in her chair. “But I’m okay otherwise.”
“Have you had any PT?”
Edgewater might have been lacking in many areas, but their medical facilities were top-notch.
“No.”
“I’ll call Dr. Bouvier after our session, get you an appointment for the whirlpool tub. It’ll help your muscles to relax. They have suits you can borrow, so you can enjoy a full soak. You’ll feel like a new person.”
“All of me?”
She sent Mitch a wink he found endearing. Now it was time to get down to business.
Mitch didn’t have the pull to get evidence from the investigative unit that handled crimes in prisons, but Whitmore did, and he was in good standing with her. Which is why, by the time Eve came to see him, Mitch already had the note from Darla’s Bible upside down on the table ready to show her.
“I want you to have a look at something for me, Eve,” Mitch said, respectfully, gently, “and I’d like your honest reaction to it.”
Eve cocked her head slightly sideways.
“Have I been anything but?” She sent him a malevolent smile that paired well with the searing look in her eyes.
“Okay, then.” He turned over the note, secured inside a clear plastic evidence bag and tagged with case details encoded for the police to understand. “What do you make of this?”
Eve’s eyes scanned the paper through the plastic while Mitch scanned Eve. He was mindful that the note, if it had come from her hand or that of another alter, might trigger a switch. Sitting quiet and still, she read the words on the paper, written in blue crayon, first to herself, then aloud, speaking in an affectless voice as though reciting a passage from some classroom textbook.
“‘Darla, sorry to tell but Penny Francone calls herself Eve slept with Charles. I saw pictures. Can’t get to show U but they were doing it. You should do something about it.’”
Eve glared at Mitch scornfully.
“How does that note make you feel?”
“Pissed off. Like someone clearly wanted Darla to be,” she said curtly. “No wonder she came after me.”
“Eve, I want you to check in with yourself now … with you, and with your alters.”
Eve’s lips twisted into something of a smile. “You think I know who wrote this … somebody here who might want to see me dead, is that it?”
“Something like that,” Mitch said. “Go ahead, close your eyes, and check in with yourself. Ask Ruby, Chloe, Penny, any of them … does somebody here at Edgewater wish to do you harm? Don’t think, just feel, and respond with whatever your subconscious mind has to say.”
Mitch knew that for most people, over 95 percent of all brain activity was beyond conscious awareness. For someone with DID, seeking out a conscious thought, a memory, an idea, was an especially difficult hunt.
She contemplated the question quietly with her eyes shut tight, and eventually returned a solemn shake of her head. There was nothing.
Mitch wasn’t quite read
y to give up. He considered the possibility that writing the note was a state-dependent memory, encoded into her brain and kept from her consciousness as part of a neural defense mechanism. Mitch’s hope was that he might be able to stimulate her mind enough to get an answer.
“Imagine you’re in your room. Picture it.”
“Room at home, or here in my cell?” said Eve.
“Your quarters here,” said Mitch.
“Okay, my cell.”
“Put yourself there. Sit at your desk and think to yourself, ‘I’m a bad girl.’ Say it over and over in your mind … ‘I’m a bad girl.’”
Eve opened her eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’m not.”
“It’s like a rap song. I’m baaaad girl. Wicked baaaaad girl.” She said it with a hint of melody while doing a wiggling dance move in her chair.
“Please, Eve,” said Mitch, trying to keep his annoyance in check. “This isn’t fun and games. I need your cooperation here. It’s important.”
Eve stuck out her tongue a little ways—a childish gesture, but one meant to convey Mitch had no fun in him. Despite her brief protest, Eve shut her eyes, but raised her head so she would be looking at Mitch if they were open.
“Really?”
“Really.”
She went quiet, and Mitch could almost hear her reciting Chloe’s words of guilt and remorse.
“Keep saying it in your mind. Now, I’m going to ask you a question and I want your honest answer. Let any alter answer this question, okay?
“Did you write that note and give it to Darla?”
Eve went completely still, seemed to be holding her breath. Looking at her, Mitch couldn’t help but wonder which alter, into which memory bank, she may have gone. Eventually, her eyes came open. To his relief, she gave no outward indications of physical destabilization or emotional trauma.