by Ann Gosslin
When the waitress returned, pencil poised, Erin prompted Tim to give his order. He mumbled, looking at the floor. ‘Turkey. And a… Coke. Coca-Cola. Not too cold, not too warm.’
‘White bread and mayo on his order,’ Erin said, lowering her voice, ‘and I’ll have the lasagne and a cup of tea.’
The waitress gave Tim an odd look before turning on her heel and scooting away. Her face was easy to read: one of those crazies from the loony bin down the road.
From under the strands of hair hiding his eyes, Tim shot quick glances at the other diners. ‘Twelve. Odd numbers are better.’
Two girls breezed inside, bringing with them the metallic chill of the outdoors.
‘Fourteen.’ Angling his body away from the window, Tim stared at a crack in the floor tiles, then his ragged cuticles, and finally the soles of his shoes, left foot, right foot. With a furtive, sideways tilt of his head, his eyes flicked to the two girls who’d installed themselves at the next table. With their long silky hair, bright faces, and animated chatter, they must seem as exotic as toucans.
It was a relief when the waitress arrived with their order. Tim leaned over his plate and sniffed. With the flat end of a spoon, he lifted a corner of the bread and examined the contents, then transferred the tomato and lettuce onto a paper napkin. With the sandwich reassembled, he sniffed again and took a bite.
‘Turkey always makes me think of your Thanksgiving,’ Erin said, her voice bright. ‘It sounds like a fun holiday.’ Liar. She’d loathed Thanksgiving as a child. Holidays in her home were an unceasing nightmare. Alcohol-fuelled rages, humiliation, tears. Worse after her father died. ‘What was Thanksgiving like at your house?’
He made a clicking sound, deep in his throat. On a paper napkin, he sketched with a pencil stub he’d taken from his pocket the skull of a large bird, with teeth the size of tombstones.
What was this?
His face was closed down like a shop after hours, lights off, the window shuttered. But what had she expected? That he would prattle on about happy family holidays? Except for the horrifying deaths that marked a gruesome end to his adolescence, his past was a blank slate. For all she knew, happy times in the Stern home were few and far between. Join the club. Though he claimed no memory of the murders, he’d been told repeatedly what he’d done. Surely the details were lodged somewhere in the caverns of his mind.
Tim fidgeted in the chair. Next to his plate, the paper napkin with the bird skull lay in strips. He tapped his fingers on the table, muttered under his breath. ‘Rat-a-tat-tat, they’re at it again, at it again. Too cool for school. History girl, mystery girl.’
Erin stopped short, fork suspended. It was the string of nonsense words she’d glimpsed on that scrap of paper. Slowly, so as not to disturb the air around them, she placed her fork on the plate.
‘You know,’ she said, resting her chin in her hands, ‘it’s so much easier for two people to get to know one another if they talk about things they like. Shall we make it into a game? Let’s pretend that you and I have just met. At a party, for instance, or maybe a… baseball game.’
A muscle jumped in his jaw. Was she asking too much? She looked away, not wanting to spook him with eye contact.
‘Why don’t I start?’ Erin continued. ‘Let’s see, I like… butterscotch ice cream, but I don’t like… loud noises. My favourite colour is yellow, and I like the way it smells outdoors after a rainstorm.’ She scanned his face. So far, so good. ‘Now it’s your turn.’
She had his attention now. Around his plate, he’d arranged the uneaten bread crusts like the spokes of a wheel.
‘I like…’ He stroked the sickle-shaped scar under his eye. ‘I like… birds.’
‘Great. What’s your favourite colour?’
‘Pink? No. Pink is for girls, blue is for boys. Blue, moo, boo. I like blue.’
‘And what about when you were young. Did you have a favourite toy or book?’
His eyes shifted to the floor.
‘Or a favourite place?’ Silence. ‘I know what mine is.’ She took a breath and ploughed on, blithely ignoring Harrison’s concerns. ‘It’s this little town on the Maine coast I visited one summer with my parents. There were these colourful lobster boats in the bay, and a place by the docks that sold really good ice cream.’
Tim’s chin snapped up, his eyes wide, a deer in headlights. ‘Is this a… a trick? I won’t go back there. Dr Harrison said I never have to go there again.’ He struggled to his feet, upsetting his water glass. A breadknife clattered to the floor. ‘I want to go back to my room now.’ His raised voice was ragged with fear. The other diners turned to stare.
‘Timothy. It’s all right.’ She tried to catch his eye. ‘Look at me. It’s not a trick. I didn’t mean to upset you. Look at me. Deep breaths. You don’t have to go back there. I promise. Look at me.’
Sweat streamed down his face. His pupils were huge. ‘I want to go back to my room now.’ He wrenched his coat off the back of the chair and bolted for the door. She’d never seen him move so fast.
No time to signal the waitress. She tossed some bills on the table and ran after him, wondering what she would say to Harrison if he got away from her.
But he hadn’t run away. Crouched on the pavement next to her car, Tim was curled into a tight ball, shaking like a tree in a windstorm. The moment she opened the door, he stumbled in and strapped himself into the passenger seat, his chest heaving.
Chastened by her stupidity, she waited for his breathing to slow. Damn. Would he ever trust her again? If he didn’t, she would have to apologise to Harrison for her unprofessional conduct and excuse herself from the case. Or, she could lie.
She glanced sideways at his clenched hands and rigid posture. Unless Tim said anything, there was no reason for Harrison to know.
15
Erin slept badly in the cheap motel by the motorway, tossing and turning on the sagging mattress, only to rise from uneasy dreams just before dawn. Ten minutes early for her debrief with Harrison, she was groggy and in need of caffeine. As she waited for him to arrive, she tried to gauge the damage she might have caused to Tim’s case by her bungled attempt to form a connection.
Harrison hurried into his office a few minutes late, juggling a battered briefcase and a cup of coffee in a red mug bearing the logo of a drug company.
‘Would you care for a coffee?’ He lifted the mug. ‘I can ask Gloria to bring you a cup.’
She nodded her thanks and waited for him to settle into his chair. His manner was unruffled, if a bit distracted.
After his assistant set the coffee on Harrison’s desk, Erin reached for the cup and clutched it with both hands. It wasn’t warmth she needed, but courage. Though she knew it was ridiculous to feel like an awkward schoolgirl facing a stern headmaster.
She cleared her throat. ‘Did you speak to Tim yesterday afternoon?’
He polished his glasses with a handkerchief and settled them on his nose. ‘I’m afraid not. After he came back from your outing, he went straight to his room. I was a bit worried when he failed to show for group therapy. One of the attendants said Tim wasn’t feeling well. Curled up in his bed and running a slight fever.’ He examined her over the top of his glasses. ‘Did anything happen during your lunch?’
‘Nothing out of the ordinary.’ She struggled to find the right tone. ‘Though Tim was agitated as soon as we left the hospital. I noticed some obsessive-compulsive behaviour. Counting. A fixation with particular numbers.’
Harrison opened a drawer and took out a pen. ‘Tim does have an excessive attachment to his routines. Though that’s true of many of our patients. If he’s released, he’ll certainly require a great deal of support, and time, in establishing new ones.’
As he patted his pockets for the spectacles on his nose, she made a rapid decision. If absolutely necessary, she would admit to alluding to Tim’s hometown, but not her connection to it. That was a risk she couldn’t take. If he were to consider it a conflict of interest, he’d
remove her from the case. And she couldn’t abandon Tim. Not now.
*
On the monitor in the observation room, Erin spotted Tim at his usual table, bent over the book of Sudoku. As far as she could see, her ill-considered allusion to Belle River had caused no lasting harm. But Harrison had yet to address the question of how Tim would cope with the facts of his past if he were to leave Greenlake to live with his father. Wouldn’t the daily contact with his only living family member provide enough reminders of Belle River, and the bloody crime he claimed not to remember?
She could feel Harrison’s breath on the back of her neck and shifted away. ‘We haven’t discussed this before, but do you have any concerns about Tim living with his father?’
Harrison’s attention was focused on the monitor. ‘A few.’ He cleared his throat. ‘It’s only natural, I suppose. Tim’s been my patient for nearly fifteen years, and what becomes of him will always be of interest to me. Strictly professional of course.’ He pressed a switch and the monitor went blank. ‘With regards to his father, though, I wouldn’t want to say anything that might prejudice your assessment.’
But he already had, she thought, by refusing to say anything at all. Clever man, sending such a clear shot across the bow. Would he prefer that Tim remain institutionalised for the rest of his life? For all she knew, Tim was Harrison’s pet observational project, with the ongoing case study all but written up. That was the vibe she was getting. But her concerns were valid. If she were to recommend Tim’s release, how would the two men, father and son, yet practically strangers, manage to live out their days together? By pretending they were just two ordinary people sharing a home? Each day ignoring the giant elephant in the room, that one of them happened to have killed the other man’s wife and daughters. It was beyond comprehension, and there still remained some missing pieces of the puzzle, including the nature of their relationship before the crime. Did father and son get along, or were their differences a daily source of friction?
She had a lot more digging to do.
16
The Meadows
Lansford, New York
March, Present Day
The clock ticked towards midnight as Erin scraped the dried remains of butterfly pasta and Parmesan cheese into the bin. Though sleepy, she was not yet ready for bed. Still to come were a hot bath and warming glass of brandy, her just reward for having survived a hectic day. The bath was where she did her best thinking, and along with everything else on her list, she needed to consider her next move with Tim.
In the draughty bedroom, she stepped out of her clothes and pulled on a robe, treading lightly on the chilly wooden floor in her bare feet. Lamplight glanced off a silver-framed photo on the nightstand. A slip of a girl, with a wide grin and windblown hair. Behind her lay the deep blue sea and empty sky, but for a trio of gulls, banking against the wind.
Nicky, wild and free.
As inmates at Danfield, they had spun outlandish dreams of running away together the moment they were out. Nicky had gone home first. Two months later, she was dead. Blood swirling in the bathtub, her wrists sliced to ribbons. Erin’s unrelenting grief from her failure to save her friend had carved a hollow space in her chest. She looked at the photo for another minute, before turning off the light.
Padding through the flat in her socks, she checked once more that the curtains were closed and switched on the radio to a classical station, before pouring a generous slug of brandy into a glass. With two candles flickering on the table, the stage was set for romance. But Erin was alone, and no one was coming.
Me, myself, and I. Just the three of us. A silly joke amongst shrinks with a certain type of humour.
‘We’re fine, thanks. How are you?’ She spoke the words aloud, wondering if the shroud of madness, ever threatening, was preparing to descend.
A light flicked on in the flat across the alley. The tenant returning home. His shadow crossed the window, and she ducked from view. Was he watching her, watching him? From her crouch on the floor, she waited to catch a glimpse of her mystery neighbour, but there was nothing to see but shadows. The light snapped off, the blind was drawn.
Flakes of snow drifted through the narrow opening to the sky. Tomorrow was the first day of spring, though there was little sign of winter’s end. To celebrate, she planned to get up early and drive over to the old community centre by the river. A former hotel in its glory days, and later a care home, it was now largely abandoned, except for the rooms on the ground floor that catered to AA meetings and church socials. But the gem of the place, and Erin’s greatest find in the city, was the Art Deco swimming pool in the basement.
Built in the 1920s, the pool had the feel of a subterranean grotto. Glazed tiles of turquoise and pink, a midnight-blue ceiling studded with fairy lights. The caretaker, an old man with a limp from a long-ago gunshot wound, allowed Erin to use the pool for free. Gliding through the warm water under the celestial lights, alone with her thoughts, was the closest she’d ever come to paradise on earth. Having learned to swim late in life, she’d taken to it like the proverbial fish to water.
In her bathroom, she slipped off her clothes and into the tub, sinking down until the water reached her neck. Reflexively, her fingers sought the scar on her chest and traced its length from collarbone to sternum. So much blood was lost, she’d nearly died. A warning carved in her skin by a dangerously mad girl who wanted her dead. No one gets out alive. It was impossible to put Danfield behind her. Not when she’d been marked for life.
Eyes closed, she sipped the brandy and tried to calm the anxious beat of her pulse. But tonight, the bath and brandy weren’t working their magic. The house was still and no sounds came from the street or her neighbours below. As her breathing slowed, her fevered mind loosened its grip on her churning thoughts and slid into the cool waters of a placid lake. So still, she almost missed it. A shift in the atmosphere. Subtle as dust motes on a current of air.
At the sound of a creak on the stairs, her eyes snapped open. She held her breath and listened. Definitely a creak. Could someone have gotten in? Did she forget to lock the door?
A scrape was followed by a thud. Rigid with terror, she could scarcely move. Trapped in the bathroom, the window was too small and high off the ground to escape through. Knees shaking, she scrambled out of the water and into her robe. With her ear pressed to the door, she strained to listen, until the beat of blood in her ears mirrored the sound of footsteps. Breathe in, breathe out. Cowering in the bathroom like a trapped rabbit was not a viable option. She eased open the door and sprinted to the fireplace to grab the iron poker. It was the only decent weapon in the house. No knives, no scissors. Never anything sharp.
She scurried to the entry hall, snapping on lights as she went. At the front door, she pressed her ear against the heavy oak, her heart loud as a drumbeat. Above her head, a scrabbling sound made her jump. It took a moment for her brain to process what it was. A high-pitched squeak and chatter, followed by a thump.
Squirrels. Her knees buckled, and she slid down the wall. No one was there. Just harmless creatures in the crawl space, seeking shelter from the cold. She closed her eyes and hugged her knees. Would she always be this frightened? Too wired and alert to every creak and rustle, she’d never sleep now.
She pulled the plug in the bathtub and watched the water drain away. In the bedroom, she pulled on a tracksuit and a pair of old plimsolls. Using cushions and a blanket from the sofa, she made a nest in the front hall and settled down with a book and a flashlight, the iron poker by her side. With her nerves a mess and her knees like jelly, it was the safest place to wait for dawn.
*
Hunched behind his desk, Niels looked up from a stack of patient records, his face washed out with fatigue. Dark smudges had appeared under his eyes. Apparently, he hadn’t slept last night either. He pointed to the coffees in Erin’s hands. ‘Is one of those for me?’
She handed him the cup with milk and two sugars and raised the other to her lips.
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He rubbed his eyes. ‘We had two transfers late yesterday. I don’t think I got more than a couple hours of sleep last night.’
Join the club. ‘Who’s come in?’
‘A fifteen-year-old honours student. Swallowed half a bottle of sleeping pills – her second suicide attempt in the past six months. The other girl’s seventeen, with a record of histrionic behaviour and a failed suicide attempt. She was discharged from Hillcrest a couple of months ago, not much improved, apparently. Her parents are hoping we’ll offer her a more tailored treatment programme.’
Erin shook her head. ‘Hillcrest?’
‘A psych hospital in Massachusetts. It used to be called Danfield. But it was closed down by the state about ten years ago and revamped.
‘Danfield?’ Erin gripped the chair to keep her hands from shaking.
‘Yep. Lots of bad stuff going on behind closed doors. Things are better now, but they don’t have the services we offer here.’ He pushed aside a stack of papers on his desk. ‘The fifteen-year-old’s from Chesterton. You’d be a good fit for her. The family situation’s a bit delicate. Wealthy parents, pillars of the community. They want this kept quiet. Could be the girl’s bipolar, but I think there’s a lot more going on there. We’ll need to do a complete history and meet with the family. The whole works.’ He leaned back and gulped the coffee. ‘What’s happening with Greenlake? Are you ready to wrap things up?’
Erin drained her cup. ‘I’m giving the patient a break for a few days.’ She walked to the window. A solitary clump of purple crocus had pushed through the frost-heaved soil. Soon the grounds would be awash with colour. Primroses, daffodils, tulips. Spring couldn’t come soon enough. Though the room was warm, she shivered. Her head felt feverish and her nerves jumpy from the caffeine. ‘I’ll look in on the Chesterton girl before lunch. What’s her name?’