An empty packet of ketchup squashed against the carpet. Another on the nightstand.
I dip my finger into the red stain at the center of Ricky. Touch it to my tongue. Sweet.
When I look down at him, his eyes are open, wide and skittering. “What the hell?” he asks.
This time when I scream, I wake the dead.
****
“So you actually thought I was dead?” Ricky’s laugh is derisive. But his eyes tell me more when they flick across the room, landing on the bundle of bedding I’d intended to burn. They tell me I’m a spider. A spider that might bite. “Sorry to disappoint, but you can’t take me out with a few shots of Jack and a squirt of Heinz.”
“And the knife?” I point to the table, where it sits, mocking me. With its straight blade and walnut handle. Not the knife after all. But Ricky’s, apparently. “It was in my hand when I woke up. What was I supposed to think?”
“You asked to use my pocketknife. You said you wanted chicken. I guess you got chicken.”
He laughs again, heartily this time, and my stomach roils at the thought. Me chewing that oily, gray flesh before it slid down my throat. “Well, I thought there was blood on it. I must have been hallucinating. A trick of the light, you know.” Sure enough, the blood, nothing but ketchup smears. Ricky had licked it himself to prove it.
“And the booze. Don’t forget the booze,” he adds, popping the top of a Miller Lite from his mini-fridge. “I’m guessing you don’t usually drink that much.”
“Actually, I don’t ever drink that much. Do you remember anything?”
He takes a swig from the can, his throat constricting like a snake’s belly, and points to a stray hundred-dollar bill that’s gotten free of the sheets. “Money. That’s the only thing worth remembering. You promised me more.”
“I said I’ll try.” I don’t know what I’d said. Only that a part of me wishes he’d stayed dead. Not that I’d stabbed him, but that he’d just stop. Speaking. Breathing. Existing. “I’m not rich.”
“You’re the asshole’s ex-wife. You’ll figure something out.”
“And if I can’t? I—” What I’m about to say disappears in a gust of panic. How does he know Ian and I were married?
Ricky senses it. My utter blankness. “Yep. Turns out money isn’t the only thing I remember. You get real chatty when you’re drunk.”
I don’t bother to deny it. It seems the least of my worries. The most of them: What else did I say?
He kicks at the bedding with a satisfied grin. “What were you planning to do with this?”
I shrug as if I’m clueless. “I’ve never seen a dead man before. It came as a bit of a shock.” It sounds like the truth. Even though it’s not. “I freaked. How did that ketchup get on your shirt anyway?”
“Hell if I know.” He fishes his phone from the pile of money, wipes it on his jeans. “So what did Culpepper do to you? What sins are you avenging?” He pauses, daring me to answer. Daring me to not. “Let me guess. Kate.”
The one syllable that shoots an arrow through my chest every time. I try not to let it show.
“If a man cheats with you, he’ll cheat on you. Am I right?”
Let him think that it’s that simple. That I’m that simple. As simple as him. “Something like that,” I say.
****
I won’t stay at your place. The first rule I made for Luke. The rule I’d never broken. Because staying meant he’d start to picture me there. That I’d start to picture me there.
But tonight, I drive straight from the Bay View to his house at the edge of Carmel Woods. As if I’d been living there all along. Knowing he’s close quiets my mind, even if I can’t see him. Soothes the suspicions that flare like a hot rash beneath my skin.
Someone is following me. Watching me. Trying to make me feel crazy. Or guilty. Or both.
Luke is a grounding rod, so I dial his cell and wait.
“Hey,” he says, his voice more gentle than I deserve. “I was wondering when I’d hear from you. Sorry I gave you the third degree last night.”
“No. I’m the one who should apologize. I’m just—it’s been hard.”
“You don’t need to explain. I get it. Just don’t shut me out.”
“That’s why I’m calling. I need to ask you something.”
“Anything.” I can tell he means it, and it makes me jealous. The way his heart opens to me again and again. A flower in the morning sunlight, perfect and unscarred.
“Did you visit my mom last Wednesday?”
“What? Is that why you were asking me all those questions about Cliffside? I’ve never been there. I seem to recall you saying we weren’t ready for that yet.”
“Are you sure? Because I saw your name written in the log book at one-fifteen the day after Valentine’s.”
I wish he’d say something, put an end to this quiet. An end to my doubt. But not the way he does it, with a tired sigh.
“I was at the crime scene most of that morning. Then we met up at our spot. What is this really about? Have I ever given you a reason not to trust me?”
“No,” I concede, though I don’t need a reason. Long before Ian, my father had made sure of that, murdering my trust and faith and soft place to fall with one clean shot.
“Do you want me to come over? I’ve got to be at work at ten, but I—”
“Stop by when you get off in the morning, okay?”
After we hang up, I sit outside in my car, watching the warm glow of the lights through his window. I imagine myself inside, curled next to him on a sofa I’ve never seen. Sipping wine from a glass I’ve never touched.
Maybe I am crazy. God knows, I’m guilty for sure.
When the house goes dark and the garage door cranks to life, then, only then, I drive away.
The Monterey County Courier
New Information in Brutal “Love Doctor” Slaying
by Jackson Lamont
Five days after the discovery of the bodies of Dr. Ian Culpepper (48) and his wife, Dr. Kate Culpepper (30), in their upscale home on Cortez Road in Carmel, sources close to the investigation have revealed that prescription drugs may have played a role in the brutal slaying. Speaking under the condition of anonymity, a law enforcement official informed The Monterey County Courier of a wine bottle at the scene which tested presumptive positive for benzodiazepines, a class of drugs that includes those commonly prescribed for anxiety, such as Xanax, Klonopin, and Valium. Toxicology results from the deceased are still pending. A photograph on Kate’s Facebook page confirmed she and her husband dined at La Noche, a popular spot for celebrity sightings, on Valentine’s Day. It is unclear if the bottle of wine was purchased at the restaurant or brought from the couple’s private collection. The manager of La Noche could not be reached for comment.
On Sunday, the parents of Vanessa Sherman (Laramie), Helen and James Laramie, released a statement through their attorney, expressing their sympathies to the Culpepper and Pope families. “We wish to extend our deepest condolences to the families of Drs. Ian and Kate Culpepper. We are sickened by those in the media who would insinuate our involvement in this tragedy, and we pray for speedy justice for those responsible.” Mr. and Mrs. Laramie’s daughter, Vanessa, died of an overdose of prescription medication and alcohol that caused multisystem organ failure. Drugs in Sherman’s system included opioids and benzodiazepines, none of which had been prescribed to her by the Culpeppers, who were cleared of any wrongdoing in her death.
Chapter
Thirteen
Monday
February 20, 2018
I should have canceled my Monday clients. That’s what a reasonable psychologist would have done. An ethical one. But me, I show up at the office at 9 a.m. with frayed nerves and a fierce headache. Overnight, the clouds rolled in—this morning, intermittent downpours—and my feet are soaked by
the time I start the slog up the stairs, holding my dripping umbrella. Cleo’s red bicycle is there, propped inside the door and slick with rainwater.
She’d left five messages over the weekend, each more desperate than the last. Until finally I called her back, told her to come in today. That I’d be here early. Then Ricky happened. And the pills, the knife, the goddamned ketchup. The things I’d said—who knows what?—but can’t remember.
Cleo needs me. She’d said as much. But I’m not here just for Cleo. It’s for me too. To drive my brain to distraction. That place where someone else’s voice, worry, pain drowns out my own. And if I’m honest, I’m curious. Because she’d lied about Dr. Jarvis and I don’t know why.
On the top step, Cleo sits, shivering, with her backpack between her knees. “I got caught in the rain.”
I nod and offer a sad smile, wondering if she means it as a metaphor. Ian is—was—not unlike the rain. Capable of destruction, but vital somehow.
“Come inside. I’ll turn up the heat.”
I open the door, and she follows through the waiting room and into the office, folding herself into her usual position on the sofa, arms hugging her chest. The tears are already there, waiting. “I assume you’ve seen the pictures.”
So many times, I was practically there. Oh wait—. “I did.”
“You and the rest of the free world. I just don’t understand. We were so careful.”
“Remember, we talked about this. The risks you take having an affair. I don’t want to sound harsh, but . . .” I can’t help myself. It’s like talking to Kate. “Exposure. There’s always that chance. And this is exposure on a grand scale.”
“The grandest. Guess who else has seen them?”
“Your father?”
“Yep. I honestly don’t know which is worse. Him calling me a whore or Ian being dead. Murdered.” She lowers her head, damp ringlets falling over her shoulders. “That sounds bad. Of course Ian being dead is worse. But my Dad didn’t even ask how I am. If I’m okay. All he cares about is his precious reputation.”
“Are you? Okay?”
She breathes deep, and her eyes overflow. “Not really. One minute I am, and the next I’m a wreck. I have a million different feelings. But the worst is I have no right to any of them. He didn’t belong to me. He belonged to her.”
That last bit gets me. We’re soul sisters, Cleo and I, even if she doesn’t know it. Both left out in the cold. “Your feelings are legitimate. Even if your relationship was unorthodox.”
“I won’t even be able to go to the funeral. It’s tomorrow, you know. Can you imagine the scandal if I turn up? The tabloids would have a field day. And what if they find out who I am? Then what?”
I let the room fill with silence before I answer. “Then what? Let’s play it out. What’s the worst that could happen? Will the people who matter think any less of you? Will the world end? Will they kick you out of MCC? Will Doctor Jarvis refuse to chair your thesis?”
Testing her when she’s at her weakest is completely unprofessional. And still I watch her face for signs. Study her as if through the lens of my camera. She blinks, then looks up at me, stone-faced. And the brazen set of her jaw reminds me of Ian and all his denials: “Kate is my student. I would never.”
“I know the world wouldn’t end, but I’d want it to. I’m skipping class today. I haven’t been to campus at all since the vigil on Friday.”
“How was the vigil?”
“Weren’t you there? I thought I saw you.”
For one frenetic heartbeat, I feel outmatched. Outwitted. What is she hiding? What does she know? But there’s something to be said for experience. “It’s best if we stay focused on you, Cleo.”
****
My tone must’ve been perfect—the exact right blend of admonishment and pity—because Cleo spends the next forty-three minutes focused solely on herself. Her grief. Her shame. Her completely fucked-up life. Her words too.
And by the end of it—“Our time’s up for today”—there’s only doubt. The way it always was with Ian. It’s the worst part of lying. Of being lied to. You learn to mistrust yourself.
“Can I still come on Wednesday?”
“Of course. And Cleo, this session is on me.” That’s guilt talking, all nine heads of the Hydra in chorus. Because I’ve been full-on paranoid thinking she knew anything about me. She’s a college student, for God’s sake. So what if she’d lied about Jarvis? I’ve done far worse. Taking her picture in secret too many times to count. Pictures that had spread like an incurable virus. Whatever happens to her, I’ve done it. I’m patient zero.
“At least it stopped raining,” she says, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She seems lighter, better. Put back together. And I feel competent. I’ve done my job. Even if I had a hand in the breaking.
I open the door for her. But she freezes at the threshold of the waiting room, ensnared. As if she’s stumbled into a trap.
My 10 a.m.—Joan McCorkle—is reading a magazine in the corner. She lifts her eyes and nods at me. But Cleo doesn’t notice her at all. She’s focused straight ahead.
Leaning against the wall, red-eyed and ragged, is David Fairfax. He flinches when he sees her, then looks away too fast.
Silent, Cleo scurries past him. A red flush stains the back of her neck.
With her gone, David straightens. Shoulders back. Head up. As if I hadn’t noticed the drama that played out between them. “Doctor Lawson, I know you have another patient, but I need ten minutes.”
****
“This is a one-time thing,” I say, watching David’s loafered foot tap against the carpet. “I understand you’re feeling overwhelmed, but you can’t just show up here, expecting to be the first priority. That’s not how it works.”
He nods, rapid-fire, his whole body chattering. Like a junkie desperate for a hit. “I know. I know. I know. But I’m freaking out.”
“Okay. You look nervous and you sound agitated. Just take a deep breath, and—”
“The police called my house. They asked me to come into the station. They said they had witnesses. People who saw me and Ian arguing.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them I didn’t fucking kill him!” The words charge from his throat, raw and incensed, as if he’d been saving them for me. For this moment. A rickety breath clatters out behind them. “I’m so sorry. I’m losing it. Pep loaned me some money. Alright, a shit-ton of money. This is confidential, right?”
He’s rambling now, gaining momentum like a rolling stone, and he doesn’t wait for an answer.
“I had to pay off a debt at The Pearl. And yeah, he wanted it back. He said something came up and he needed it.”
Something like extortion. Blackmail. Revenge.
“The cops told me I wasn’t a suspect. Yet. That they’d check out my alibi. But it doesn’t matter what they said. It’s what they didn’t say. That one guy, Donovan, he looked at me like I was goddamned Robert Durst.”
“You felt accused.” Join the club, buster.
“Exactly. And it’s the same with Tara ever since those pictures came out. All of a sudden, she thinks I’m having an affair. If Pep could do it, could lie like that, then I must be too.”
“Well, you have been lying to Tara about your gambling. Perhaps she’s sensing that deception.”
“And then, I show up here. And she’s in your office. Jesus Christ.”
I hear Ian in my head. Sometimes, you just have to let them keep talking. Dig their own graves. Along with another one of his little gems: Empathy is overrated.
“Did she tell you about me?” David asks.
“You know I can’t discuss—”
“I know you can’t answer that. Fuck me. What was she doing here? Is she going to tell Tara?”
As much as I hate to admit it, Ian had been right. David is
digging and digging and digging. Faster than I could have unearthed whatever he’s got buried. “I’m not sure I follow you, David.”
“Fine. You want me to say it? I’ll fucking say it. I slept with her. Ever since Sophie was born, Tara’s got a constant headache. We barely do it anymore. And it was one time. One time!”
“Okay. I understand. You only did it once.” I stay in the moment. Trying not to spook him.
“Right. And I didn’t even know what she was. I didn’t pay her. One of the guys at the bar told me a month or so later when I saw her again. But that’s not what I was there for. I just came to play poker.”
“You met her gambling? You relapsed?”
He’s slowing down a little, now that the worst is out. “At the Pearl Casino in Monterey. Last June. I tried to tell Pep, but he refused to believe it.”
“Believe what? That you had sex with his mistress?”
He gulps and swallows hard, looks up at me with wild eyes that haven’t slept. Probably won’t tonight either. “That she’s Cleopatra James. That she’s an escort.”
****
If I could make Mrs. McCorkle disappear, I would’ve followed David. But, she’s still here—real as her fake double Ds—even if I’m not. Mentally, anyway.
“For the life of me, Doctor Lawson, I can’t understand why Jacqueline wants to get married in a church when I’ve offered her the country club. It’s just so pedestrian.”
If I could shake Mrs. McCorkle, I’d grab her by the shoulders and rattle her bones until her veneers cracked. If I could scream at her, I’d wail until her bleached-blonde hair blew back. But I only have one weapon available to me, so I wield it like an axe. Swift and without mercy.
“Perhaps your daughter is more traditional than you. After all, you are on your third marriage.”
She scowls at me, as much as the Botox will allow, and I go back to clock watching. Enjoying my small victory with a nod to Ian. Empathy really is overrated.
After I send Mrs. McCorkle back to husband number three’s Pebble Beach mansion, I flee the office with my Nikon. I need to think. And sometimes my lens helps to order the chaos. Or create it, depending.
Doctors of Darkness Boxed Set Page 81