CHAPTER TEN
CHARLOTTE
July 24, 2018
Five days before the kidnapping
“This is you, right?” The cab driver shifted in his seat, throwing her a glance in the rearview mirror. Charlotte wondered what he saw. A woman paralyzed, unable to move? A woman having an affair, a secret made obvious by the enormous sunglasses that hid most of her face and the bright red lipstick Charlotte Burke would never be caught wearing? A woman on the edge of a breakdown?
Maybe he didn’t think anything. Maybe the world didn’t revolve around her. Maybe he just wanted her to get out of his cab so he could go on to his next fare and then the one after that and the one after that until he was done for the night and the woman who couldn’t bring herself to climb out of his car was long forgotten.
“Sorry,” she murmured, slipping him a twenty. It was precious, that tip, but maybe it would make him think kindlier of her. It was unclear why she cared.
After a final bracing breath, she pushed the door open and stepped onto the hot black pavement. The slight burn of it seeped in through the thin soles of her flats, but she didn’t hurry to cross the parking lot.
She stopped on the sidewalk and pulled a scrap of paper from the pocket of her linen pants, as if it wouldn’t confirm that she was exactly where she thought she was. The bold scrawl of her own handwriting forced her to admit the truth. This was what it had come to.
A horn cut through her hesitation, and, jolting, she clutched at her purse before starting toward the row of storefronts that were slotted next to each other in the low-rent strip mall.
The psychologist’s office had an inexpensive “Open” sign hung in the window. Like a car-service place or a pet store would have.
If she wasn’t desperate, she wouldn’t have even forced herself out of the cab. But the memory of that moment in the church prodded at her. She thought about it too much, wanting to sink back into that floating place. It terrified her to think that Hollis might be right. That she might be losing her mind.
As Charlotte Burke, she had few ways to get an answer to that question. Any doctor who worked with her family would inevitably report back to Hollis as if privacy ethics didn’t exist. So that left her with cheap shrinks in strip malls or staring at her own ceiling, wondering when the day would come when she’d completely shatter.
She pushed through the door.
A cold blast from the overworked window-unit air conditioner hit her, and a little bell tinkled overhead as she stepped inside.
The woman at the desk looked up from her gossip magazine. Charlotte guessed she was in her fifties, though the crocodile skin aged her into the next decade. She topped off her tan with bright orange hair, styled into a bouffant more commonly found in the 1950s. Then she jumped a few decades in style with a skintight leopard-print leotard she wore under whitewashed jeans.
As she took the purple lollipop out of her mouth, she looked Charlotte up and down with the same confused appraisal. “Can I help ya, hon?”
Charlotte licked her dry lips, wishing she had water to soothe her sore throat. “I made, um, an appointment. Smith. Rose Smith.” She was proud of herself for not tripping over the name.
The receptionist’s eyes narrowed, but then without pressing Charlotte further, she flipped through the appointment book, one long bright pink nail dragging over the paper. Clicking her tongue, she looked up. “There you are, hon.” She took in Charlotte’s purse, her shoes, her blouse, before her gaze snapped back to Charlotte’s face. “No insurance, then?”
“No, I’ll pay in cash.” It was painful, but necessary. She’d learned long ago how to squirrel away money here and there, but it never added up to much. It was never enough. A threadbare safety net that would never actually hold her weight.
They had family credit cards, but those were monitored by Hollis. All expenses were to go on them, and there had to be a good explanation if the girls withdrew cash from the debit accounts they had. Not that Hollis kept any more in there than could cover a nice lunch.
Carrying five one-hundred-dollar bills turned her hands shaky.
“Hmmkay.” The receptionist handed over a blue plastic clipboard. “Fill this out, and I’ll let you know when Dr. Harrison is ready for ya.”
The psychologist’s waiting room was empty save for a middle-aged man dressed in a long trench coat, despite the heat. Charlotte took the farthest seat from him, right next to the old-fashioned popcorn machine that was churning out those pieces of yellow fluff that tasted like stale cardboard.
The forms were daunting. Medical history. Social Security number. Address. She wrote nonsense answers, and the ink blurred beneath her eyes. It was strange how easy it was to become someone else, if even just on a meaningless sheet of paper.
She signed her fake name, and the pen left a heavy splotch where it rested on the last letter. Staring at it, she felt for her pulse and knew it was too fast.
The receptionist slid a cursory glance at the forms, then asked for payment up front. Since Charlotte was using cash and all. Charlotte reluctantly parted with two of her one-hundred-dollar bills.
“Won’t be long,” the woman said, sorting the cash into a drawer beneath the counter, then slipping the lollipop back in her mouth.
Charlotte sat.
She supposed the room was meant to be soothing. There was even a large fish tank that spanned the length of one of the walls, gentle bubbles the only thing disturbing its peaceful waters. A muted TV in the corner was turned to a nature documentary, and the notes from a flute were piped in over some sound system.
But the lights were too bright, and the music was grating. And a single, solitary goldfish bumped against the rim of the tank in time with the mild current, no longer alive to swim against the pull of it.
Charlotte turned her attention to a loose thread on her slacks, her fingers plucking at it. The fabric gave beneath her insistent ministrations until the thread was hanging to the side, down along her thigh. It wasn’t free like she’d hoped but caught in the firm grasp of the rest of the stitching.
A giggle caught in her throat. She had to be losing her mind. Did people who were losing their minds realize it, though?
“Ms. Smith.”
The name didn’t register at first, but by the time the small man standing in the doorway called her again, she recognized it.
She stood up, her fingers tight around the leather straps of her purse. “Yes,” she said simply.
The psychologist smiled and held out a hand. “Dr. Harry Harrison.”
She’d found his name in the yellow pages, as obsolete as those were these days. It hadn’t been just a listing, either. There’d been a tacky ad next to it, with a cartoon version of his face. The more garish the better, was her reasoning for writing down the address. The less likely that someone she knew would see her there.
“Pleasure,” she said, sliding her hands beneath her armpits so as not to have to shake his. He dropped his arm, without any hesitation, and stepped back to let her into the darkened space.
“Ah, you’re the first one today not to say anything about my name,” Dr. Harrison said, easy and light as he followed her in. He settled into a deep leather chair she hated on sight, then gestured for her to sit on the rose-patterned couch opposite him. “I usually get the whole ‘What were your parents thinking?’ shtick.” He laughed, a high-pitched wheeze that she imagined he thought was congenial. It reminded Charlotte of broken glass.
Everything about him was just slightly off. Bent in a way that made it feel like there were bedbugs crawling along her skin when she looked at him.
It was nothing in particular. He was short but well dressed. He’d discarded his jacket, so he was just in shirtsleeves, but the fabric was clean and wrinkle-free.
The dimensions of his face were wrong, though. His eyes were too small, too beady, and his lips too plump. If he had a chin, it wasn’t noticeable where it faded into neck skin that was wrinkled and speckled with errant scruff. Hi
s nose, a bulbous, protruding thing, made up for the shyness of any of his other features.
“Asking what parents were thinking in any regard is usually not a wise course of action,” Charlotte finally said. This had not been a wise course of action.
“Touché, Ms. Smith.” Dr. Harrison smiled with all his teeth.
“Rose, please,” she corrected, fiddling with the sunglasses she now held in her hands, wishing she could slip them on, wishing she had at least that to hide behind.
He paused. “Rose, then. So what brings you in here today?”
There was a small journal perched on his tweed-covered thigh, and his pen poised over the pages. His features, his just-wrong features, had arranged themselves into something that was supposed to pass as interested concern.
“How do you know?” The question tumbled from her mouth before she realized it was formed. But once it was out, there was no use pulling it back, no use swallowing it down and redirecting. This was why she was here. This was why she was sitting too close to a man who smelled of beets and heavy cologne.
“How do you know what, Rose?” the doctor prompted.
“If you’re crazy.”
Tap. The pen against paper. Tap. Tap. It was a beat that was not quite right. Like Ruby’s shoe against the wooden pew. Tap. It didn’t match Charlotte’s pulse.
“Well,” Dr. Harrison said, sliding his tongue around the word until it was too long. “Why do you think you’re going crazy, Rose?”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“No,” she said, stretching her neck so the taut muscles there could get some relief. “That’s not what I’m asking. Don’t turn this around on me.”
“I need to know what’s happening, though, Rose.”
He kept saying her name. Every time he spoke. Like he was soothing a wild animal.
“I wasn’t there.” Her fingernails dug into her thighs, through the protection of her trousers. “I mean I was and I wasn’t.”
Tap. Tap. “It felt like an out-of-body experience?”
Ruby’s shoe against the wooden pew. The church. Hollis’s fingers on her chin. The hot accusations in her ear. “Yes.”
“Have you been having any increased levels of anxiety?” he asked. “Depression or thoughts of suicide?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”
Tap, tap, tap. He cleared his throat. “Well.”
“You’ve said that,” Charlotte snapped. Then she reached out, in a quick, smooth movement, and snatched the pen. She threw it, and it hit the wall before dropping to the carpet with a small, unsatisfying sound. “Am I crazy? Please. Please.”
She was begging. Because she was weak. Like Hollis said she was.
“There’s no answer to that, Rose.” The doctor hadn’t even blinked at the outburst, just folded his hands above the journal. “It sounds like you had a dissociative episode. Though let me reiterate, that does not make you crazy.”
She twisted her fingers together, trying to make sense of what he’d just said. “What does that mean?”
“Well—” he started, but then cut himself off. His lips twisted and then straightened out again. “A dissociative disorder involves an involuntary escape from reality, characterized by a disconnection between thoughts, identity, consciousness, and memory.”
He was watching her, watching the way the muscles in her face ticked as she took in the information. “Okay.”
“It’s usually brought on—” He stopped. Took a breath. “It’s usually brought on by a traumatic experience. Or abuse.”
He leaned forward when he said it, his forearms braced against thick legs. She skittered back, drawing her thighs up to her chest. He wasn’t touching her, but he felt too close anyway. And he was still watching her with that same focus, his gaze sliding over her face.
“Does it happen often, Rose?” The question was soft, begging for confessions. But his eyes were sharp and glittering, assessing.
“Could I hurt someone?” Charlotte asked instead of answering. This was why she was here. “During one of those periods. Could I hurt someone?”
Dr. Harrison blinked, reeling back a bit as if he were surprised. “No one needs to get hurt, Rose.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He tipped his head. He hadn’t looked away once. “Are you worried about hurting someone?”
Everything was tight, and it was hard to breathe. Tap. Tap. The echo of the pen was still there, beating in her chest, in her mind. She rubbed the heels of her hands over her eyes, pressing until stars popped behind the lids. “Just. Christ . . . ,” she said on a sob. “Just answer the goddamn question.”
The office was quiet, so quiet. There was no pen, no foot against a wooden pew. No racing heartbeat. Just silence.
And then a quiet intake of air. A rustle as he shifted closer. “It’s possible, yes.”
She scrambled to her feet, no longer in control of her limbs, but knowing she needed to get out. To leave.
“I have to go.” There was a frantic pounding in her chest. It wouldn’t ease until she was away from this, away from those eyes and these questions and these truths that she’d known all along.
“Why don’t I get you some water instead?” Dr. Harrison said, his hands held out in front of him. “Then we can talk about what happened.”
“Nothing happened,” she said. Desperation was a wild thing, clawing at her throat. She spun toward the door, her heel catching on the carpet, throwing her off-balance.
“Wait,” he called to her back.
A mistake. This had been a mistake. Useless fingers fumbled against the metal of the handle, as he loomed behind her. Logic told her that he wasn’t dangerous, but she couldn’t reason with the intense urge to flee.
“Rose,” he said. And then: “Ms. Burke.”
She stopped, and the world tilted, then righted itself. As it did, she finally closed her hand around the doorknob. After wrenching the door open, she staggered into the waiting room.
Charlotte was at the swinging door when she heard the receptionist click her tongue.
“I can always spot the runners. What did I tell ya, Harry?”
The unbearable heat was a slap to the face as she tumbled out onto the sidewalk. She gulped in air, even though it was heavy with water and did little to calm the panic.
Stumbling back against the brick wall behind her, she then scanned the parking lot while keeping the door to the doctor’s office in her peripheral vision. It didn’t burst open, but lingering any longer would be foolish.
She walked—she didn’t run because that would draw attention—away from the office, down the sidewalk past the Chinese restaurant and discount shoe emporium.
There was a coffee shop at the end of the row of stores. That was her safety. She just needed to keep it together until then.
The teenager manning the cash register greeted her, but Charlotte didn’t hesitate as she headed toward the back. She cut off a middle-aged man on his way toward the bathroom, squeezing into the small space between his body and the hallway wall, and stepped inside before he’d realized what had happened.
Flipping the lock, she grabbed a handful of paper towels from the dispenser by the door. Then she crossed the room to the sink, where she tossed them into the cool basin. She ran the water, letting the stack soak until it was a step away from disintegrating into pulp.
Using the sopping mess, she scrubbed at the heavy makeup, which she had so foolishly thought was an adequate disguise, until her skin was raw and pink.
Only when there was nothing but abraded skin left did she drop the towels into the trash can.
Leaning her hands against the porcelain, she met her own gaze.
Could I hurt someone?
Her legs gave out, and she crumpled to the floor, where she curled into herself, her thighs pressed to her chest, her cheek against her knees.
The knocking when it came was jarring at first, but she found it easy to ignore.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ALI
CE
August 2, 2018
Four days after the kidnapping
The parking lot for the bar was overflowing even at the late hour. Journalists had been flocking into town since Ruby had gone missing, and Alice expected even more, now that her body had been found.
The thing about reporters was that they easily got bored of being sober. Especially when there wasn’t much movement on a case. The bar was the perfect hunting ground for what she needed.
Alice swung through the door of the dive, her eyes scanning as she went. Always in cop mode, Ricky used to say. Accuse, really.
There was only one table left, a misfit among overflowing booths that were laden with pints and pub food. She ignored it and instead grabbed one of the few remaining stools at the end of the long, scarred bar. It was next to an older gentleman whose beard dipped into his shot glass, as his hungry eyes caressed the bottles of tequila, rum, gin, and whiskey behind the guy working the taps.
“What are you having, love?” The bartender didn’t even look up when he asked.
“Ginger ale,” Alice said, and his brows shot up as he passed off a cocktail to the waitress whose wrinkles stood out in sharp relief from the strain on her face. A few profanities followed the woman as she dodged sloppy drunks and asshole reporters on her way toward the back corner.
“On the house.” The cool glass slid to a stop just where her fingertips rested against wood.
She smiled. “Impressive.”
He smirked back, running a hand through his shoulder-length black hair. There was something light and mischievous in his eyes that promised fun with no strings attached. Once upon a time, she would have found it appealing. In another life.
She shook her head, he shrugged, and life went on.
It didn’t take long to get what she wanted. Only a few minutes after she’d sat down, she felt the lightest brush of fingers against the small of her back.
“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” Ben Wilson’s voice was pitched low and sleazy, his breath hot in her ear.
Bingo.
She shifted so that he was forced to step away or absorb a sharp elbow to the stomach.
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