The Patient

by Steena Holmes

  ALSO BY STEENA HOLMES

  Finding Emma

  Emma’s Secret

  The Memory Child

  Stillwater Rising

  The Word Game

  Saving Abby

  Abby’s Journey

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by Steena Holmes

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542040389

  ISBN-10: 1542040388

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  To my husband.

  The crazy cycle is over.

  But I still don’t want to cook.

  CONTENTS

  Start Reading

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  In a Wonderland they lie,

  Dreaming as the days go by,

  Dreaming as the summers die.

  —Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass

  Chapter One

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 15

  How do I admit this? Disclose that I’ve held this secret out of fear? I think about the words I need to say, unsure that I can voice them. Admit my shame, my failures, my . . . suspicions.

  I look at myself in the car mirror, barely recognizing the woman who stares back. I need to speak the words out loud to myself, make them real, before I can tell them to someone else.

  “I think . . .” My voice sputters, splits, spirals into silence.

  It’s hard to vocalize. What I’m about to say feels like a betrayal. What if I’m wrong? What if I’m making a mistake? What if . . .

  I take a deep breath and try again.

  “I think one of my patients is a serial killer. I just don’t know which one.”

  Chapter Two

  ALMOST TWO WEEKS EARLIER

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 3

  The moments before a book is opened, before a page is turned and the words leap out—those moments are my favorite.

  Even when I know the words. Even when I’ve read them over and over and over again.

  “Seriously, Danielle? Another Alice in Wonderland? Don’t you have a bazillion copies of that same book on your shelf at home?”

  Only an ignorant person would say something so foolish to a hard-core Alice addict like me.

  “It’s an 1883 hardbound edition of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.”

  I couldn’t believe the blank look on Tami’s face.

  “How are we even friends?”

  “You tell me.” She nudged my shoulder and gave me that you-know-you-love-me smile of hers before she shoved the book she held in my face. “You should read this one. I heard it was good.”

  I looked at the cover and title and didn’t give it a second glance. “A thriller? Seriously?” She knew I didn’t read those. I preferred fairy tales and old classics.

  “Yeah, but it’s Kimberly Belle.”

  Like I knew who that was.

  “Unless Stephen King wrote a novel about twisted fairy tales, I’m not interested.” I pushed her book aside and focused on the one in my hand.

  The Rabbit Hole Goods was an antique store in the heart of Cheshire that sold everything from old silverware to hand-carved furniture. There was also one small section beside the cash desk with a rack of the latest novels, probably the only things in the store that weren’t used.

  I preferred the old tomes. The ones that showed their history, revealed their treasured finds within the pages.

  Like the one I held. I needed to own it regardless of the cost.

  “You’re honestly going to spend over three hundred dollars for a book?” Tami rested her chin on my shoulder and tsked in my ear when she saw the sticker price. “Do you have a stash of cash and other buried treasure in that basement of yours I don’t know about?”

  I wanted to laugh, but she knew how I felt about that basement.

  “Feel free to take a shovel and see what you can find.” I wrinkled my nose at the idea.

  “Oh, the things we’d discover.” Tami rubbed her hands together in glee. “I’ve always wanted to go treasure hunting. Maybe the past owners didn’t believe in banks and kept all their money in a box down there? We totally need to check it out.”

  I snorted. Like that was going to happen. The last time I’d headed down the stairs, I’d walked into a huge spiderweb. I hadn’t been back down since.

  “I have a few rookies who could go down for us,” she teased. “Give them something to do other than flirt with all the weekend tourists.”

  Tami was a detective in our sleepy town of Cheshire and had more time on her hands than a retired substitute teacher.

  “Because I love you so much,” she said as she nudged a box at our feet, “why don’t I get my hands dirty and see if there are any other Alice books in here? Although I think you have enough, don’t you?” She set the thriller down on a table and sat on the floor, going through each book while I looked on. I didn’t tell her I had already gone through the lot and was holding the only one I’d found. I rather enjoyed watching her shove her fingers through her messy hair and leave dust streaks.

  “Enough? Never.” Alice was my childhood, my comfort blanket, my anchor when life got messy. Wonderland was the world I’d wandered into whenever my parents fought, when I got anxious or too scared.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  At my side stood an older man in worn jeans with black suspenders over a red plaid shirt. He pushed his sleeves up as he stood there, a funny look on his face. In all the times I’d shopped there, I’d never seen him before.

  “I was just admiring this classic.” I showed him the book in my hands.

  He studied me for a moment before he glanced down at Tami.

>   “You a buyer or a browser?” Gruff and to the point, he held out his hand as if he expected me to relinquish my hold.

  That wasn’t about to happen.

  “It’s an 1883 edition. Out of your price range.” His fingers grabbed the book, but I pulled back.

  “Don’t mess with Dee when it comes to her Alice.” Tami’s voice was full of laughter.

  “Technically it’s not mine yet,” I reminded her.

  She gave me one of those like-that-matters looks, and I smiled.

  “Technically it’s mine and not for sale.” He jerked it out of my hands with a grunt and walked away.

  “Hey, wait.” I stood there like a frozen mannequin, shocked at what’d just happened.

  “Did he honestly just take that from you?” Tami brushed her hands on her shorts and grimaced at the dirt. “What kind of customer service is that anyhow?”

  “Um, sir?” I trailed after him as he wove through the store. “Sir, I’d like to buy that book.”

  He didn’t stop until he reached the back counter. He set the book down, picked up a pipe, and placed it between his lips. I waited to see if he’d light it up, but he didn’t.

  The pipe looked to be as much a part of him as the suspenders.

  “Hey, Dad, can you help me with this . . .” The curtain behind the man moved, and out walked Alicia, the owner. She wore a gray apron over her sundress and tugged an old suitcase behind her. “Oh, hey, Danielle. I see you’ve met my father.” The smile on her face beamed brighter than the canary yellow of her dress.

  “Ah, you found the Alice book.” A hint of disappointment trailed in her voice.

  “Who said we were sellin’ my book?” Her father scowled.

  Alicia ran her fingers lightly over the cover. “We did, remember?”

  I stood there, a silent spectator to the family discussion. I wanted the book and didn’t want to walk away quietly, not if I could help it.

  “Sorry,” Alicia said to me. I knew she meant it. “I know you collect these books. I’ll keep my eye out for another.”

  “This belongs in a collector’s library with someone who appreciates what they have.” He turned his grumpy frown toward me. “Not for sale.” He took the book, yanked the curtain open, and disappeared.

  The disappointment must have been evident on my face.

  “Sorry, Dad is a bit of a . . . well, he’s a book collector, and . . . sorry,” she repeated. “There’s really no excuse. He comes in sometimes to help out but rarely ever deals with customers.” She had the decency to look apologetic.

  “Maybe he’ll reconsider?” Tami suggested.

  “I promise, I’ll keep an eye out for another like it and put it aside for you,” Alicia said.

  The bell over the door jingled, and the sounds from a band filled the store.

  “Come on,” Tami said. “I’ve only got a bit of time before I have to dress up and join the parade.”

  Every Saturday, the town of Cheshire had a small midday parade where the high school band marched, the children’s theater dressed up, and all the characters from the Wonderland books walked the streets, waving to the crowds.

  “Did you say dress up?” Once outside, I looked down the street and was shocked at how crowded the sidewalk already was with lawn chairs and groups of families.

  “Yeah, I picked the short stick and ended up being the department mascot.” Tami tried to frown. She worked really hard at it, I could tell, but the edges of her lips tilted until she laughed.

  Tami in a white rabbit suit. I could see it. Hopping around the street, handing out suckers to the kids, waving at everyone . . . she’d love every second of it.

  Me, on the other hand—my plan was to huddle inside my house and wait for the crowd to disperse before I ventured out again.

  Something about the throngs of people jammed together like sardines in a can . . . I wouldn’t say it gave me a panic attack, but it was close.

  I like people. I like talking and creating relationships with people, but one-on-one. Too many, and the air gets sucked out of the room and I’m swirling in a vortex of dizziness.

  No thank you.

  “Why don’t we head down to the tea shop?” I asked. “I keep wanting to introduce you to Sabrina, the owner.” Tami was a coffee addict, not a tea lover. Every time I’d attempted to get my two friends to meet, something had always come up.

  Tami glanced at her watch. “As much as I’d love to, I’d rather grab an ice cream before I’m in that sweaty costume. How about another time?”

  I should have expected the excuse.

  “I’m going to make a cheesecake and have you both over. Enough is enough. I really want you to meet her. I think you’ll love her.”

  Tami’s eyes lit up at the word cheesecake. It’d been forever since I’d made one, and it was her favorite dessert.

  “Chocolate chip?” she asked.

  “With chocolate ganache on top.” I amped up the temptation.

  “Can I look at my calendar and let you know?”

  I shook my head. “You’ll find some excuse to not come and then pop over the next day for leftovers.”

  “I won’t. I promise.” She held out her pinkie finger, and we did our childish pinkie-swear custom with wide smiles.

  We stopped at the ice cream shop next to the antique store and grabbed our cones before Tami and I went in different directions. Rather than watch the parade, I decided to meander along the park pathways, maybe stop at the library until I could be sure most of the downtown crowd had dispersed. I should have been at the parade, where I could chat with the different families and wave at all the Alice characters, local shop owners, and school clubs that walked by. It was what Sabrina would have encouraged.

  I had only two close friends here in town, and they couldn’t have been any more opposite.

  Tami never pushed, prodded, or poked me to do something I wasn’t ready for. Instead, she waited, knowing eventually I’d break, bare my soul, and be ready to step out of my comfort zone.

  Sabrina, on the other hand, always pushed, prodded, and poked, believing I needed to be dragged into situations whether I was ready or not.

  Despite being so different, they were exactly what I needed in my life.

  Tami knew I couldn’t handle being at the parade, that the crowds and noise would be too much to handle, but if Sabrina knew I’d escaped an opportunity to grow, she’d be more than a little disappointed in me.

  I found my way to a park bench that overlooked the children’s area across from the main steps of the Cheshire Public Library.

  The weathered gray steps that led to the open doors were crammed with families enjoying the sunny day. Popcorn littered the ground around a portable machine run by a woman dressed as a clown, with birds scooping up the discarded kernels.

  Off to the side in a grassy area, a dozen children circled around one of the library staff members, who had a stack of books by her side. In her hands was a large picture book, one where the words were written on the left side with the image on the right. Her fingers tracked along with what she read, and she smiled at those who shouted out the words they recognized as they read with her.

  The children were a mixed group. Short. Tall. Skinny. Round. Girls. Boys. Quiet. Loud. Some sat on the grass with their legs crossed while others bounced on their knees, barely remaining on the ground. A few shy ones hovered at the back, their interest barely overcoming their hesitation.

  All but one child.

  She sat far off to the side, hands clasped tightly in front of her, gaze never straying from the woman who read from the book. She was close enough to hear the story but not close enough to participate when the storyteller asked the children to read out a word with her.

  She’d take one step forward, closer to the group, before stepping back, too afraid to be so close.

  I wanted to cross the park, take that child by the hand, and join the group. I wanted the storyteller to notice, to include the child. I wanted to find that chi
ld’s mother and discover why her daughter was sitting so far away from the others.

  In the end, I did nothing. Maybe she was like me, and crowds weren’t her thing. But I could tell, even from where I sat, she wanted to be with the other children.

  I couldn’t hear the words from the storyteller, nor could I make out the images in the book, but the sounds from the group filled me with a peace that reached deep inside and wanted to curl up for a long stay.

  I sat on the bench until story time was over and saw that before the group dispersed, the storyteller handed out bags to the children. A few whooped with surprise and then ran to their parents, while a few others dug into their bags and held out books they found inside with pride.

  The only one who didn’t take a bag was the young girl I’d noticed earlier.

  “Robin, let’s go.” Her mother had appeared on the steps. The little girl looked up with a half-hearted wave and got to her feet. She took a few tiny steps in the direction of her mother before she glanced back to the mass of children, now a chaotic circus, with disappointment.

  “I said now!” The woman clapped her hands together, her voice testy.

  The storyteller noticed. “Don’t forget your bag,” she called out to the child, who stopped.

  “Robin, get your ass over here right this instant.” The mother stood there, arms crossed over her heaving chest, purse slung over her shoulder, and the death glares she sent the librarian’s way had me almost on my feet.

  The child warred with herself. Listen to her mother or run to get the bag of goodies being held out to her?

  “Are you deaf? Am I raising a stupid, dumb child?” the woman screamed as she stepped off the concrete steps and headed toward her daughter. “Get your ass over here.” She pointed to her side as she marched across the grass. Spit flew from her mouth. Her steps were heavy, shoulders pushed back.

  A giant prepared to fight a small creature. Goliath versus David. A mother against a child. Didn’t she see how wrong that was?

  My fingers curled around the edge of the bench seat, nails digging into the wood as I watched.

  Everyone parented differently; I understood that. My patients had told me stories of abuse and horror, of parents who never wanted their children, of families torn apart from anger.