The Patient

by Steena Holmes

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “The recent murders.” The look on Tami’s face said she couldn’t believe I even had to ask. “Have you not been watching the news?”

  “I knew you had a case, but . . .” I pursed my lips and blew before I took another sip. “Sorry, I should have paid more attention.”

  It was a small thing, but I felt guilty. I should have known. We were best friends, lived blocks from one another. I had no excuse.

  “You’ve been pretty preoccupied lately,” she said.

  Regardless, I still felt bad.

  “I’m listening now if you need to work something out.” I half turned toward her and gave her my full attention.

  Tami tented her fingers, brought them close to her lips, and blew hard. She measured her words, deciding how much to reveal and what shouldn’t be told. It was a tell for when she was about to say something that she knew would bother me.

  “It’s happened again.”

  A ball full of pins lodged in my throat, the tips piercing straight through my windpipe. I immediately knew what she was talking about.

  “When?”

  “Last night.”

  I felt sucker punched and realized if the pain I felt was that bad, then what Tami must be dealing with had to be excruciating.

  “The whole family?” I choked on the words, bile rising until my throat was scorched from the acid, the liquid leaving invisible scars.

  I’d gone home with my college roommate one Thanksgiving during our sophomore year to find emergency responders outside her home. Her father had died from a massive heart attack. I remembered watching the stretcher bring out her father, holding her as she crumbled when she realized she’d never gotten to say goodbye . . .

  Some moments in life leave lasting impressions. That one will forever haunt me.

  “No,” Tami said, aware of my roommate and her loss. “The child slept blissfully unaware.” After a pause, she continued. “Watch the news tonight. Mother and father killed in their beds, throats slashed while their child slept a few feet down the hall, just like the murder last month. It’s disgusting and horrific. Middle of the night on quiet streets, so of course no witnesses. We opened the tip line, and as expected, all the crazies come out.”

  “That’s . . .” A chill swept through me as I imagined that sweet child waking up to find their parents dead, everything covered in blood.

  I hadn’t known about the first murder, either, not when it first happened. Not until Tami told me. I didn’t like to listen to the news or read the paper. There was too much negativity in the world, and I didn’t need to surround myself with it. I’d tried being on social media once, but it was easy to be sucked into the vileness of what was happening in our world.

  “Are you okay?” I reached out, touched her arm. A mask of exhaustion and edginess mixed with extreme sadness settled over Tami. She shook her head.

  “We need to find the killer before they strike again.”

  The weight of the murders draped across Tami like a wet wool sweater, and the need to take away the worry and fear she carried was strong.

  Her pain called out to me.

  Not everyone knew their reason for being, but I knew mine.

  I was never more complete than when I was able to help those in need. To listen, to carry, to create peace when life fell apart. I discovered that in college with my roommate. She’d once told me if I hadn’t been there for her, she never would have survived that holiday. Before those words, I’d been undecided, unsettled, and unsure of what I wanted to do, only knowing I wanted to do something.

  “I’m here.” I placed all my love for this woman who was a dear friend into my voice. “If you need to talk, you know I’m safe.”

  Tami reached over and rested her hand on mine.

  “You might regret that,” she said, clarifying what I already knew. She needed me. “I haven’t dealt with murder cases like these in a long time.” She breathed in deeply through her nose, then slowly exhaled through her mouth. “I’m worried I can’t handle it, that I’m not strong enough.”

  “What?” Impossible.

  Of all the people I knew, Tami wasn’t the type to let stress get to her.

  “You have that gift of being able to separate your work life from your personal life better than anyone I know—even myself.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked. “You’re the master of being levelheaded. Why do you think I hang around you so much?”

  Levelheaded? In my dreams, maybe. Every minute of the day, my mind raced with thoughts, with ideas, with emotions that at times were unrecognizable.

  “Free counseling sessions, of course.” The sarcasm in my voice was more teasing than truthful.

  “Thank God for that.” The tight lines around her mouth disappeared. “Do you honestly think I can afford private therapy on a detective’s salary? Come on now.”

  We shared a smile that spoke more of our close friendship than anything else.

  “Seriously, I’m here.” Three simple words, and yet I meant them with everything I had.

  I caught the slight tremble of her hand as she lifted the coffee to her lips.

  “There’s something more, isn’t there? Something you haven’t told me?” I asked.

  A shadow covered her face, her darkened silhouette foreshadowing. I braced myself.

  “I’ve never told you about my first murder, have I? It’s not something I like to talk about. I was a rookie.” She inhaled sharply. “So many firsts back then shaped who I am today.”

  The stories she’d told me over bottles of wine and pints of ice cream about her first partner as a rookie were disgusting. He was of the generation where newbie female cops needed to learn the hard way that they were the weaker sex when it came to the minds of criminals. Every chance he had, he’d forced this belief in her face, time after time after time.

  “I had to prove myself, you know? Prove I was better than him, than what he gave me credit for. I couldn’t let him under my skin because I knew if I did, I’d lose my shit, and I’d never make it. I’d never be where I am now.

  “That first murder, though.” She paused, her face etched with all the pain she’d never confessed. “I almost walked away. That was my first and only time doubting who I was as an officer.”

  “You’ve never told me that before.”

  “Not really my proudest moment.” She closed her eyes. “I always thought I’d be able to handle my first dead body. It wasn’t like I’d never seen one before in the morgue, but those cadavers were cleaned up.” She rubbed her face, and I’d never seen her look so old. “My first real murder, there was nothing clean about it. It was a mother and child, but we didn’t know that at first.” She shuddered. “The husband went crazy—like banshee crazy—with a chain saw and hacked his wife into pieces. We figured she’d been hunched over their newborn, trying to protect it, but . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she gulped her coffee down. “The body parts were spread all over the house, blood everywhere. We found him out in the garage. He’d impaled himself on his saw while it ran. Back then, there were no automatic safety stops, at least not on this saw.”

  Images of the scene flashed through my mind, and my stomach churned as I understood the damage the saw would have done to his body.

  “I puked, Dani. I couldn’t handle the sight, the stench, the savagery. I puked, and my partner laughed. After that, every murder case he’d hand me a paper bag and make a comment about my weak sensibilities.” Her fingers tightened around her cup.

  My stomach churned, and it was all I could do not to heave.

  “Tami, you are one of the strongest women I know.” I cleared my throat. “You reacted like any normal human being would. Why are you so hard on yourself?”

  Her mouth opened and closed.

  “Because I . . .” Her forehead creased as she thought about what I’d asked. “I really don’t know how to answer that,” she finally said.

  “Exactl
y. You’re so hard on yourself when you don’t need to be. Hell, Tami. I would have run as fast as I could in the other direction. There’s no way I could have handled something like that.” I nudged her leg with mine. “I would have quit that day. That’s the difference between the two of us. I hope you saw someone about it, though? Talked it through?”

  “And prove once again just how weak I was? No.”

  I hated that mentality when it came to therapy. I’d heard it all too often.

  “That’s not a sign of weakness. It shows your strength in understanding your own emotional needs and being in touch with your feelings.”

  “And that, my dear friend, is why you are in my life, and I’ll never let you leave,” Tami said.

  My heart bloomed from the love in her voice. Other than Tami, I’d never really had a close friend, a girlfriend to bond with, to talk things over and just be my real self with. I was very thankful that Tami was in my life. And Sabrina too. We all had issues, had struggled with our pasts, but they’d never expected me to have all the answers, to know what to say in those hard moments. In fact, most of the time, it was the other way around; they were my confidants.

  “So, then, talk to me,” I urged. “Technically, I’m the only therapist you see on a regular basis, so you know everything is confidential.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “So far there have been two cases, roughly a month apart. In both, the parents were killed and the children spared. There’s no sign of forced entry, and we’re still processing the fingerprints from the first crime scene, but there are too many similarities for these to not be connected.”

  “Two separate attacks? You’re thinking it’s the same person.”

  Tami nodded.

  “Don’t say it,” she warned me.

  Don’t say it? How could I not?

  “There’s a serial killer out there, isn’t there?”

  Her expression reminded me of my mother’s after she’d realize I was in the room when she swore.

  “That’s what it’s looking like, as much as I hate to admit it.”

  Tami’s job had always fascinated me. Or, rather, she fascinated me. She was different from most police officers I knew. She could be detached as needed, but there was still a gentleness about her, a vulnerability she would never admit to. I’d watched her build a wall around her heart each time she was on a case, but just as quick as she was to build that wall for protection, she’d have no problem dismantling it if it helped those around her.

  I kept waiting for her to crumble under the pressure of getting too close, but she never did.

  I would have crumbled a long time ago in her shoes. I felt like an impostor as it was, a little girl playing dress up, especially lately.

  “You’ll be okay.” The words were rote, I said them without thought, but they were the truth.

  The look on her face, in her eyes, the way she smiled at my words . . . she knew she’d be okay too.

  “What about you, though?” Tami cocked her head, her eyes full of concern.

  “What about me?” The indent between my eyes deepened, and I rubbed the area to relieve the beginning of a headache that was forming behind my eyes.

  “Are you going to be okay?”

  I shrugged. “I’m fine,” I lied, whether for my own benefit or for Tami’s, I’m not sure. She didn’t need my fragile emotions to add to her already heavy load. “I just . . . Those poor kids. The horror of finding their parents dead . . .” I choked, unable to put into words the pain in my heart. I teared up, and it took everything inside me to squash that sentiment down. I hated crying. I tended to end up with a headache that knocked me out.

  “It’s horrible.” I struggled even more to push back the tears.

  Tami played with her coffee cup. “We received an anonymous tip. I swear I’ve listened to that voice over and over until I’m sure I’ll hear it in my sleep. It’s the murderer.” Her shoulders tensed up, and she shivered.

  “What was said?” I shivered too. I couldn’t help it. “No, don’t tell me. You probably shouldn’t.” To listen to the voice of a killer . . . I’d have nightmares.

  “It’s not something we’re making public, but the call was basically telling the responders to be careful of the child,” she said.

  So many thoughts raced through my mind at her admission.

  “How can I help?”

  I knew she needed answers, or insights at least. And that I could help with.

  “Can you tell me who the killer is?” She leaned forward, eyes closed, and rested her elbows on her knees. “Why here? Why Cheshire?”

  I wished I had the answers. I really did.

  “The fact they called shows a sign of remorse as well as an unusual desire to care for the children. It shows a protective side you wouldn’t necessarily equate to a murderer.”

  “What does that mean?” Tami asked.

  “It means there is a reason the murderer is protecting the children.”

  She palmed her forehead, leaving indents from the force of her fingers.

  “Either children are precious, or they know the children personally is what you’re saying,” Tami clarified, realization seeping into her voice as she mulled over my words.

  My gut instinct believed that to be the truth.

  “It could be either one or both, or it could have nothing to do with the children, but that’s my first thought, for what it’s worth,” I said.

  “It’s worth a lot and tells me I’m on the right track.”

  “You’ve gotten that phone call both times?”

  She nodded. “The voice is muffled, as if a cloth or the palm of a hand is covering the mouthpiece, but it’s the same voice. We have it being analyzed to see if it’s male or female.”

  “Unless it’s a man in touch with his paternal instincts, it’s a female.” I was confident about this revelation, but I wasn’t sure why. “It could be someone who recently lost her child or is unable to go full term with her pregnancies,” I suggested. Now I was guessing.

  “So you’re a profiler now, are you?”

  I knew she teased—I heard it in her voice—but I bristled all the same.

  “I’m kidding, Danielle. Thank you. I really appreciate your help and insights. Honestly,” she said before she yawned. “I’m exhausted and ready to crash. Walk out with me?”

  I sipped my coffee, which was now almost cold. “I’m going to sit here for a bit.” There was a lot I needed to process before I went home.

  There was something about these murders, about the children and the little details Tami shared, that bothered me.

  Why were these families targeted? Why were these parents killed? Why leave the children alive? If the murders weren’t ones of passion but rather premeditated, then there was a reason the children had been spared. The children had been not only spared but protected—the murderer took precious time to call the authorities and ensure they knew the children were alive.

  Why?

  In my mind’s eye, an image flashed of a bedroom, pink and full of teddy bears. I held a stuffed animal in my hands, brought it up to my nose, and inhaled the sweet scent of a bear that had been loved. An eye was missing, an ear half torn off, but the love for this teddy bear filled me with warmth.

  Had this been my bear as a child? I couldn’t remember. But for me to think about it now, to recall it . . . it had to be important.

  I just wished I knew how.

  Chapter Six

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 6

  PATIENT SESSION: ELLA

  Today was all about Ella.

  She was my first patient here in Cheshire, and in fact, she was my first patient ever. When she’d told me she was accepting a new position in a new town, I’d been in the midst of my own life change. I had just ended a relationship, was living in an apartment full of roaches, and was tired of the bustle of big-city living. My grandmother used to live here, and I had a few precious memories of summer visits with sun-kissed lemonade, s’mores over a fi
repit in the backyard, and repeated attempts to learn to crochet. She’d passed years ago, and as the only one left in the Rycroft dynasty, I inherited her home. It hadn’t been a big stretch to follow Ella and continue with her sessions.

  Ella and I had made a lot of progress over the past four years she’d been seeing me, but it had been slow going.

  When she finally arrived, her dry, mouselike hair hung over her face, covering her eyes. She wouldn’t look at me.

  Not when I opened my office door.

  Not when she handed me a container of homemade almond tea cookies.

  Not when she sat down on the couch, hands wrapped around the fresh cup of tea I’d just poured.

  This wasn’t new, though. It was our regular routine. Ella came in every Tuesday morning and Friday afternoon, or at least those were her scheduled times.

  “It’s good to see you, Ella. I worried when you didn’t contact me after missing your last appointment. How are you?”

  Her hands trembled, and the spoon in her cup clinked.

  “I thought maybe you’d been called into work, or perhaps you were reading.” It wouldn’t have been the first time—or the last, knowing Ella—that she’d missed our session because she’d been lost in a book.

  Still no words, but she did look up, and I caught the red-rimmed eyes she tried to hide.

  “Do you feel like talking about what made you cry?” I asked.

  She shook her head back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, like a raggedy doll being tossed by a young child.

  Without saying a word, I picked up one of my older copies of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. I’d found this edition years ago, and it had since become a favorite. The green cover was faded, the gold lettering muted, but I’d known right away that it had been gently loved by its owner due to the multiple handmade bookmarks left inside.

  But it was the handwritten note on the inside cover that sealed the deal.

  To Anna. May you always live with the wonder and joy of an adventurous soul. Love, Mommy.

  I didn’t know Anna, but I knew she was loved, joyful, and exuberant, and I felt a kinship with her through our mutual love of Alice.