“I would prefer a healthier focus.”
Her eyes rolled. Again. “Like what? Self-awareness? Research is good.”
Interesting choice of words. Research. For what?
“My uncle is coming to town.”
Her uncle?
“My parents need a vacation, apparently. A time-out to focus on themselves and get away from the stress called parenting.”
To say I was surprised wouldn’t be accurate. More like shocked. Normally her parents discussed trips with me so we could plan accordingly. While they were away, Savannah came in daily. But they hadn’t said a word.
Nor had they told me about an uncle or his arrival.
“Your uncle is staying with you, I take it?”
A smile played with her lips, a smile I knew she struggled to contain.
“I’ve mentioned him before, right? He tends to come around every couple of years. He’s a consultant for some big company. Every time he visits, my parents jump at the opportunity to leave.”
I wrote this information down along with a note to follow up with Savannah’s mom.
“But anyway. Wouldn’t you like to get into the mind of a killer and find out all the questions no one ever asks?”
I wanted to say yes, that I was intrigued, more than I wanted to admit, but that wasn’t something this seventeen-year-old needed to know.
“It seems you do, since you continually bring our discussion back to this. Let me ask you, what questions would those be?” I asked instead.
She thought for a minute, her index finger tapping against her bottom lip while her eyes scanned my room, not really seeing anything.
“Savannah,” I interrupted her. “You mentioned you had a theory about the recent murders. Did you want to share that?”
She sat up straighter, her chin tilted up, and her lips widened into a smile full of . . . unspoken secrets. It unnerved me.
“The killer is practicing.”
“Practicing for what?” That wasn’t what I’d expected her to say.
“My hypothesis,” she said, her face shining as if she were laughing inside, “is that they hate their own parents and are practicing until they have enough nerve to kill their own. They’re targeting other parents who don’t deserve to be parents for now.”
I didn’t mean to sigh as heavily as I did.
“What? What’s wrong with my theory?” She sounded wounded, hurt even, that I didn’t call her brilliant.
“It’s a theory, and like all theories, there’s nothing wrong with it. But I wonder if maybe there’s more to it than that.”
“Why assume there’s more to it than there is? They hate their parents and want them dead. Better make sure you can do it on the first try than have it go haywire and you end up in the loony bin or prison.”
The way she said this, it was as if she were speaking to herself, reminding herself of something.
I didn’t like it.
“Savannah, if you want to study psychology, why don’t I recommend some case files you could look up at the library? Those might give you a better sense rather than reading autobiographies of serial killers.”
She lifted her arms in a stretch and stood up.
“Why?” she asked as she bent over, her face almost hitting her knees. “This has me interested. Remember those questions I’d want to ask? I’ve already thought of them. I’d want to know what their first killer-instinct memory was. When did it start? Is it like they say, with torturing cats or mocking those with handicaps? Were they always evil, even as a small child, or were they good, even for a short time? Are babies evil? Can they be? That kind of stuff.”
“Hmm.” Not a really a word, more like a sound, but she heard what I didn’t say.
“Maybe I should take psychology and study the best.” Her smile was full of sarcasm, the kind that meant I’m not as dumb as you think.
No, she certainly wasn’t dumb.
“Have you asked yourself those same questions?” She sat back down on the couch, her legs folded beneath her. “Do you remember what you were like as a small child?” I asked. “Do you remember your first temper tantrum? Were you difficult as a child?” The questions came before I could stop myself. I didn’t even think about what I was saying or how she would take it.
The question was meant in general terms; a regular person wouldn’t be able to remember what life was like as a baby or toddler. Of course I didn’t believe her capable of murder.
Right?
“Why? Do you think I have killer tendencies, Dr. Rycroft?” Her eyes lit up with a black glimmer.
An icy shiver burned a trail down my arms at her expression.
The timer beeped, breaking the spell.
“Time’s up, Doc.”
And then she was gone.
Chapter Eighteen
MEMORY
I’m cold. Hungry. Scared.
I wrap my arms around myself. I’m shivering, but I continue forward. One step at a time away from them.
All I want is to get away from them.
I’m grounded because Mom came home in a bad mood and Dad’s still away.
He left last week for work and will be away for another week.
Running away from home when you live out in the country sucks.
There’s nothing for miles other than stinky cows, and the wind rips right through the fields.
I should have worn a thicker sweater, but everything is dirty, and this was the only coat in my closet.
A low rumble comes from behind followed by a long blast of the horn.
Seriously?
I don’t turn. Don’t acknowledge the fact that he’s there behind me.
I walk down the middle of the road, one foot in front of the other.
How close will he get? Will I feel the heat of the truck behind me or even a bump against my legs? He won’t dare get that close, right?
Nope. He’s a chicken. Instead, he pulls up beside me, window down, and flicks his cigarette my way.
“I’m heading into town,” he says. “Want to come?”
I keep walking, my face forward and away from him so he won’t catch my surprise.
He’s taking me into town instead of home?
Does my mom know I left?
“Come on, Firefly, get in the truck. We’ll get some ice cream and drive around town with the windows down and music blaring. We’ll go all redneck. What do you say?” He bangs the side of his door twice before he stops the truck.
I keep walking but turn around, being careful as I walk backward.
“Why do you call me Firefly?” I’ve always wanted to know.
“Get in the truck, and I’ll tell you.” That wink of his brings a smile to my face. No doubt he knew it would.
“Fine.” I swipe the smile off the moment he laughs.
“Does Mom know?” I ask once I’ve climbed up and closed the door.
“You kidding me? Your mother would be flipping her lid if she knew you took off.” He goes to put the truck in drive but stops.
“You want to take the wheel?”
“What? I can’t drive! I’m not old enough. Besides”—I kick my feet up—“I wouldn’t even be able to reach the pedals.” I eye the distance between my foot and where his feet are and know I’m not tall enough.
When he pushes his seat back and pats the space between his legs, there’s a flutter in my stomach, like a pair of june bugs caught beneath a jar, trying to escape.
“Come on, you know you want to. We’ll just go to the stop sign, okay?”
“Mom will kill you and me if she finds out.” I scoot across the seat, climb over, and sit between his legs. It feels a little uncomfortable, but when he takes my hands and guides them on the wheel, I forget about everything else and just have fun.
I’m driving! It’s slow, and I jerk us all over the road until I realize you don’t have to move your hands much on the wheel to steer straight.
He’s laughing, I’m laughing, and it’s the best thing that�
�s ever happened to me.
Like he promised, I only drive the truck to the stop sign.
“That was awesome.” I can’t keep the grin off my face. “We can’t tell Mom, though.”
“Oh God no. You know how much trouble we’d both be in?”
Uncle always knows how to make me laugh, which is good, because Mom only knows how to make me angry.
“This’ll be our little secret,” he says.
“One of many.” I hold up my pinkie, and we swear on it.
I look out the window at the farms we pass and think about the years I still have before I can escape all this. I’m young, but I know I’m meant for more than life on a farm.
“So why Firefly?” Watching the fields and barns and houses makes me dizzy, so I turn from the window and look at him, waiting for his promised answer.
“Ever since you were little, you were the only bright thing in my life. I can’t wait till you grow up and fly away because I know you’re destined for more than what all this”—he waves his hand—“has to offer. There’s a fire burning deep inside you no one can snuff out. All I’ve ever wanted was to be close to that fire and help keep the flames burning.” He looks at me like Dad used to look at Mom, and the june bugs in my stomach go wild.
I don’t know what to say.
He reaches over and grabs my hand, holding it tight in his.
When I think about my family, Uncle is the one I know will always be here. He has been since I was five years old when he came to stay with us. Dad only leaves. He took a job with a trucking company to bring in more money so Mom wouldn’t have to work so much, but he’s never home, and we never have money.
That’s what Mom says, anyway, when she thinks I’m not listening.
“What do you think, Firefly? You okay with me helping to fan that flame of yours?” He lets go of my hand and squeezes my thigh.
“You’re the only one who seems to care.” I pull up my legs onto the seat and cross them. His hand slides from the top of my thigh to the inside and stays there.
“I love you and always will.”
I know Dad doesn’t like Uncle being around so much.
He says it’s unnatural the way Uncle dotes on me, that it’s not healthy.
I know Mom doesn’t think anything of it.
She says it’s perfectly natural to be as close as Uncle and I are.
No one ever asks me what I think. Maybe it’s because they don’t think I’m mature enough to have my own opinions.
No one understands what’s between Uncle and me. He’s my real family. Real family loves one another without limits. Real family accepts one another and doesn’t abandon them.
Real family puts their children ahead of their own needs.
At school we were asked to write down the one thing we love most about our family. It took me a long time to think about what I loved most until I realized I had Uncle, who made me laugh and made me believe I was important to him. So that’s what I put down.
Uncle gave up his life and moved in with us all to watch me while Mom worked. He gave up his job, his friends, and being single to take care of a five-year-old niece.
My dad found a job that kept him away from home for weeks at a time.
My mom works long hours, comes home exhausted, yells or cries all the time, and rarely wants to be with me.
That’s not love.
When I grow up and have a family, I will put my children first all the time. I will sacrifice whatever I need to in order for them to know I love them. I will be a better mom to my children than the mom I have.
We make it to town and grab sundaes.
“Want to tell me why you left?” Uncle asks just as I fill my mouth with ice cream.
I don’t even have to think about my answer.
“I hate her sometimes, you know? She thinks life is so hard for her, but she never thinks about how her hard life affects me. Do you think it’s fun for me to always try to keep her happy?” I stuff another spoonful into my mouth.
Uncle taps his spoon against mine.
“She’s not your responsibility, Firefly. You need to stop thinking you have to take care of her.”
“Yeah, like that’s going to work.” I stir my hot fudge into my ice cream. “She grounded me because of exactly that.”
I was watching television when she came home after staying at work late to train a new employee. Like that was my fault. Apparently not having dinner for her or having the table set or being selfish and just sitting on the couch was my fault, though. I was ungrateful and only thought of myself and never considered how she felt.
I told her that maybe it was time she started to act like an adult and a mother rather than expecting me to do it for her.
That had earned me a slap across my cheek and then being grounded for a week.
Like what was that going to do? I don’t have a life as it is. I live out in the country, for Pete’s sake.
“Firefly, I’m here. I’m here for you, and I’m here to help your mom. She’s not a strong woman emotionally. Never has been, not even when we were kids. I always had to take care of her. Did you know that? Our parents were . . . busy, just like yours, so it was up to me to make sure your mom was fed and had a bath and was tucked into bed most nights.”
That makes me sad. Not for my mom but for him.
“Who takes care of you?”
He shrugs. “Maybe one day I’ll find someone who loves me enough to take care of me. Until then . . .”
Now I feel really bad.
I lean my head on his shoulder and put my arm through his.
“Until then,” I say, looking up at him with a big smile, “you’ve got me.”
He leans down and kisses my forehead.
He loves me more than my own parents do.
By the time we make it back home, Mom’s asleep.
If she noticed I wasn’t in my room when she went to bed, she obviously didn’t care.
Maybe she didn’t even check, though. She had, after all, grounded me.
If it weren’t for Uncle noticing I was gone, no one would have missed me until the morning.
At least he loves me enough to miss me.
Chapter Nineteen
THURSDAY, AUGUST 15
At Dr. Brown’s office, I wondered if I’d made a mistake in coming.
What if I was wrong? What if I was overreacting? What if everything that had happened wasn’t as bad as I’d made it out to be?
I’d never felt more unsure of myself and my instincts as I did then.
I stared at the black-and-white chalkboard sign on the bookshelf opposite of where I sat.
TAKE A DEEP BREATH AND COUNT TO THREE.
Good advice.
But no matter how deeply I breathed or how high I counted, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
I snuck them both beneath my thighs, wiping them first on my pants, my nose wrinkled in disgust at the damp marks left behind.
Get a grip, Danielle. I shouldn’t have been this nervous, but it had been a while since I’d been on this side of the office, so maybe it wasn’t a surprise.
Dr. Brown, my new therapist, clutched a notebook tightly to her chest and spoke in a low voice to someone on the other side of the door.
I pretended she was just like me. Warm, caring, encouraging, and nonjudgmental.
“Is everything okay, Danielle?” Her soft-pitched voice didn’t match the crusty exterior she presented, and it surprised me. She was an older woman, her hair streaked gray, her outfit polished, heels low and black. My research told me she was one of the most respected therapists in the area, which was exactly what I needed.
“Your office is nice. Have you been here long? You could add some color to the room, maybe add some pictures on the wall or a potted plant or two?” I babbled like a toddler, the words pouring out like a broken gumball machine.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
She wouldn’t see me as a strong and steady professional like her if I acted like a newbie.
>
“This office is new. We used to be over on Palace Lane, across town, but the building is old, and a bunch of water pipes burst last month, so here we are for now. I really haven’t had time to decorate.” She looked around, as if noticing how utilitarian everything was for the first time. “A few plants and maybe some newer cushions would soften things, now that you mention it.”
My shoulders relaxed some, and the tension eased. A little.
There was a knock on the door, and it opened.
She took the two offered cups from the person beyond the door. I appreciated the gesture, took the cup full of tea, and held it tightly between my clammy fingers.
I raised the cup and let the liquid coat my upper lip. The tea wasn’t hot, more like tepid, but it would do.
The past week I’d been frozen into a block of ice, a chill seeping through my bones, and nothing I did warmed me.
“Have you tried the Mad Hatter’s Tea House?” I asked. I tried to pretend I wasn’t as nervous as I looked. “I know the owner, and if you have a favorite blend, she will see if she can order it in for you.”
Dr. Brown’s eyes lit up. “That’s where I got this,” she said. “I love that shop, with all the books and home decor, not to mention her homemade scones.”
We smiled together, both happy at the connection we’d made. The vise around my chest released, and the trepidation I’d felt when I sat down was mostly gone.
When I looked at her now, there was an instant trust. I could share my fears, my worries, and she’d not only listen, but she’d help. “How are you feeling, Danielle?”
I bit the corner of my lip as I thought about how to reply.
The first few moments were essential—they provided the foundation of our sessions to come. They showcased more than most patients realized.
I wished I were just a regular patient right about now.
“Do you rate emotions by numbers, colors, or . . .” I knew there were more methods used, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think of a single one.
She shook her head.
“Stop. This is a safe place. You’re flustered and extremely self-conscious—I get it. Try to relax.” She rested back in her chair, hands folded in her lap, and smiled like a cat about to pounce. “Let go of all those thoughts and questions clogging your mind. We’re just two women having a conversation. Sound good?”
The Patient Page 11
