The man yells at his son to stand up. The boy slowly climbs to his feet, his hand covering his red cheek, and winces.
An officer comes out of the car and looks at me. I point to behind the stairs and grin with satisfaction when the officer follows my direction.
I stay to listen. I find out the man’s name, his son’s name, and their address. I walk to the side, sit on a bench, and wait to see what happens.
I wasn’t on the hunt. That last kill was satisfying and purged the rage in my soul until it simmered with barely a puff of smoke.
Until now. Now that blaze is lit, on fire, with a need to ensure that boy is never hurt again. I’ll be paying them a visit. Soon.
Chapter Twenty-Two
FRIDAY, AUGUST 16
Ella never called about her missed appointment. I waited, a small part of me hoping she would, a larger part of me knowing she wouldn’t. After spending the afternoon doing some cleaning, I managed to nap. It felt good to get some sleep, even for a few hours.
Curled up on the couch with the last bit of wine from the bottle I’d opened a few hours earlier, I caught the glare from a vehicle’s headlights streaking through my windows and the familiar sound as Tami’s car door slammed. I knew it was her because it was the only door that squeaked when it opened.
I waited for her in the kitchen, poured her a glass of wine, and hoped she had some news for me as she entered the house.
“I shouldn’t,” she said, but took the glass regardless and collapsed on a kitchen chair. “You wouldn’t believe it, Dee. We’ve connected more murders to this case. That’s six cases now, and God knows there could be more.” Her head dropped, and her hair covered her face.
“Six?” The air squeezed out of my chest like a deflated balloon. “Six cases? Twelve murders in total?” I was going to throw up.
Tami didn’t respond.
With both sorrow and exhaustion etched all over her and the sharp claws of intense anger burrowed into her shoulders, my concern for her doubled.
“What can I do to help?” I barely spoke the words, and I wasn’t even sure she heard me.
I saw the moment she reached deep for that inner strength of hers. It was when she brought the wineglass to her lips and drank half of it.
“Can you help me understand the mind-set of someone who would kill parents and leave a child untouched? What kind of person would do that?”
Person. Not persons. One man or woman committing despicable acts—tearing families apart—for what? There had to be a reason, something that happened to them, a significant event that had brought them to this point.
“Don’t you have a profiler to help you?”
“I do. The FBI sent down a team to help us, but . . . just let me bounce things off you, okay?”
I leaned back and yawned. Despite the long afternoon nap I’d had, I was still exhausted. I could sleep for a week and still not feel rested. “I’m not a profiler, Tami. This isn’t my area of expertise. I’m just a therapist.”
A therapist who didn’t know much about serial killers. I was more familiar with mental health issues, teenage drama, and other complexities.
“But you understand the mind and how it works.”
My fears, suspicions, and secrets about my patients hovered in the back of my mind.
“I’m not a serial killer expert. Just remember that, okay?” I needed that to be clear. She would have to lean on the profilers made available to her. But I could be a sounding board, someone to confirm what she already knew.
“Most serial killers can appear quite normal,” I continued. “They live in plain sight, can have families, serve as a board member at a church, or even coach Little League.” What little I knew was from what I’d read.
I had shelves lined with books on various subjects that dealt with mental health and psychology. I’d always wanted to know more, be more, do more . . . and I had a few books dealing with murderers, but . . .
“Right. So it’s likely each victim knew their killer,” Tami said.
I shook my head at first, but after a moment I nodded. “Yes and no. It could be a crime of passion or premeditated. You said the children were all unharmed?”
“Just the parents killed. The children slept through it all.”
Children.
There was a brick wall inside me, built to protect my heart. That one word held the power to crack the foundation of that wall, and it scared me.
Why?
I worked with people who dealt with childhood issues.
I grew up in a life full of complications but emerged unscathed. Relatively so.
“Do you still believe it’s one person, or could this be a team?” Rather than dig deeper into my issues, I preferred to focus on Tami’s case. “Either way, the person in charge would have been triggered by an event in their childhood. Most serial murderers are the products of their environments, I believe, so that includes how they grew up and choices they would have made into their teenage years.”
Tami pulled out a small notebook from her purse and jotted down some notes.
“So they were probably abused,” she said. “Neglected, had access to drugs—”
“Tami”—I placed my hand down, covering her writing—“there’s no boilerplate characterization for serial killers. No one-size-fits-all jargon. There might be certain traits that are common to some killers, but they might not be in others.”
The pen dropped from her hand.
“I was hoping you’d say otherwise, but . . . I know.” She grabbed the back of her neck and dug her fingers into her muscles. “There has to be something or someone linking these murders together. I just wish I knew what it was.”
I pulled my right leg up onto my chair and hugged it tightly to my chest, my fingers linked around my shin. Pressure in my temple beat like a faraway drum, the rhythm soft but steady. I’d give it a few minutes, see if it would build into a real headache or if it was just from tension.
There was something I’d wanted to mention to Tami, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember. It was there, on the tip of my tongue, ready to blurt out, except when I tried to hold on to the idea, even by the tips of my mental fingers, it slid away like fine sand particles. I had to be more exhausted than I realized. Either that, or it was the wine. Or the exhaustion and wine combined.
“We’re canvassing the neighborhoods and trying to find more connections. Any little detail will help.” She scrubbed her face, the exhaustion in her eyes enhanced. “I can’t believe there’s been so many murders.”
Six attacks. It was unfathomable.
“How did you link them?”
From the way she hesitated, I realized I’d stepped toward a line, and she was contemplating how close I’d come. “Same methods, different towns throughout the course of almost three years.”
Three years? “And no one put them together till now?” How was that possible?
Tami took another swig of her wine. “It’s not like in the movies or television shows, Dee. The first three were in a different county, with different investigators, and it’s been over two years since the last murders there. It’s a miracle we were able to find the connection at all.” She rubbed her face, a tell for when she was both tired and frustrated. “I need to figure out a common thread between the victims. Tomorrow I’m headed to places where kids would hang out—daycares, schools, gyms—”
“Parks, libraries—” I started to contribute, but then it felt like a bomb went off in my head, and the earlier drumming turned into a boxing ring where my brain was the practice bag.
“What’s wrong?”
Her words were garbled, like they were being said beneath water.
“Dee.” She reached out, her grip so hard I knew it’d leave a bruise. “What’s wrong?”
The pain intensified, like a rocket going off, without missing a beat. Every nerve in my body fizzled like an electric current, and I swear to God, the tears that streaked down my face were hot lava.
I tried
to form the words to say that it was my head, but the words wouldn’t come.
It felt like there was a fist thrust down my throat, blocking any airflow.
My chest was tighter than a noose.
I couldn’t swallow.
I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t do anything.
I looked to Tami, implored her for help. One second she was beside me, the next she knelt at my side. I pushed my leg off the chair and shoved my head between my knees.
I screamed in pain. My cry echoed in every crevice of my mind from the pressure of her hand on the back of my skull.
I needed her to stop, to let go. It hurt too much, but the words . . . I couldn’t say them.
I was immobile. Frozen.
The pressure from her hand, the pain in my head—it was too much.
My silent scream swallowed me whole until there was nothing but darkness.
The next thing I knew, I was on my couch, my soft white blanket tucked in around me, and Tami sat at my feet.
“I think you need some potted plants in here. I’ve been trying to think about what’s wrong with your living room, and other than it being cluttered, there’s no greenery.”
She watched me as I blinked, the fog over my eyes disappearing as I came to.
I looked around the room, sure that I had plants, but she was right.
There were none.
What kind of person didn’t have plants in their house?
Why had I never thought about having plants in my house?
“Before you ask, I helped you over to the couch. You were pretty out of it. You fainted twice on our way here, and you’ve been asleep for over an hour now. I had some migraine tablets in my purse and gave you one. I hope you don’t mind. I know how you feel about taking anything stronger than a Tylenol.”
I licked my dry, chapped lips, and she handed me a glass of water with a straw. I drained the glass before I laid my head back on the pillow.
I passed out?
“You told me that it was okay, that this happens quite often.” The tips of her lips turned downward in displeasure. “How come I didn’t know that until now?”
What was she talking about?
“What happens quite often? The headaches or passing out?” None of this made sense.
Tami’s jaw clenched before she pushed herself up off the couch.
“You tell me,” she said before she took my empty glass back to the kitchen.
I listened to the tap turn on as I shuffled myself up to a sitting position. My head still hurt but not like before.
Before was . . . horrific. Like a dozen gongs had gone off in my brain simultaneously. I’d never felt anything like it and never wanted to again.
Was it possible for a head to feel bruised inside and out?
“Thanks for staying with me,” I said once she returned.
“Where else would I be? Now answer my question.” She sat on the opposite chair and crossed her legs.
“Headaches, yes. But you know that. Fainting? No.”
“You should go see a doctor.”
“Why?”
She gave me that look.
“One fainting spell doesn’t warrant a doctor’s visit.”
“Danielle.”
There were benefits to having a cop as a friend. If anything went bump in the night, I called her for help, and considering I lived across from a public park, things often went bump in the night.
One of the downfalls, however, to having a detective as a friend was she saw more than I liked and never stopped until her questions were answered to her satisfaction.
“I’m fine, Tami. Honestly. I haven’t eaten much today, and that wine was probably the last straw. I’ve been fighting off a headache all day, so I should have known better. Stupid migraine.”
I could see her skepticism until she processed my words. I knew the moment she believed me because she relaxed her posture in the chair, sat back against the cushion, and tucked her legs beneath her.
“You should know better.” She gave me a softer smile. “You need to take care of yourself. I worry about you.”
I didn’t want her to worry about me. “Well, you can stop. I am seeing a therapist now.”
She didn’t say anything, but I noted the happiness in her eyes.
I thought about the role reversal between us. Earlier, when she’d arrived, she’d been the one exhausted and needing to be taken care of.
“I’m not the one running on empty trying to stop another murder from happening.”
“The FBI have brought in psychologists and have made them available for us, but . . .”
“But nothing.” I knew where she was going with this. “You make sure you go, along with everyone else on your team.” I would hound her if I had to. “If I can see a therapist to help me figure out why I’m so stressed, then you for damn sure can see one too.”
“I know. I know.” She rubbed her eyes. “It’s one thing to read through reports and look at crime scene photos, but to be there in person, to see . . .” This time she scrubbed her entire face. “I’m going to have nightmares for years.”
An image of what she must have seen flashed through my head.
A bed drenched in blood. Splashes of red across the headboard. Droplets on the carpet.
“I can’t even imagine.”
Tami slapped her thighs. “It’s going to be a long day tomorrow, so I need to go to bed, but not until I know you’re safely tucked in your own.”
She helped me up off the couch, watched me with a steady gaze.
“I’m fine,” I said despite my tight grip on her arm. The room spun as I stood, but she didn’t need to know that.
“Of course you are.” Her sarcasm was loud and clear. “Let me help you to your room.”
I rolled my eyes but let her help me.
“Are you able to join me in the morning? I’d like you to meet Sabrina.”
For a moment, she didn’t reply.
“I can’t, Dee. I’m sorry. I know you want us to connect, but . . . tomorrow is going to be a long day, and this case has to be my priority.”
Of course. That made sense.
Alone again and ready for the sleep of the oblivious and one not filled with nightmares, I turned my night sounds on. I should have done that last night. It might have helped me sleep better.
When the lights were off, my brain woke up. All the thoughts, feelings, and emotions I had pushed away during the day returned on full blast when my defenses were down.
I used to recite the Lord’s Prayer until I fell asleep.
That didn’t work anymore.
So I listened to the waves.
The thoughts continued, but the crashing of the water drowned them out until only a dull roar remained.
When my patients complained about this, I told them it was okay, normal, that your mind finally had a chance to relax and catch up on all those things you subconsciously pushed to the side throughout the day. I’d tell them to keep a journal close at hand, to write down all their concerns, fears, worries, ideas, and then look them over in the morning.
Would it always work? No.
Sometimes I wondered if that was why some people went crazy. Why there was more crime at night than during the day. If it was because everyone was trying to find a way to shut the craziness off, and some people just . . . couldn’t.
But then again, maybe some people were just plain crazy.
Chapter Twenty-Three
SATURDAY, AUGUST 17
I shook my numb hands as I raised myself from my curled position on the couch. The drapes were drawn, and I didn’t have my watch or phone close by, so I had no idea of the time.
It was a struggle to orient myself. The last thing I remembered, Tami had tucked me into bed before she left. The bed, not the couch.
I wrapped the blanket around myself due to the slight chill in the air, and pushed aside the curtains.
Soft light greeted me, the warmth of the sun a welcom
e heat on my face as I gazed out.
It was early. Dew lingered on the grass, and one of the boys from down the street rode past on his bike as he threw his bundle of flyers on lawns. That was one of the things about Cheshire I loved, the small-town vibe. In the city, you collected your mail from neighborhood boxes, but here, the mailman still walked the streets, leaving the mail in the box by your door, and the newspapers and flyers never ended up on your front porch but rather in bushes or front yards.
I headed toward the shower, passing my bed, and stopped in the doorway.
I turned and looked.
My bed was made.
The clothes I’d worn the night before hung over the arm of the chair by the bed.
My room had been cleaned. The basket of clothes I’d needed to fold had been put away, and a bag I’d thrown in the corner was gone. The stack of books on my bedside table had disappeared, and in its place was a book I’d been wanting to read.
Tami, the angel, must have stayed and cleaned up.
My phone was on my china cabinet charging. I scrolled through to see if Tami had left me a message.
Hope you don’t mind. I slept on your couch till about two in the morning. Got called in early. Sorry I left such a mess! I’ll make it up to you and buy take-out tonight.
Tami hadn’t cleaned?
The blanket around my shoulders had dropped to the floor when I picked up my phone. When I bent down to gather it in my arms, I noticed what I wore.
Navy-blue jogging pants and a white T-shirt.
I hadn’t worn these pants since the winter. In fact, I’d packed them away in my closet when summer had started. Why would I have them on now?
Tami had apologized for the mess, but there was none to be seen.
I had to have cleaned the house after she’d left. Maybe the sound of her car pulling out of my driveway had woken me. Maybe I couldn’t get back to sleep, but because I was so exhausted, I couldn’t remember. Maybe my sleepwalking was getting worse.
I hated not knowing.
I hated that I couldn’t remember.
I hated that more than anything else.
I pulled out a chair from the table and plunked down.
The Patient Page 13
