The Patient

by Steena Holmes

“She stopped being my sister the day she stopped protecting and loving you.” The finality in his voice takes away any misgivings I might have been holding on to.

  “You are the only family I have or need,” he says. “We are all we will ever need. You and me. Together, we can do anything.”

  The shaking disappears. My head clears. My heart calms. My body changes.

  “That would have been my only regret,” I hear myself admit. “That I took the sister you loved away from you.” I don’t say that my biggest fear has been that he would resent me, blame me, turn from me because of that.

  “Hear me when I say this. She would have been dead whether you cut her throat or not. She was a shell of a person. She deserved everything that happened to her tonight.”

  He’s right. I wanted her—no, I needed her to know the pain I’ve lived with for years. She deserved to feel the pain of my knife cutting through her skin, tearing past the muscles and tendons and veins. There was no way in hell I was going to let her gently fade away, never to wake up again.

  No way in hell.

  “Don’t call me Firefly anymore.” I’m not that little girl anymore.

  I stopped being her the moment I held the knife in my hand, I just hadn’t known it.

  His Firefly was the teenage girl who hated her parents but was too scared to do anything about it. She had no hope, no future. Her narrow-minded worldview consisted only of how much she hated her parents and wanted to be free.

  Except she never thought she’d ever be free.

  I’m not her anymore.

  I’m the one strong enough to grab hold of that knife.

  I’m the one strong enough to live with the decisions I made.

  I’m the one strong enough to take control and keep it.

  “Fair enough. What should I call you, then?”

  My name has to be worthy. It has to be one I wear with pride. It has to be deserving of what I just did and what I will continue to do.

  “Call me Ava.”

  It rolls off my tongue with ease. It holds the taste of melted chocolate. It sounds like the name of someone who knows exactly who she is.

  Who she is.

  This time, it’s me who squeezes his hand. Me who runs my thumb up and down his, feeling his skin beneath mine.

  This time, it’s me who unbuckles my seat belt and moves across the seat until I sit next to him.

  “Well, hello there, Ava. Nice to meet you.” There is a gleam in his eyes I’ve never seen before.

  Before, he always looked at me with such tenderness. His touch was gentle, as if I were as skittish as a newborn bunny. He coddled me while loving me at the same time.

  I don’t want that kind of love anymore.

  I curl up next to him, my feet up on the seat, my hand on his thigh. I play with the zipper on my sweater, slowly undoing it, knowing he’s watching.

  “New name for a new life. I like it.” This time it’s his tongue wrapped in a knot, his voice hoarse, his pulse rapid.

  “How much farther to the beach?” I ask.

  It’s pitch-black out. After midnight. No one will notice our absence, not for a long time.

  My father had been fired from his job, his company truck taken from him. He’d been dropped off at the house, on the side of the road, like an unwanted pet. No one knew he’d come home.

  No one ever visited the house. We were loners. Secluded by design. I’d quit school a year ago and was homeschooled by my uncle. My mother had quit her job, only announcing it that night before my father’s abrupt return.

  No one will notice their deaths.

  There’s no rush. We’re not running for our lives. We can take all the time we want, enjoying the summer air, the warm evening breezes. We don’t have to decide right away what we want to do or where we want to go.

  We have the rest of our lives ahead of us.

  Lives with no regrets.

  Chapter Forty

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 28

  The heat of the day lingered in the evening hours. It hung in the air like a wet blanket, the pressure weighing me down in my lawn chair.

  Following Savannah’s session, I’d shut my phone off and taken a nap, due to a vomit-inducing migraine that hit me hard.

  My body held that heavy feeling associated with waking up from a deep sleep too quickly. I could barely lift my arms, let alone push my legs over the edge of the chair so I could sit up. I was dizzy, light-headed, and I staggered like a drunkard when I finally managed to head into the house.

  There was a sweating pitcher of iced tea left on the counter with a glass covered in lipstick stains. I rubbed the back of my hand over my lips and was surprised to see the red-tinted smear left on my skin.

  I didn’t remember putting lipstick on, much less making a pitcher of iced tea.

  I poured myself a glass, cleaned up the liquid I spilled because of my shaky hands, and collapsed on my kitchen chair. I was exhausted and glad no one was there to notice how pathetic I looked.

  Unable to handle the mugginess inside, I headed back out, where at least there was a bit of a breeze to cool the sweat on my brow. We didn’t get a lot of these sweltering days in Cheshire, but when we did, I regretted not installing an air conditioner.

  My mind was quiet for once. As I lay there under my outdoor umbrella, my body relaxed to the quiet evening sounds of birds, soft laughter drifting over the wind from the park, and the mundane sounds of everyday life around me.

  It was all so perfect. Perfectly mundane, with the grill smells from my neighbor’s yard, the squeak of an outdoor laundry line, the barking from the dogs down the street, the hum of vehicles as they drove by.

  This was the life I’d dreamed of here.

  Minus the headaches. I knew that people who lived in higher elevations or near mountains experienced climate migraines, but that wasn’t the case with Cheshire.

  There was a slam of a car door in the distance followed by pounding on a door.

  The pounding was in rhythm with the pulsing in my head.

  “For Pete’s sake, answer the door,” I muttered, my eyes still closed.

  “Dr. Rycroft?” a voice called out.

  Tyler? What was he doing here?

  “Dr. Rycroft?” he called again, his voice insistent and even a little crazed.

  I struggled to push myself up from the chair.

  “Out here.” My voice broke. “Tyler, back here,” I tried again.

  Footsteps scuffed against the rocks in my driveway before the gate opened.

  “Where have you been?” The gate slammed into the fence with a bounce. “I’ve been calling you all day.” He stood above me, his eyes wide.

  “What’s wrong?” The frantic way his pupils darted every which way had me gripping the armrest of my chair. I pushed myself to my feet. “Tyler? What’s wrong?” I asked again.

  He rocked on his heels.

  “I can’t find her.”

  “Can’t find who?”

  “Her.” He rocked back and forth, almost bouncing as he stood there. “I can’t find her. She’s gone. Missing. I can’t find her.”

  My heart vibrated with alarm. I reached out instinctually to offer comfort, but Tyler stepped back, almost stumbled, to get out of my reach.

  “I thought she’d come back. I thought she’d stop. I thought I could stop her,” he mumbled, before he turned and walked away from me, from my deck area to the grass, then turned back my way. He rubbed his hands together, and the friction of his dry skin sounded too much like sandpaper. The sound scurried up my skin like a trail of red ants.

  “Stop what?” I pushed out a lawn chair for him to sit.

  “I thought you’d help me,” he said, his fingers pushing through his messy hair. “You said you were always there for me, but you lied. You weren’t there. I called and called and called—” He dropped his head, linking his hands behind his neck.

  “We didn’t have a session today, did we?” I tried to remember, tried to see my calendar in my head, bu
t the headache was there, pushing everything else away.

  “You said you’d be here,” he pointed out, his voice muffled from the way his head hung.

  “I’m sorry, Tyler. I’m not feeling well today.” I rubbed my right temple area and closed my eyes for a brief, blissful second. “If I missed our session, I apologize.” I needed to get my head in the game, to hear him, to read behind his words, but in all reality, I wanted him to leave.

  “I . . . I’m sorry.” His voice remained muffled as he spoke into his T-shirt. His curved back grew in width as he inhaled and then stood. “I didn’t realize you weren’t well. I’ll . . . I’ll figure it out.” He rubbed his forehead, his first two fingers digging deep into his skin.

  “Sit down, Tyler.” I added some oomph into my voice, hoping I sounded more in control than I felt. “Talk to me.”

  I couldn’t even watch him as he paced back and forth. Five steps to the left and then back. Then five steps to the right and then back. He did this at least three times before my eyes felt like they were on the twirly cup ride at the county fair.

  “How about I grab us something to drink?” I didn’t even wait for his answer. I headed back into the house, careful to keep my steps small and my back straight.

  I swallowed a couple more Tylenol, prayed for strength, and did something I hated to do. I turned on the record app on my phone. My head wasn’t as clear as it needed to be. If I recorded the conversation, I could listen to it after the migraine was gone and add the notes to his file.

  Back outside, I placed his cup down in front of his chair, sank down in mine, and waited some more.

  “Tyler.” I didn’t bother to keep the exasperation and frustration from my voice. “Would you please sit down? You’re not helping my headache any.”

  He returned to his seat and sat like a scolded schoolboy.

  “Sorry,” he muttered.

  “Please tell me again, slowly, what’s wrong.” I sipped at my iced tea and was surprised to see Tyler reach for his cup and take a long drink before placing it down and wiping his lips.

  He just drank something without thought, without question, without accusing me of poisoning him.

  That was huge.

  “My girlfriend is missing. We had a huge argument because she’s been . . . she just hasn’t been home.” His face tightened, the vein along his jawbone pulsed, and I watched as the color of his skin changed from a light tan to a dark shade of red within seconds.

  “Breathe, Tyler. Breathe.”

  Small tremors rippled through his arms. He was struggling to contain his emotions, and the last thing I wanted or even needed was for him to explode.

  “When did you last see her?”

  “Two days ago. We had a huge fight after I saw you, and she left. She said she wasn’t coming back, that she didn’t need me anymore . . .” His body shook, and what I took for anger was actually tears.

  They streamed down his face, streaking his skin until they pooled beneath his chin.

  “I’m sorry, Tyler.” I softened my voice. “What did you fight about?”

  He wiped his face, then took another drink from his glass.

  “She said I told you too much. She said that I couldn’t be trusted, that you weren’t to know anything, and I broke that trust.” He stared at me, a look of helplessness in his gaze. “I just wanted her to stop. I don’t like where she’s headed. It’s a dark place, and I won’t be able to reach her if she does this anymore.” His head dropped. His fingers tightened around the cup until I thought for sure it was about to break in his grip.

  I reached over, gently pried the glass from his grasp, and set it out of the way.

  “Tyler, what was—is—she doing that I’m not to know about?”

  He scratched his neck, leaving white claw marks on his skin. He started to say something, then stopped.

  “I’m scared, Dr. Rycroft. I don’t know where she is, but I have a feeling I know what she’s doing, and it’s not good. It’s not good.” He covered his eyes with his hands and rocked slightly in his chair.

  “I’m too weak. Too weak to help her. Too weak to understand. It’s all my fault. I could have stopped all of this right from the beginning if I’d only stood up to her,” he mumbled behind his hands.

  One minute he was crying, the next he was as solid as a rock. He pushed himself from the chair and stood.

  “I’ve got to find her and stop her. I thought maybe you were strong enough to do it, to see behind my words, to understand what I wasn’t allowed to say, but—” His face tightened, his hands fisted, and that pulsing vein was beating even faster.

  What was I supposed to have caught? What didn’t I see that I should have?

  “Tyler, maybe we can call the police and—”

  “NO!”

  I jumped, my hand clasped tightly to my chest at his shouting.

  “Why don’t you understand?” He lowered his voice, but the intensity was still there, stirring the swamp of emotions beneath the surface. “No cops. I thought you could help me, but you’re useless. Ava was right,” Tyler mumbled as he glanced around my yard with a wildness in his gaze. “I should have listened to her. This was a mistake, and she knew it.”

  “What did you say her name was?”

  I couldn’t have heard him right.

  There was no way I heard him right.

  It just wasn’t possible.

  “Her name is Ava, and I should have listened to what she said about you all along. What she’s doing is wrong, and you aren’t helping, so I have to stop her myself.”

  With a look of disgust cast my way, Tyler left my yard, his heavy footsteps harsh on my driveway before I heard his car start and squeal away.

  I sat there in stunned silence.

  What had he meant? What role was I playing?

  What was this about Ava? Ella’s Ava? No. She wasn’t real. It wasn’t possible.

  But what if it was?

  Ella had said her Ava wanted a child. Tyler’s Ava wanted a child. And a lot of children in our town were suddenly without parents.

  Chapter Forty-One

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 29

  Guilt is like a worm, vile and wretched, working its way into the hidden parts, the secret parts, the ugly parts of your soul. Slimy tracks of guilt cover every hidden crevice until it oozes out of you.

  I hate worms.

  The silence in the small therapy room was heavy. I looked everywhere but at Dr. Brown, who watched me, studied every movement, dissected every eye dart, muscle twinge, and jerk of my lips until I felt like a laboratory rat.

  I needed to share the recording with her, but the moment I’d arrived, desperation had turned into fear, and I wasn’t sure I could go through with it.

  I needed to tell her about Ella. About Ava. About Tyler. I needed to tell it all, so I didn’t understand my hesitation.

  “What happens if I cross a line with my patients?”

  “Who are you trying to protect?” Her chest rose up and down with her breaths, and her fingers twitched in her lap, but the look on her face never changed.

  Questioning. Inquisitive. Hungry.

  “Them.” She should have understood that, right?

  “What is it about protecting them that is causing you so much stress?”

  My thoughts were all random, like a dozen helium-filled balloons floating above the outreached hands of tiny children. I wasn’t sure which one to pull down and pop.

  “I want to shield them, their emotions, their . . .” I couldn’t find the word to describe the need inside me.

  I was drowning in a sea of uncertainty, and I needed her to throw me a lifeline.

  “They need you.” She reread her notes, not necessarily agreeing with me, but repeating my earlier words.

  “Or maybe I need them?”

  “Maybe. But I don’t think that’s it. I think you’re feeling an overwhelming sense of guilt, and you need help walking through what you think is a minefield.”

  “Isn’t i
t?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She sounded so sure that it made me pause.

  “It’s okay to want to look out for them, Danielle.” Dr. Brown relaxed just enough that her back wasn’t ramrod straight. “I find myself wanting to do the same with you.” The words were soft, tender, and barely loud enough to hear, but I did.

  But why would she want to protect me? From what? I recalled Tyler’s words, how he’d said something similar about Ava.

  What did I need saving from? What was going on that I couldn’t see?

  My brows knit together like a handmade sweater with the tiniest of stitches.

  “I think I know who the killer is.” I threw the words out, like dirty camping dishwater. I needed to get it off my chest. Share my fears, my suspicions. Have someone else carry the burden.

  “Did you get another note?” Her body was at attention.

  I didn’t answer. Not because I couldn’t but because there was a feeling I got from her, a vibe that came across as too much.

  “Danielle? Is everything okay?”

  There was a war going on inside me. One part of me wanted to trust her, needed to trust her, but there was another part that pushed me away from that need, that warned me she had ulterior motives.

  “Okay, how about we backtrack? How are your sessions with Ella going?” Dr. Brown changed the subject.

  She turned a few pages in her notes, perhaps pretending she was reading over them.

  We both knew she wasn’t.

  She gave me the time to think about her question.

  What about Ella?

  Ella wasn’t who I thought she was. She was more damaged, more burdened by her past than I wanted to believe. It hurt to realize I’d been wrong about her.

  “Ella isn’t the one who’s killing the parents.” I let that drop like an open bottle of glue. It spread around us, between us. Our feet stuck to the floor.

  “But you know who is? Or she knows who is.” It didn’t take her long to look behind my words.

  My brain hurt.

  “She . . .” I tried again. “It’s her . . .” I couldn’t quite put it into words. They were there, letters wanting to be grouped together to tell the truth, to share what I knew, but I couldn’t get them out. They’d been locked in and the key thrown away. My mind was blank. When I thought about her, all I saw was a faceless figure in the distance, half turned from me, only her outline visible.