“That’s what you want the world to think.”
“Hard to take off the psychiatrist hat, I guess,” he says.
“I don’t need to be a psychiatrist to figure that out.”
“Look. That was inappropriate. I shouldn’t have—”
“Thank you,” she says. “It felt good to let another human being feel what I’m feeling.”
He looks at her then, sees the earnestness in her blue eyes, and tells himself not to make a big deal out of this. So he’s human. Maybe he’d forgotten.
They sit in silence for a string of awkward moments. Awkward for him, anyway. He tries to put this outing back in professional territory. “We should get going,” he says, turning the key and starting the Jeep.
“Why are you on leave?” she asks.
The question surprises him, and apparently, he doesn’t do a very good job of hiding it.
“Did you have a choice?” she adds.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I didn’t.”
She stares at him, waiting for him to go on.
“I agreed to go home with the wrong wife of the wrong senator,” he says, scrutinizing her face so that he doesn’t miss the shock that flashes in her eyes.
“Oh,” she says, looking away as if she realizes she’s bitten off more than she knows what to do with. “Well, that’s—”
“Not what you expected,” he finishes.
“No. It isn’t.”
“What did you expect?”
She looks back at him, shrugs. “Defying an order from your superior? Late to work one too many times?”
He smiles a little at the sarcasm in her voice. It doesn’t fit her. “They probably would have been better choices.”
“Yeah. Why would you—” She breaks off there, holding a hand in the air. “Sorry. None of my business.”
“She offered,” he answers. “I like sex and beautiful women.”
Her face suffuses with color. “You’re very direct, aren’t you?”
“What purpose would it serve to be otherwise?”
“I suppose I did ask the question.”
“You did.”
She leans against the door, studying him. “Have you ever been married?”
“Yes.”
“Are you now?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“She deserved better than me. I think we’ll be better off sticking to Mia’s case and leaving the personal stuff out of it.”
“Fine,” she says, folding her arms and staring straight through the windshield.
They drive the rest of the distance to the festival site in complete silence.
Emory
“You simply have to put one foot in front of the other and keep going. Put blinders on and plow right ahead.”
—George Lucas
TO CALL THE remainder of the drive awkward would be as much of an understatement as I can come up with. I can still feel the heat in my cheeks, even as I realize how much Knox Helmer probably enjoyed putting it there.
The field where the festival had been held is now empty, flattened grass and a few bits of trash the only remaining evidence of its existence.
Detective Helmer pulls his Jeep off the road, cuts the engine, and says, “Can you show me the exact spot where you found her phone?”
“Yes,” I say, getting out and scanning the area to make sure my memory does not mislead. I walk along the edge of the road for a hundred yards or so and then step into the tall grass and cover the steps to where two, small, blue flags mark the spot. “Here,” I say.
“That’s accurate?” he asks, glancing at the flags.
“Yes.”
“Given that the phone was off in the weeds away from the road, it’s not likely that she lost it here. Maybe someone ditched it after grabbing the girls.”
The words send a chill straight through me. As if he realizes what he’s just said, he looks at me and says, “Sorry. Thinking out loud again.”
“You think out loud,” I say.
“Surprised they didn’t take the time to destroy it so that it couldn’t be tracked.”
“Why do you think they didn’t?”
“Someone could have been coming. A car. A person walking by. And they needed to go or get caught.”
A tight band stretches around my chest, squeezing out all the air. A fresh image of Mia and Grace, terrified, flashes through my mind, and I draw in a deep tear of air.
The detective drops to his knees, and runs his hands through the grass where I’d found the phone. I drop down a few yards away and start to feel along the ground too. “I assume we’re looking for anything that might serve as a clue?” I ask.
“Sometimes, it’s the tiniest imaginable hole that sinks the ship.”
I search in one direction, while he takes the opposite. I feel at the base of the grass, digging my fingers into the dirt, feeling increasingly desperate to find something, anything, that might give a hint, some sort of direction to help find Mia.
By the time we circle back around to each other, I am sweating and clawing at the grass, tears of frustration wetting my cheeks.
“Hey,” he says, reaching out to cover my right hand with his. “It’s okay. I didn’t expect that we’d find anything. But I had to look.”
I lean back on my knees, wiping my hand across my eyes. “I feel hopeless. How can someone just be gone in an instant? With no evidence of what happened to them?”
He holds my gaze for a long moment. “Someone knows. There are clues. It’s a matter of being persistent enough to keep looking until one of them surfaces.”
“And what determines persistence?”
“Time and money.”
“I’ll spend everything I have to find her. But what if it’s not enough?” I hear the panic in my own voice.
“Let’s just take this one step at a time. Not think about anything except the one I’m currently exploring.”
“So what’s next?” I ask, pinching my left palm hard so I won’t cry.
“The security footage for the night of the festival. I’ve seen it, but I’d like to get a copy so I can go through it frame by frame.”
“How do we do that?”
“Fortunately, I’ve got friends in high places,” he says.
~
HE MAKES A call, and I try not to listen while he talks with the person on the other end. There’s some mention of him owing the person a cold one, and when he ends the call, he turns to me and says, “We’ll need a computer to view the video.”
“We can use my desktop at my house.”
“I’ll just need to access my email so I can download the file.”
“No problem.”
Back in the Jeep, I force my eyes away from the spot where I’d found Mia’s phone, not wanting to see in my mind all the various scenarios I’ve imagined as to how it got there. I lean my head against the seat and close my eyes, thankful when music fills the interior, and I hang on each word of the Train song until calm descends enough that I can breathe.
We say nothing at all for the remainder of the drive, and he pulls up in front of the house. I get out, unlock the front door, and tell him to come in.
It’s mid-afternoon by now, and the house has lost some of its light. I flick on lamps and show him to my office where the desktop is. Pounce saunters through, greeting us with a yowl of disappointment when he sees that we aren’t Mia.
“I’m sorry,” I say, bending down to rub behind his ears. I tap the computer keyboard, tap in my password, and the screen pops to life. And then to the detective, “Make yourself comfortable. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Water would be good.”
“Be right back,” I say.
I go into the kitchen, Pounce on my heels, and pull a bottle of water from the drawer of the refrigerator. I grab one for myself and walk back to the office. I hand the detective one of the bottles and open mine, taking a long sip. I watch as he opens the email, clicks on the Dropbo
x link, and waits for it to load. I can feel my heart pounding and wish for a moment that I could fast forward to the part where he finds something, sees someone who will have the answer.
The clock at the top of the recording indicates 5:38 p.m. I point to it. “Is that the day of the festival?”
“Yes, that’s when they began the surveillance.” He glances up at me. “This is going to take a while.”
“I can help,” I say.
“I’d like to go through it alone initially.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I’ll let you know if I have any questions.”
“Sure,” I say, backing up and then bending over to pick up Pounce. He lets out a meow of protest, but I tuck him under my arm and close the door behind us.
In the kitchen, I set him in front of his food bowl, reach for the jar where we keep his kibble, and fill it halfway. He concedes to my peace offering and crunches in semi-contentment. I stand at the sink, my hands clenching the tiled edge and stare out the window, where cars continue to pass on the street in front of the house, the postal worker continues to deliver the mail, and the grass continues to grow.
How can everything go on as if Mia has not disappeared, as if she will arrive home at any moment with some logical explanation for where she’s been and why she’s had me so worried?
I don’t want to believe that the world is this indifferent, but how can I deny the evidence? I think of the patients I’ve worked with whose life no longer makes sense. Of how I’ve believed that it could make sense again, despite my own evidence to the contrary.
My cell buzzes on the countertop next to the sink. I glance at the screen. Not recognizing the number, a jolt of hope stabs through me, and I stab the answer button. “Hello?”
“Dr. Benson.”
The voice startles me. “Dr. Maverick. Hello.”
“I hope I’m not getting you at a bad time. I just got word of what’s happened with your sister. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“I received your message about taking some time off. You do what you need to do. Your spot will be waiting.”
This surprises me, I have to admit. “I appreciate that. I would understand if it wasn’t possible.”
“Don’t worry about it, okay?”
Not knowing what else to say, I again manage, “Thank you.”
“Would you like some company?”
The question surprises me, and I say, “I’m sorry?”
“I’m actually in your area. I have some time if you’d like to talk.”
I’m not sure how to take the offer. A psychiatrist offering help to a colleague who’s experiencing something horrible? Or maybe I hadn’t imagined the spark in the coffee lounge the night Mia had disappeared? Regardless of the reason behind it, I don’t want to sound unappreciative. “Dr. Maverick, you don’t have to—”
“I’d like to,” he says, and I can hear in his voice that he really would.
“Okay,” I say, and then I realize I’ve forgotten about Detective Helmer. “When—”
“Be there in ten minutes,” he says and clicks off.
I drop my head back and stare at the ceiling, trying to imagine myself in the living room having a session with Dr. Maverick while Detective Helmer inadvertently listens from behind the closed door of my office.
Pounce winds himself between my calves. I reach down and run a hand across his spine. “This should be interesting,” I say.
I walk back to the office, stick my head inside and say, “Anything you need?”
Detective Helmer responds without looking up from the computer screen. “No. Thanks. All good.”
I close the door and hope he’ll remain this focused until Dr. Maverick leaves. I’m not even sure why, but the thought of the two of them meeting makes me uncomfortable.
The doorbell rings, redefining “ten minutes.” I run a hand across my hair, remembering that I hadn’t put on makeup this morning. Just as well. I would have already cried it all off by now anyway.
I open the door to find the very tall, very handsome Dr. Maverick looking down at me with sympathetic eyes. “Hello,” he says.
“Hi.” I step back, waving him inside. “You’re kind to come.”
I lead the way to the living room where we take opposite ends of the sofa. “Have you learned anything?”
“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head. “She and her best friend Grace were supposed to come home after a music festival they went to. They’ve just disappeared.”
My voice breaks on the last word, and, despite every intention I’d had of being strong, the tears start up again. All of a sudden, he’s sliding across the sofa and pulling me into his arms. I know I should pull away, that a line is being crossed here. It’s the second time today that I’ve been given comfort from a member of the opposite sex, and I’d like to say I’m above needing it, but I’m not.
He rubs a hand across the back of my hair and says in a low voice near my ear, “I realize my coming here was a questionable thing to do, but I understand what you’re going through.”
“You do?”
He nods, and then, in a slightly distant voice, “When I was nineteen, my younger brother came to Princeton to visit me one weekend. I took him out with some of my buddies for a night on the town. He was sixteen, and I was hoping he would apply to Princeton. My mom said he’d seemed kind of down for most of the school year and thought it might help to visit me. We went to a party, and he said he had a headache and wanted to go back to my dorm room. I didn’t think anything of it and told him I’d be back in an hour or two.”
My stomach drops as his voice lowers, and I somehow know that something horrible is coming. I want to stop him, but I can feel his need to go on.
“I found him. He hung himself on my bathroom door.”
Shock rips through me, and I pull back, look into his face and see the deepest kind of grief there. “Oh, no. I’m so sorry.”
He studies me for a few moments, and I cannot imagine how hard it must have been to share what he just told me. “It’s the greatest regret of my life. I would give anything to be able to redo that night. Have the chance to see it all differently.”
I press my hand to his arm, squeeze once.
“In hindsight, the signs were there. He had talked to me a few times about things feeling hopeless. He said he felt like he was a burden to our mom who had raised us without my dad. I thought it was just normal teenage stuff. Problems with friends at school.” He shakes his head a little. “I didn’t see it.”
“I know how hard it is not to blame yourself, but we both know that once someone has committed to the idea of taking their lives, they don’t want anyone to stop them.”
“Yes.”
“Is that why you became a psychiatrist?”
He shrugs. “Clichéd as it sounds now, I thought I could help others avoid the pain my family went through.”
“And I know you have. Countless others.”
He gives me a long look, and I recognize in him my recent thoughts of whether we can ever really help people get through the worst that life has to offer. But neither of us says it. Maybe it is too painful an admission, given our line of work.
“Are the police making any headway?” he asks.
“To be honest, I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve done every recommended thing I could find to do when someone is missing. I’ve even hired a private detective.”
“That’s good,” he says. “Smart to have one person dedicated to doing everything possible.”
As if on cue, the door to the office opens, and Detective Helmer steps out. Instantly, I slide away from Dr. Maverick, noting his questioning gaze collide with the detective’s.
“Ah,” I say, standing, “Dr. Maverick, this is Detective Helmer.”
Helmer walks across the room and sticks a hand out. They shake. Neither says anything right away, and I can see them sizing each other up.
“I work at Johns Hopkins with Dr. Benson,” Dr.
Maverick says, holding Helmer’s gaze.
“Dr. Maverick is the head of the department,” I say. “He came by about Mia.” As soon as I say it, I wonder why I feel the need to explain his presence.
“Yes,” he says, taking a step back. “I should get going. I don’t want to interrupt your work on the case.”
Helmer doesn’t say anything, merely glances from Maverick to me and back again.
“Well,” Dr. Maverick says, moving toward the door. “Take whatever time you need, Dr. Benson. Your job will be waiting for you.”
I follow him out, thanking him again as we step outside onto the stoop. “It was incredibly nice of you to come by.”
He glances over my shoulder, and I resist the urge to look back and see if Helmer is watching us.
Once he backs the black Mercedes out of the driveway, I step inside and close the door behind me.
“The doctor makes house calls?”
I force myself to meet his slightly mocking grin head-on and say, “Is that a problem?”
“He’s a little old for you, isn’t he?”
“He’s my boss,” I say, folding my arms across my chest and refusing to yield any ground. “But do you really feel qualified to be giving this lecture? All things considered, I mean.”
He raises an eyebrow, and she sees the touché in his eyes and feels a ridiculous gratitude for the point in her column.
“There’s something I want to show you,” he says, and then turns and walks back to the office.
Knox
“The most confused you will ever get is when you try to convince your heart and spirit of something your mind knows is a lie.”
―Shannon L. Alder
WHAT THE HELL?
Knox takes the chair in front of the computer and gives himself a silent berating.
Had he really just said that? What business was it of his if Emory Benson dated her boss?
None.
So what was up with the hair-trigger reaction?
He hears her footsteps behind him and decides he’s not up for answering his own questions.
Without looking over his shoulder, he points at the computer screen and says, “There. That’s your sister, right?”
Swerve Page 10
