by Isabel Wroth
“I'm grateful memory loss and distorted memories are the worst side effects you've suffered. Trying to force yourself to remember will only cause you headaches.”
She wasn't wrong; my head had been hurting since yesterday afternoon when Callum brought Katya's painting up to the loft.
“You were around my parents and had a whole different perspective than I did. Would you say either or both of them could be capable of murder?”
Rebecca made a noncommittal noise. “We're all capable of murder given the right circumstances, Jo.”
“We never talked about it, but when my parents hired you, what did they say about me?” I held my breath as I waited for Rebecca's answer, feeling suddenly like the shy, scared little girl I'd been the first day I'd come back from the asylum.
“I was told that you'd spent years in an institution and could have outbursts of unstable emotions, and I'd be in charge of monitoring you for any aberrant or concerning behavior, but the very first day we met, all I saw was a terribly scared, lonely little girl.
“You made me work for it, too. It took me months just to get you to sit in the kitchen and talk to me.”
“It did? I don't remember that.”
“It was a hard year for you. Your parents kept pushing you to paint, you were trying to acclimate to no longer having every minute of your schedule planned out for you, the meds you were taking practically turned you into a zombie, and until your regular doctor ordered you to stop taking them, you were pretty sick on and off.
“It's what happens when you're overmedicated by a whack job, but I was talking more about how scared you seemed to be about getting anything dirty.
“The first time we made cookies, I thought you were going to have a panic attack over the flour coating the countertop.”
Staring sightlessly at the wall of my office, I couldn’t place the moment Rebecca described. “I guess my memory loss is more widespread than I thought. I don't remember that at all. That's really disturbing.”
“If you'd like to try and recover them, I can find a hypnotherapist in your area,” Rebecca offered.
Nigel came in to check on me, giving me the eyeball to remind me I still hadn't completed Big Girl Day business. I winced, waving my hand at him to say I'd get to it.
“That sounds good but another time. My lovely assistant is reminding me I have bills to pay and big girl things to do.”
Rebecca gave a tinkling laugh and asked me to pass her love to Nigel. “I'll talk to you soon, Jo. It was good to hear your voice.”
“You too. I'm going to stop promising to come see you and make it happen.”
“You deal with what's on your plate now. We'll be here.”
We hung up, and to my dismay, Nigel presented me with a stack of stuff to start dealing with. I couldn't muster up anything more than a grimace and a weak cheer,
“Yay! Big Girl Day.”
“If you finish that stack today, I'll get unicorn bagels for breakfast tomorrow,” Nigel told me with a stiff waggle of his brows.
I finished my stack in two hours.
“SOMETHING ON YOUR MIND, Jo?”
I pulled in a deep breath, rubbing my cheek on Callum's chest. His fingers were slowly skating up and down my spine, our legs tangled together while we lay in bed.
He'd brought Romano's home, and the two of us gorged ourselves on every heavenly slice.
Another layer of his clothes hung in my closet, two drawers in my dresser now held some of his socks and boxer-briefs, and unbeknownst to Callum, I'd started clearing out the two spare rooms that were unused art studio space into an office for him and a soon-to-be home gym.
I hated that he had to get up almost two hours before work to get in his work out at a gym in Brooklyn, shower, and make the drive to the station house. Those were two hours he could be spending in bed with me.
“I talked with the woman who took care of me after my parents pulled me from the asylum. We talked about my life back then, and the memories she shared with me, which I don't have.
“Rebecca said it was unsurprising, considering the two years of ECT and insane drugs I was on, but I keep wondering if I know something about Katya that I just can't remember.”
Callum hummed thoughtfully, tracing patterns around my lower back dimples, turning to let his lips cruise across my forehead.
“You've been getting headaches since we came back from the mansion, trying to force yourself to remember things.”
“I feel like I know something that's important,” I persisted, ignoring the faint rebuke in his voice, “Like, it's right in front of my face, but I can't see it.”
Callum shifted out from under me, rolled to his side to prop himself up on his elbow, and looked down at me with an unreadable expression.
“Jo, you know I've trained for years to investigate and tack a series of events together to create a plausible theory that solves murders, right?”
“I do know.”
“Okay, so you're an artist. You are scary smart, baby. I don't doubt that for a minute, and you look at the world so much differently than I do.
“You've trained yourself to see color and beauty, and how it all moves together to bring your paintings to life.
“I know how frustrating it is to feel like you have everything you need to solve a case, but the pieces just don't fit the way you hope or the way your gut tells you they should.
“It'll come, but take it from me, trying to force it never works. It'll help if you tell me what's really bothering you.”
Ah, those honed investigative skills at work!
My hand found its way up the center of his chest, my fingers combing through the sparse mat of manly curls.
“Elliot and Katya died within hours, or maybe days, of one another. The portrait in the living room? I painted that a week before I picked up Elliot's washcloth.
“I touched her things all the time, so why did I paint Elliot's POD, but not Katya's? It's driving me crazy—more than normal—that after twenty years, I have no answers for something that happens to my own body.
“Why the hell do I paint death if I can't stop it, or help protect the people I care about?”
He took my hand and pressed a kiss to my palm, holding my hand against his cheek. “I wish I had the answer for you, Jo.”
My man is a fixer, but sometimes, he just doesn't have the right tools.
“Rebecca referred me to a psychiatrist in the area who specializes in something called, Forensic Hypnotherapy. It's supposed to be some form of memory recall. She thinks it might help.”
Callum narrowed his eyes skeptically, but he didn't verbally discount it. “What do you think?”
“I think it can't hurt to try. If it works, I'll be able to remember something. If it doesn't, then all I did was waste some time lying on a couch.” Callum nodded slowly, occupying himself by kissing my fingertips one by one and keeping his thoughts to himself for the moment.
“Are my parents still in custody?”
“Mm-hm. Davidson sat down with my captain and went over Elliot's case. Garmon leaned the same way as Pop and me, and on his recommendation, Davidson is re-opening the case.
“He’s having your parents transferred back to his jurisdiction tomorrow afternoon. New case means another seventy-two hours.”
I felt it all in a rush—relief, vindication, anticipation of justice—but without conclusive evidence tying my parents to either Katya or Elliot's murders, they would walk away.
“I'll make an appointment with one of the therapists Rebecca recommended, but can I see my parents tomorrow? Not in person, through an observation room maybe?”
Callum paused in kissing my hand, rubbing his thumb deep into the center of my palm, “Why?”
I couldn't put into words all the reasons why, because honestly, I didn't have one. I just ... needed to. I needed to look at their faces, see the helplessness and the stress of being held in a room with no windows and no way to know what was coming next.
I want
ed to see their discomfort—their fear. I needed to know they understood, even a little bit, what it had been like for me.
Okay, so maybe I do have a good reason. Instead of voicing my supremely vindictive agenda, I simply said,
“I need it.”
Callum's answer was simple, and it was everything I could have possibly hoped for. “I'll make it happen.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Everything Dr. Kate Anderson wore, from her dangerously high heels, her trousers, to the silk blouse beneath a smart blazer, was unrelieved white.
Her hair was a golden halo around her shoulders, her pearly highlights shining in the morning sun.
Her alabaster skin even had a shimmer to it that made her seem ageless, but the dates on the diplomas hanging in natural bamboo frames on the wall suggested she was in her early fifties.
Dr. Anderson looked like no psychiatrist I'd ever met, which was probably a good thing, seeing as my childhood phobias surfaced just being here.
There was a sterility to the white room that put me off in a terrible way, but the more I looked around to notice the hints of pastel colors here and there, the more I breathed in the soft scent of lavender and chamomile, the shallower my immediate anxiety became, allowing me to take in the amazingly vibrant view of Central Park from the floor to ceiling windows.
“Please, have a seat, Jo,” Dr. Anderson invited, waving an elegant hand toward the pair of oversized white armchairs positioned to face one another.
I glanced at the other chair that sat on the other side of the room, facing a wide, incredibly comfortable looking chaise lounge.
My expression must have telegraphed my thoughts because a few faint crinkles appeared at the edges of Dr. Anderson's cornflower blue eyes as she smiled.
“We'll move over there in a little bit.”
I sat where she indicated, taking a deep breath to expel the flutter of nerves. Dr. Anderson managed to make her descent into the chair so elegant, I felt like a slouchy frump.
“I had some time to discuss some of your background with your current psychiatrist, Rebecca, and I understand you're here today to try and recover some memories misplaced or repressed because of the electro-convulsive therapy you received as a child, is that right?”
It was the strangest feeling, but the more Dr. Anderson spoke to me, in her clear, resonant contralto voice with the barest hint of a British accent, the more I relaxed.
Like she was already working on hypnotizing me, and my body responded by releasing the tension permeating my muscles.
“Yes. The remains of a young woman I was close to as a child were unearthed on the property of the home I grew up in. The police are working to solve her murder, and I feel like I have answers that could help.
“The memories are there, right out of sight—like a word on the tip of my tongue—and the more I try to remember, the farther away they get.”
Dr. Anderson gave a thoughtful nod and an understanding hum. “Do you believe you were present during this young woman's death?”
“No, by the time Katya was killed, I was institutionalized. She and my brother both died around the same time.”
“And you discovered these remains, correct?”
“Callum—my boyfriend—and I did, yes.”
“I see. How many times would you say you underwent ECT?” Dr. Anderson wasn't taking notes like most shrinks, and a spurt of uncertainty surfaced as I wondered if our conversation was being recorded.
Doctor-patient confidentiality was an iron-clad rule, but as John Graham was slowly but surely proving, nothing ever was truly secret or hidden if someone knew where to look.
“I was a patient of Dr. Banes for two years, but the treatments didn't start for a while. So, maybe two sessions a month for a year and a half?”
Dr. Anderson's chin jerked back, her lips parted, and her brows shot up in astonishment. “A year and a half?”
“I'm not sure on the exact number,” I confessed with a spread of my hands, feeling like I had to reassure this woman for some reason. “I recall Dr. Banes preferring to utilize the machine on Thursdays, and I was scheduled for every other.”
“That is barbaric!” Dr. Anderson exclaimed with a shake of her head, taking a moment to compose herself. “I'm very sorry that happened to you, Jo.”
Not so sorry as me, I thought, managing a weak smile. “Thanks. Should I be prepared to not remember anything at all?”
The angelic psychiatrist across from me waved her hand, then reached up to hook a lock of perfectly wavy gold hair behind her ear with a practiced flick.
“All memory is stored in our subconscious mind. Like a hard-drive of a computer. Even if the files are deleted from our conscious mind, they're never truly erased from the subconscious. Which is where hypnotherapy can take us. Have you ever undergone any sort of hypnosis?”
“I use Yoga Nidra to help me sleep sometimes.” God, I hope she doesn't read into that. “I don't have trouble sleeping, but some days my brain just won't slow down.”
Dr. Anderson gave an easy smile, and I let out a sigh of relief.
“Yoga Nidra is an excellent relaxation technique. Hypnosis and meditation go hand in hand, so you've already created a path in your mind, that in essence, merges your conscious and subconscious mind.
“Forensic Hypnotherapy is quite different, and no two patients experience it the same way. Unlike what you've practiced with Yoga Nidra, I won't be attempting to wholly relax you.
“You'll be fully conscious, able to speak and answer questions, and though we're going on a hunt for memories revolving around a specific person, it's not uncommon for other memories to surface. Good, bad, or traumatic ... we won't know until you're in the memory itself.”
“Okay. So, how do we start?” I asked, feeling a flurry of uncertainty.
Dr. Anderson tilted her head and gave me a look I was familiar with—a clinical look of curiosity.
I'd done something to spark that curiosity. Spoke too quickly, asked the wrong question, made some movement or spoke loudly via body language enough to capture her attention.
Shit. What did I do wrong? I could really use a big bossy detective in my space right about now.
“I want to discuss our focus for the session today, and then I'd like for your detective to join us to make sure you feel more comfortable.”
The rush of relief I felt to know Callum would be able to sit in on my session was immediate. So much so, I felt myself sag a little and knew there was no way Dr. Anderson missed that physical reaction.
“How obvious was it I was thinking about him?”
Dr. Anderson lifted her shoulder and smiled slowly. “You covered your bracelet with your hand when you mentioned him earlier, and again just now.
“I connected the dots, but I confess, I anticipated he would want to be present when I saw the two of you together earlier. My assistant has been explaining the process of Forensic Hypnosis to him.”
My gaze lowered to my lap, where I did indeed have my hand clenched around my opposite wrist, covering the bracelet Callum had given me.
The flush I felt on my cheeks was immediate, but I knew if I yanked my hands apart or acted like I'd been caught doing something wrong, we'd have to talk about it. But not talking about it was probably the wrong thing to do.
“He's been my rock through all this,” I finally said, feeling that was about as safe a statement as I could make.
Dr. Anderson accepted my response with a nod. “It's good to have someone to lean on when times get tough. So, you've said you want to recover memories about Katya to help in whatever way you can to solve her murder.
“But why do you want to remember? Not for the police or to help the investigation. Why are you here, Jo?”
Questions like that required taking time to really think about it, so I got quiet, letting my gaze focus on the silver bracelet on my wrist.
“I need the truth.”
“Then that's where we start,” Dr. Anderson told me confidently.
“WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT Katya, what do you feel, Jo?”
Dr. Anderson's soft and melodious voice came at me from the right, and even though my eyes were closed and he was silent, I knew Callum was on my left.
Lying there, I knew no matter what I remembered or how traumatic it might get, I was safe because he was with me.
“I feel a lot of things. Frustrated. Sad. Confused.” My chest rose and fell with deep, rhythmic breaths.
With every beat of my heart, I could feel the pulse and pump of blood through my veins, a buzzing that almost had a sound.
Cradled in the plush contours of the chaise lounge, my body felt completely weightless and warm.
I've got to remember to ask Dr. Anderson where she got this chair. I need one.
“When you talk about Katya, do you feel frustrated, sad, or confused anywhere in your body?” Dr. Anderson asked, causing me to frown.
“I don't understand the question,” I answered, unsure how someone could feel sadness or confusion in their body.
“Sometimes when we're stressed, the muscles in our shoulders tense and rise. When we're angry, we feel the flush of heat in our face or the churning in our belly. When you think about Katya and how you feel, where do you feel it?”
My mind was so focused on answering her weird question, that my body did it for me. My fingers curled into a tight fist before I said,
“In my hands.”
“Good, Jo. Focus on your hands, on the tightness of your skin over your knuckles, and on your fingernails pressing against your palms. Was there a movie theater in your hometown?”
I nodded, already picturing the two-story red brick building on Main Street.
“I want you to picture yourself standing across the street from the theater.”
I did as Dr. Anderson said, imagining the two-lane street in front of me and the long line of buildings on either side of the theater.
In my mind, it was a sunny day; there were fluffy clouds overhead and not another person in sight.
The Roxy was an old building, the old neon sign was blue, red, and gold, shining bright even in the daytime.
