“God no. What made you think that?”
“Just that he said he raised you. I wasn’t sure what he meant by that.”
“Trey says a lot of things. And none of them are true. My real dad got shot in a drug deal. He was in a coma for a while. Or at least that’s what my mom said. He died when I was five.”
“My dad died too.” The words tumbled out before I could put on the brakes. Before I realized I didn’t want to stop them. It felt good to say it out loud. Finally. Not to some bleeding heart who got paid to feel sorry for me. To someone who understood. “My whole family actually. Truck driver on speed crossed the center line.” I kept my eyes on the little stretch of blacktop lit up in the headlights’ glow and said the one thing I’d never told anybody. “I was supposed to go with them that day. Sometimes, I wonder what would have happened if I had. Like maybe it was my fault.”
“I know what you mean. I was there when my mom died, and that’s even worse.”
“It wasn’t your fault though.” I said. “Just like it wasn’t mine.”
She touched my arm, and her hand felt cold as ice, but it warmed me somehow. “We’re both orphans then,” she said. Like it was a badge of honor. And I guess, in some ways, it was.
“So, how do you know Trey?” I asked.
“He used to stay with us sometimes—me and my mom—at the Blue Bird. In the room that’s Peggy’s now. He mooched drugs off my mom. And then, when she couldn’t afford them anymore, he…you know…found other ways for her to make money. Before long, she was just another one of the girls on his roster. He thinks I stole something from him, but it was never his to begin with.”
“What did he mean about you and your friend? He hasn’t tried to get you to—”
“He’s all talk. Seriously.” But I didn’t fall for it. Not for one second. Because I could tell she was afraid of him. When she talked, she wound a strand of her hair around and around and around her finger. Tight, like she was about to pull it right out of her head. “He swore to my mom he’d never touch me. Not that way.”
“Well, he sounds worse than I thought. And I already thought he was a piece of—never mind.”
“Excrement?” Her hair fell loose again, and she giggled. “We learned that word in science last week. Did you know animal poop is part of the Earth’s nutrient cycle?”
“I can’t say I ever thought about it. But it makes sense. I guess Trey will serve some purpose after all.”
“You’re funny, Calder.” For somebody who’d been through as much as Evie, she sure laughed a lot. I wished I could be like that. “Is Gwen your girlfriend? She’s really pretty.”
“She is pretty. That’s for sure. She’s not my girlfriend, though. I’m not sure she ever will be.”
“Why?”
I didn’t even think to lie. “I kind of let her believe my family was rich. She just assumed, because of the car and all. But I got the money from the trucking company, and it’s already half gone. You know how sometimes you tell a story for so long it’s too late to tell the truth?”
Evie tsked, tsked at me, wagging her finger, the way my mother would have. “It’s never too late to tell the truth. Besides, I think she likes you. Why wouldn’t she?”
“Are you sure you’re only twelve? Because I think I’m talking too much.”
“It’s okay. I don’t mind. Cherice says I’m a good listener.”
“You are. You turned me into a Chatty Cathy, and that’s a damn miracle. Ask my social workers. All eight of them.”
She shook her head at me, chuckling. “If I’m good at listening, it’s only because I don’t have to talk about myself. It’s a lot easier to let other people tell me their problems. Besides, sometimes I feel like nobody cares anyway. About me. About what I have to say. You know?”
That was the truest thing I’d ever heard. And the saddest. “I care, Evie. I’ll be your friend. As long as you promise not to tell anybody I can’t sing worth excrement.”
“Deal.”
Back then, a promise didn’t mean much. I’d promised Mr. Whitecotton I’d do my homework. I’d promised Jackie? Jill? Julie? I wouldn’t tell anybody that she’d let me get to third base. I’d stood over my mother’s coffin and promised I’d make her proud.
And that promise I made to Evie? I broke it. Of course I did. With friends like me, who needs enemies?
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Evie
January 16, 2017
Monday
They don’t teach this kind of thing in grad school. There’s no How to Lead a Sex Offender Treatment Group across the Street from the Scene of a Sexual Murder course. With the guys giving me their hangdog faces and the gash on my arm throbbing like a steady drumbeat, I feel like a total amateur. Even if the police haven’t come out and said the words sexual murder yet.
I know Trey’s involved, so I’m sure of it. And if Trey had something to do with Jane Doe, then…I can’t do this now. Focus, Evie. Focus.
Maggie had done her best to convince me to play hooky. “You need a mental health day. Your patients will be fine without you,” she’d said this morning, cajoling me with promises of yoga and a movie. But she didn’t get it. It was me I was worried about, and slowing down had never done me any good. I’d learned long ago that when you slow down, your problems catch up. And they hit you smack in the face like a Mack truck. Not to mention I rarely get sick. If I called in—today, of all days—the guys would be suspicious. They’d start asking questions.
Resigned to the day ahead, I turn my chair from the window so I can’t see the hanging tree. Better. Its long, spindly branches look even more ominous than usual against the gauzy sky, its soft blue an unexpected color in the middle of winter. And there’s been a steady stream of reporters all morning. The last van pulls away, leaving a puff of exhaust and a few discarded coffee cups.
One hour, I tell myself. I can leave the past outside for just one hour. And then, I need to find Butch. I have to talk to him. Again. Since I chickened out the first time. Problem is I’m not even sure what I want to ask him. Just one hour, Evie.
“Alright, gentlemen. We’re going to pick up where we left off last week. Healthy intimacy. Did everyone get a chance to do the homework?”
The rustling of paper is a familiar comfort, and I sit back in my chair, allowing myself a deep breath. I’ll get through this after all. But then, Vince puts his hand in the air like a petulant child. I want to pretend I don’t see him, because I know where he’s headed. And it’s nowhere I want to go. “Do you have a question?” I ask, seeing no other option.
“Uh, yeah. I do. This is a process group, right? Well, I’ve got some shit I need to process. Are we seriously going to pretend there wasn’t a homicide right there? This weekend? Of a teenage girl?” He points out the window, like he’s accusing me of something, and I can’t help but look. The tree is the same as it ever was. Unmarked by recent events. Unscarred by the past. Unmoved by Vince’s tirade. I wish I could be so stoic.
“It sounds like you have strong feelings about it. Would you like to share with the group?”
“I’m freaked the fuck out. That’s how I feel. C’mon, guys. Back me up here. Anytime something like this goes down, who’s the first one to get the blame? Who’s the first one they stick it to? The sex offender, that’s who. How long do you think it’ll be before the police want to talk to us? To you?” He launches the word from his mouth like a poison dart aimed right at the heart of me. “You know nothing we say in here is confidential. I’d be surprised if they weren’t listening outside this room right now.”
“Hey, that sounds like one of those whatchamacallits…” George scrunches his face, thinking hard. “Cognitive…cognitive…cognitive distortions!” He turns to me, desperate for approval, and I nod.
“Can you explain what you mean by that, George?”
He beams. “Well, Vince is just working himself up over nothing. As long as he didn’t do nothin’ wrong, there’s no reason to freak.”
“Bullshit.” Vince glares at George. “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have a probation officer riding your ass. You’re here vo-lun-tarily.” More poison darts, spit at George this time. “Besides, you prefer ’em younger, don’t you? Bet if that had been a little girl’s body out there, you’d be pissing your pants right now.”
“Vince. Respectful language, please.” I should stop this right now. Put an end to it. Before the group veers completely off the rails. I should ask them about their homework. Redirect them. But I don’t. Because Sebastian looks distracted. He’s got a death grip on the book in his hands, and I follow his eyes to the tree and back. To the tree and back.
“What I meant to say is that George might not understand how the rest of us feel because his preferred choice of victim is a goddamned kindergartener. Is that better, Doc?”
“It sounds like you’re feeling blamed already,” I say. “And misunderstood. But don’t take it out on—”
“Hell yes, I am. Tony gets it.” Vince nudges Antonio with his elbow. “Tell me you get it. You get it, don’t ya, Tony?”
But Tony is a statue, per usual. He doesn’t agree. He doesn’t disagree. He doesn’t speak at all. And somehow that’s more unnerving than Vince’s outburst.
“Tony?” I try to encourage him. “Do you want to share your feelings with the group?”
He shrugs, barely looking up. “Man, I just want to do my six months of treatment and get out of here.”
“But do you have any thoughts about—”
Sebastian clears his throat. Like he’s shaken off his nerves—an old dog shedding fleas—just for this moment. He talks over me. “I thought you didn’t have any victims, Vince. That you were innocent…”
“Who hit your buzzer, New Guy? Out of all of us, I’d say you have the most to be worried about. And technically, I don’t have any victims. I had teen porn on my computer. What guy doesn’t? I didn’t make it myself.”
“But someone did. Someone made it,” George says. “You paid to download it. I’d say that’s just as bad as holding the camera yourself. And none of us have anything to worry about as long as we keep our noses clean. Right, Dr. Evie?”
Vince shifts in his chair, tightening his fists. I wonder if I’ve lost control. I can see the headline: Sex offender group ends in brawl. But I let them go, too tired to care. That’s what happens when you get one hour of sleep. In the childhood bed of your dead husband. And you have the dream again. The locked doors, the panic. Butch.
“Well, I’m not worried,” Sebastian says, holding up his pants leg. “If my PO wants to know where I was Friday night, this will tell him.”
“Pshh.” Vince leans back in his seat, exasperated. “You’re not fooling anybody, dude. We all know there’s ways to get around that thing. Like tinfoil and jammers and—”
“Not everybody breaks the rules like you.”
“I don’t break the rules. I make the rules.”
I hold up my hand, finally spurred to action by the white heat in Sebastian’s eyes. The blatant arrogance in Vince’s. “That’s enough, guys. We’re moving on now.”
George waves the worksheet I handed out last week when life was still in proximity to normal. The page is covered in blue ink and his block print. It’s almost childlike. “Time for homework,” he says.
****
The men file out, silent. Even Vince. “Sebastian, can I talk to you for a sec?” I ask, before he reaches the door.
“Sure.” He keeps his eyes on that book. His hands too. Like it holds him together somehow. The cover is worn at the edges, the spine cracked, and the green color faded. He secures it with one arm against his chest. He looks diminished, hardly the guy who took Vince head on.
“This is for you,” I say, handing him a blank urge card. “It’s for you to fill out and use anytime things get difficult. And I’d like to schedule some time to talk one-on-one.”
“Oh. Okay. Is that because…” He gestures to the homework on my lap—What I Learned about Intimacy (Healthy or Unhealthy) from My Family. The one he’d read aloud. The ink so dark on the page, his pen strokes seem violent.
Shame. Secrets. Hate. Sex. Rage. These are the things that go together in my family. Not that any of them would ever admit it. As far as they’re concerned, I’m the devil’s spawn. They don’t even claim me. So there is no such thing as healthy intimacy. Never will be. Not for me. They made sure of that.
I glance up, not wanting him to catch me reading it. “No. It’s something I do with every new patient. I’d like to get to know you better. But, what you shared today…well, I’m sure it’s something we can discuss more in our session if you’d like.”
“I don’t want to. But I know I need to. Does that make sense?”
“Perfect sense. Talking about the past can be painful. But keeping it inside, that’s even worse.” And don’t I know it. “Does Wednesday morning work for you? After group?”
“I’ll have to check my schedule.” He makes a show of pretending his well-worn copy of Lord of the Flies is a day planner. “Yep. Booked solid.” Waiting for my reaction, he twitters. “Just kidding. That works for me.”
“Good. And don’t let Vince get to you. He can be a bit of a bully.”
Sebastian meets my eyes. “Yeah. I can’t stand bullies. Reminds me of my stepdad. I’m sorry if I got a little heated.”
I wave off his apology—Vince can push anybody’s buttons—but Sebastian pauses at the door. “What happened to your arm, Doc?”
I don’t look at it—the angry mark Danny left behind. It’s hidden anyway under a gauzy white bandage that must’ve peeked out from under the sleeve of my blazer. I tug it down and stare straight ahead. “Cat scratch.”
“Ouch.” He blinks a few times. Three to be exact. I count them in my head. Liar. Liar. Liar. And then, he’s gone, leaving me alone to wonder if he’d believed me. And why I felt certain he hadn’t.
I turn my chair to face the hanging tree and sit down. A little girl appears in a bright blue dress and tiny black rain boots. She skips along the sidewalk, carefree and so alive, and the tree watches. As if nothing has changed. As if it hadn’t borne witness to death. Twice now. At least.
“Dr. Maddox?” The voice startles me, even though I know it by now.
“Sebastian? Did you forget something?”
He cracks the door and peers in at me. “Uh, no. I found this outside.” He passes me an envelope. Once white, it’s dirtied with mud and folded and folded and folded again. Like it’s traveled a long way in someone’s pocket or bra or shoe. “It was under your mat. Not that I was looking or anything. I tripped and the corner turned up and there it was. It’s got your name on it.” Sure enough, printed on the outside: For Evelyn Maddox. I regard it like I do the tree. With complete suspicion.
“Thanks. I’ll take a look.”
I count to thirty to be sure he’s gone. Then I slice open the corner with the engraved letter opener Jared bought me when I’d rented this office. The paper inside is pulled from a cheap motel notepad, a single line of text written in the center.
I need to talk to you about Cassie. Meet me at Willow Court. Monday, 9 p.m.
I’m not sure how long I stand there, gaping at it. But when I look up again and out, the little girl runs toward the tree, laughing. She looks over her shoulder, toward the window, and my heart stills. Her brown pigtails, her sassy grin. She could be Cassie’s daughter or Cassie herself years ago, before I knew her. Before life ended her up here, the place where she’d disappear as cleanly as if she’d slipped through a seam in the fabric of the universe.
I toss the letter on my desk and move toward the window, panicked now. Because the little girl has disappeared. And it’s silly—crazy, really—but
I don’t trust the tree. Or myself.
Where is she? Gone like Cassie, I think. Gone. Gone forever. My forehead bumps the cool glass. That’s how close I am, how close I need to be. I have to find her.
I race out the door, not bothering to lock it behind me. I want to run, but I settle for a fast walk in case someone sees. Crazy hitchhiking shrink. But I’m not crazy. Because somebody knows about that night, somebody knows about Cassie. Somebody knows what I can’t remember.
“Evie? Where are…” Before he can finish asking, I brush past Calder who’s tinkering with a light at the end of the hallway, then I speed down the stairs to the parking lot, where I can see the tree and everything around it. I need to see it. Now.
My breath is coming way too fast, and I worry I might fall down. Like I’m spinning in circles on a giant merry-go-round and barely holding on.
But there! There she is. The girl appears again at her mother’s side. And she’s grinning. I try not to stare, but from here it looks like she’s smiling right at me. Like she knows my secrets. Even the ones I can’t remember. Then, she raises her tiny hand and waves.
****
“Are you alright?” Calder peers down at me from the second-floor railing, and for a second I’m not sure if I am. Or who I am.
“I’m fine,” I call up to him. I make my feet move back toward the building, pretending I don’t need to catch my breath. Why does everyone keep asking me if I’m alright? Because you’re running around chasing a ghost. That’s why.
“Do you know them?” He points out toward the tree, the little girl and her mother a block away, almost vanished.
I shrug, already halfway up the steps. “Uh, no. I—I don’t think so. Maybe.”
“Oh. You were moving so fast I thought you saw…well…”
“Saw what?” I climb the stairs carefully, focusing on each one. A step at a time, Evie. Slow and steady. “Who?”
“That guy. From the other night.”
Doctors of Darkness Boxed Set Page 45
