by Mia Sheridan
He paused, regarding her intently. He read things, this man. This detective. Saw things other people did not. What was in his past that might be responsible for that particular sensitivity?
No, she didn’t want to know.
“I experience the same things in my job,” he said. “I know. It can make you feel alone. To have seen the proof of the worst of human nature. It can feel like a heavy burden. What you saw today, it will stick with you. You should expect that.”
She felt some of the tension drain from her shoulders. His words made her feel better. He made her feel better. Calmer. She couldn’t help the ghost of a smile that tilted her lips. “I’m supposed to be the psychologist here.”
He smiled, that sweet one he’d given her as he’d held her in bed. “Yeah, but you’re still human.”
“Can I ask you a question about the . . . the murder?”
He nodded.
“Why would someone do that? I mean to his eyes?”
Reed glanced away, looking thoughtful. “It means something to him.” He looked back at her. “I don’t know what, not yet. But it’s specific.”
The door opened, causing them both to startle slightly. Doris peeked in. She glanced at Reed, a blush pinkening her cheeks. Liza resisted a smile. The old lady had a crush. She was painfully sure Reed Davies was used to that reaction. “Were you able to find the right file?”
Reed held it up. “Yes, I’ve got what I need.”
“Good,” Doris said, a frown bringing out more creases in her forehead than were already there. “I suppose you have some difficult calls to make.”
“Yes,” Reed said. He looked at Liza. “Thank you for your help.”
Doris ducked out of the room and Reed took his wallet from his back pocket, removing a card. He moved toward Liza, holding it out to her. She took the edge of it, but before he let go, he asked quietly, “Were you always going to leave without saying goodbye? Was that the plan?”
Their gazes held for a moment before Liza looked down at the business card with his name, title, and phone number, both office and cell, in simple black type. She met his eyes again. “Yes.”
His expression changed only minimally, but a reluctant acceptance entered his gaze. He nodded once. “If you think of anything else that might help, you have my number.” And with that, he turned and left the room.
Liza leaned back on the cabinet behind her. She had a sudden, unexpected urge to cry. And Liza never cried. Not anymore.
CHAPTER SIX
Liza closed her apartment door behind her, exhaling as she engaged the locks and then kicked off her heels.
It felt like a million years since she’d left that morning, her travel mug of coffee in her hand, the only thing on her mind, the appointments she had scheduled.
She’d made it through the rest of her day, gone through the motions, met with her patients, said goodbye to her co-workers, and driven home. But somehow, she still felt shaky inside, even though her body and hands had stopped trembling hours ago. She remembered that form of shaky. She’d lived with it for years. The feeling that something bad was coming. That something bad was always coming. She’d moved beyond that, at least the constant of it, but in one fell swoop, it was back, and though the feeling might be temporary—she would regain her equilibrium, wouldn’t she?—the memories were not.
She stood in her entranceway, the quiet consuming her, the shakiness a drone of anxiety inside her chest. Here there were no distractions, no schedules, or patients to reassure. Perhaps she should have stayed at work. But no . . . each time she walked near the hallway where she’d found Mr. Sadowski, she pictured him again, and she’d needed to put distance between herself and that particular spot. At least temporarily. Tomorrow she’d be okay.
“Buck up, Buttercup.”
She smiled. “Hey, sis,” she said, her sister’s voice just what she’d needed to break her from her spinning thoughts. She stepped forward.
“What are you thinking so hard about that your body’s as useless as mine?” Her eyes were shut but she heard the teasing note in Mady’s voice, could picture the twinkle in her blue eyes.
Liza managed a smile. “There’s nothing useless about you. You’re perfect.” She walked to the couch and sank down on it, leaning her head back and staring at the ceiling. She heard the low whir of her sister’s wheelchair as it came up beside her, smelled her soothing, little girl scent.
“There’s something wrong. Talk to me.”
Liza hesitated, but it always helped to talk it through with Mady, so she told her about finding the dead body of the hospital director, about what had been done to his eyes, about the horror that was still coursing through her.
“The eyes,” Mady said softly. “Why would someone do that?”
“Reed says it means something to the killer,” she murmured, recalling his words. “I agree. It . . . symbolizes something to him.” But what? What kind of person was capable of something like that? She’d asked Reed the question earlier to get his take as a detective, but what did she think? If she was going to do a psychological assessment, what would it say?
“That’s right,” Mady murmured. “Step away. Break it down. Make it clinical. It always helps, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” Liza said, but why didn’t she sound convinced, even to herself?
“So,” Mady went on, a teasing note in her voice, “what else did Reed say?”
Liza blew out a breath.
Reed, Reed, Reed.
“I can’t think about him,” she said.
“You can’t, and yet you are.”
Ah, but nothing got past Mady.
“You’ve never thought about a man like you’ve thought about him. You always seem glad to be done with them.”
Yes . . . and why? What was different about him? Other than . . . well, that. But that wasn’t the whole of it. She couldn’t put her finger on it. All she knew was that ever since that night two weeks ago, she’d felt empty and restless. Caged.
The opposite of what she’d set out to feel in the aftermath.
Liza sighed, standing, and walking to her kitchen counter where she’d tossed her mail for the last week or so, without even glancing through it. She looked through it now, mindlessly, tossing the junk aside, and placing bills in front of her so she could take them to her small home office where she’d pay them online this weekend.
She halted in her sorting, frowning at an official-looking letter from the State of Ohio. A tremble moved through her as she ripped it open, scanning the lines and then dropping it to the counter. It hit the edge and fell off, drifting to her feet.
“They’re considering letting him out.”
“What? How?” Mady asked. “He wasn’t supposed to be out for another five years.”
Liza swallowed. “Parole.” Oh God, they might give him parole. Her brother, who’d turned out to be as evil as the man who fathered them. Liza smelled smoke, felt the heat, her blistering skin. She clenched her eyes shut as though that would shut out the memory. Her hand went unconsciously to her throat. No blood, just her pearl choker. She ran a finger over one of the beads, the smooth texture grounding her. “They won’t let him out.”
For a moment there was only silence, and then Mady voiced what she didn’t want to. “I’m not so sure about that.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Liza cleared her throat, giving Simon Mullner a smile, tilting her head in an effort to get the young man to meet her eyes.
His shoulders curled forward and he continued to chew at his thumbnail.
“How are you doing, Simon?”
He shrugged. His eyes were glassy, unfocused. She’d asked Dr. Headley to lower his medication, and he had for a while, but then Simon had had a couple of outbursts where he’d banged his head into the wall repeatedly until an orderly had restrained him, and so his dosage was raised again.
Was this better than an outburst? It was certainly easier for them, but Liza had to believe that where there was an outburst, the
re were emotions that were accessible. And how could she help him, if she couldn’t access his emotions?
She saw it, the flicker of pain that moved through his eyes. She not only saw it, she felt it inside, recognized it for what it was. There were ghosts in there, ghosts that would begin clanking their chains the moment the medication wore off.
“I want to help you if you’ll let me. Talk to me, Simon.”
He looked at her, his mouth forming a grim line. “Talk, talk, talk, that’s all you want to do,” he said, his words slow, slightly slurred.
Liza leaned back in her chair. “I . . . yes, for now. I can’t know how to help you unless you confide in me.”
“Why should I? You can’t understand what it feels like to be me.” His eyes moved down her crossed legs to her heels and then back up. “You in your pretty suit with your pretty hair and your pretty life. You leave here and go home and smile, smile, smile . . . and me, I’m haunted. Just … haunted . . .” His words faded away as his gaze halted on a ray of sunlight filtering through the window.
“By what? What are you haunted by?”
His knee began bouncing and he started chewing on his thumbnail again.
Liza flipped his file open. “You lived with your mother before you came here?”
Simon’s knee picked up speed.
“Do you have a good relationship with your mother? She hasn’t been to visit you, I see—”
The man moved like a bolt of lightning, springing from his chair, and grabbing her shoulders. Liza’s surprised scream wavered and filled the room as he shook her. He leaned in, eyes wild, spit flying from his mouth as he yelled, “You don’t see, you don’t see, you don’t see!”
The door crashed open and one of the orderlies rushed into her office, grabbing Simon, and pulling him away from Liza easily. Liza jumped to her feet, shaking as she attempted to catch her breath. Tears were streaking down Simon’s face. “You don’t see!” he cried.
The orderly, a muscular man named Jon, held Simon’s hands behind his back, with seemingly little effort. Simon looked drained, broken, as though the outburst had used up every bit of energy in his underweight body. “Are you okay, Dr. Nolan?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I—”
“Liza, what the hell happened?” Chad appeared in her doorway, his gaze flying from her to a restrained Simon. His mouth set in a thin line. “Take him back to his room,” he told Jon. Jon nodded, leading Simon out.
Chad approached Liza. “Are you all right?”
She took a deep breath. “Yes. I will be. He just . . . took me by surprise.”
Chad took hold of her upper arms, stepping closer to her. “You shouldn’t be alone with patients who have already proven to be violent.”
She frowned. “He hasn’t proven to be violent though.” Or if he had, he’d only ever tried to harm himself. She thought back to what had happened a few minutes before. He’d shaken her and yelled—scared her—yes, but had he actually been violent with her? Actually harmed her? No.
What had he said? You don’t see, you don’t see. A shiver went down her spine.
“Liza,” Chad said softly, bringing her from her thoughts. She focused back on him. He was standing very close. She began to step back, seeking distance from him, but he pulled her forward and wrapped his arms around her. Liza stiffened but allowed the embrace. They were friends; she’d told him they could be friends.
He rubbed her back in slow, circular motions. “I care so much for you, Liza. I don’t want to see you hurt. If one of those animals hurts you—”
Liza pulled back, making a sound of disagreement in the back of her throat. “They’re not animals, Chad. Simon is not an animal. He’s a kid. And he’s very hurt, confused—”
“Sick.”
Liza cast her eyes to the side. “Perhaps.”
“He needs to be medicated.”
“I don’t disagree, Chad. Perhaps medication is necessary, especially now. But there are other things there too. Other root causes for his behavior. Things I might be able to help him with if he would trust me.” Medication worked best when combined with therapy. They were supposed to be a team.
Chad moved a piece of hair off her cheek, his eyes softening as he gazed at her. “You have too much empathy for your patients, Liza. I understand why but . . . I don’t want it to end up making you blind to what these people are capable of. They’re very sick individuals. Very sick.”
“This isn’t Ward Five, Chad. I’m not dealing with psychopaths.”
“No, but they’re still unpredictable.”
She exhaled a breath, casting her eyes to the side. Hadn’t Reed Davies said something similar when he’d interviewed her? But Reed’s question had been directed at her. He’d been alluding to her own behavior . . .
Reed. Why did the very thought of him cause an electric thrill to vibrate in her belly?
Movement made her focus back on Chad just as his face came forward, his lips meeting hers. He grasped her head in his hands and tilted it so he could deepen the kiss. Just as his tongue probed her closed lips, she pulled back, stepping away from him. His eyes snapped open, tongue partially sticking from his mouth, creating a comical expression that caused a nervous laugh to erupt from her.
She clapped a hand over her mouth as his face darkened. “Sorry,” she breathed. “I . . . sorry. It’s just . . .” Liza shook her head. “Chad, we’ve already gone over this. You and me, we’re not a good idea. I’m sorry.”
The anger in his expression turned sullen. “You haven’t given us a real chance.”
“We’re associates, Chad. I . . . I respect you so much. I don’t want to ruin that, please.”
He stepped toward her again, toying with the same lock of hair that had fallen from her bun. “You won’t ruin it. Who else knows all your secrets, Liza? Who else accepts you for all you are? All you’ve done?”
Anger crashed through her, as did shame. He was using what she’d told him as a means to convince her to date him? She regretted that she’d gone out with him a few times when they’d first begun working together, and that she’d confided in him as a psychiatrist and friend—not about all the details of her history, but enough. In the beginning, when she’d believed they were a true team. She’d shared her past, thinking he’d be able to look at it clinically as she’d attempted to do since she’d begun studying psychology, to reassure her that she shouldn’t feel like a fraud who had no business treating the mentally ill. And he had . . . sort of. He’d prescribed an anti-anxiety medication that she’d stopped taking when she had trouble concentrating on her patients. He’d told her there were others she could try—sometimes it was a matter of finding the right cocktail—but she’d declined. Liza was determined to try a few other solutions first. “I appreciate your support. You’ve been a good friend, Chad.” She added some steel to her voice, enunciating the word friend.
Annoyance flashed in his gaze, but he stepped back, sighing and smoothing his hair. “Just take care of yourself, Liza.” He turned to go. “And conduct your therapy sessions somewhere more public from here on out.”
He left, closing the door behind him. Liza rolled her eyes. Right, because patients really wanted to open up about their deepest secrets sitting in the middle of the cafeteria. With a loud sigh, she sank into the chair behind her desk. At least she’d stopped shaking. But in the aftermath of the adrenalin rush she’d experienced when Simon charged at her, she felt drained.
She was rattled. God, she’d just been rattled on one scale or another since she’d opened that stairwell door two days before. Mr. Sadowski . . . her brother’s possible release . . . the session with Simon . . .
She crossed her arms, placed them on her desk and laid her head on them, taking deep, calming breaths. Her phone rang, startling her, and she grabbed for it, answering breathily.
“Hi, Dr. Nolan?”
Her stomach leapt. “Detective Davies.”
There was a short pause. “Yes,” he said, seeming surprised. Pr
obably that she’d recognized his voice so easily. And maybe she was a little surprised too. Why couldn’t she get him out of her head? His expression, his laugh, his voice . . . him. “I hope I’m not bothering you, but I just received the log of recent key card usage. Unfortunately, it only goes back several days as the information is wiped that often, but I had some questions the man . . . ah”—Liza heard paper rustling—“Mike Henderson, who provided the log, didn’t seem equipped to answer.”
Liza blew out a breath on a smile. “The key card system here is a bit lax to say the least. I don’t know that any one person is in charge of it, to tell you the truth. Mike is actually a file clerk.”
“Ah, well that explains that.”
Liza smiled. “I’ll try my best to answer your question.”
“Great. So, it appears Steven Sadowski left the hospital around six thirty Monday night. He’s visible on several cameras doing so. Records indicate that a key card was assigned to Steven Sadowski on the day he was hired, and that card was used once to access a back stairwell with no camera yesterday morning.”
“Oh,” Liza breathed, her skin prickling.
Reed paused for a second. “The strange part is that the key card that corresponds with the video from him leaving Monday night is a different card registered to Gordon Draper.”
“That’s the name of the former director.”
“Ah, okay.” Reed paused. “Any idea why Steven Sadowski was using Gordon Draper’s assigned card in addition to his own?”
“Hmm. Well, like I said, the system could use some management. My best guess is that Mr. Sadowski was given the former director’s old card as well as a new one, but the old one was never officially transferred into his name? Mr. Draper might have more information on that. He lives in Hyde Park. I have his address right here actually.” She moved a few papers aside and found the sticky note she’d written his address on that she’d gotten from the admin department. “I sent him flowers several months back. There was a death in his family,” she said, sadness creeping into her voice.
