A Flicker in the Dark(26)

“Yeah,” I said. “Clearly she wasn’t perfect, but nobody is…”

“One specifically with Bert Rhodes, Lena’s father.”

I was silent, that mental image of Bert Rhodes’s unraveling still fresh in my mind.

“Did she neglect your father, emotionally? Was she planning on leaving him?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No, she didn’t neglect him. They were happy—or, I thought they were happy. They seemed happy—”

“Did she neglect you, too? After the sentencing, she tried to kill herself. With two young children still under the age of eighteen, still dependent on her.”

I knew in that moment that the story had already been written; nothing I could have said would have swayed the narrative. Worse, they were using my words—my words as a psychologist, my words as his daughter—to reinforce their blind notion. To prove their point.

I click out of the Times’s website and open up a new window, but before I can start typing, a breaking news alert chirps across the screen.





AUBREY GRAVINO’S BODY FOUND





CHAPTER TWELVE




I don’t even bother to click into the news alert. Instead, I get up from my desk and close my laptop, the Ativan fog lifting me across my office and into my car. I float weightlessly down the road, through town, through my neighborhood, through my front door, and eventually find myself on the couch, my head sinking deep into the cushions as my eyes bore into the ceiling above.

And that’s where I remain for the rest of the weekend.

It’s Monday morning now and the house still smells like chemically produced lemon from the cleaner I used to wipe down the wine-soaked kitchen counters on Saturday morning. My surroundings feel clean, but I do not. I haven’t showered since my return from Cypress Cemetery, and I can still see the dirt from Aubrey’s earring wedged beneath my fingernails. My roots are damp with grease; when I run my fingers through my hair, the strands remain stuck in one spot instead of cascading across my forehead the way they usually do. I need to shower before work, but I can’t find the motivation.

What you’re experiencing is akin to the symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder, Chloe. Feelings of anxiety persisting despite the absence of any immediate danger.

Of course, it’s easier to dole out advice than to actually take it. I feel like a hypocrite, an imposter, reciting the words I would say to a patient while willfully ignoring them when the recipient is myself. My phone vibrates beside me, sending it fluttering across the marble island. I glance at the display: One new text message from Daniel. I swipe at the screen and scan the paragraph before me.

Good morning, sweetheart. I’m headed into the opening session now—will be unavailable most of the day. Make it a good one. I miss you.



My fingers touch the screen, Daniel’s words lifting the heaviness from my shoulders just slightly. This effect he has on me, I can’t explain it. It’s as if he knows what I’m doing at this very moment; the way I’m slipping underwater, too tired to even look for a branch to cling to, and he’s the hand that juts out from the trees, grabbing my shirt and yanking me back to land, back to safety, just in time.

I text him back and place my phone on the counter, turning on the coffee maker before walking into the bathroom and twisting the knob in the shower. I step into the hot water, the violent spray feeling like needles against my naked body. I let it burn me for a while, pelting my skin raw. I try not to think about Aubrey, about her body found in the cemetery. I try not to think about her skin, scratched and dirty and covered in maggots swarming eagerly around a meal. I try not to think about who might have found her—maybe it was that cop, all nasally and winded as he walked her earring back to the safety of his locked cruiser. Or maybe it was khaki-cargo-pants, leapfrogging into a ditch or a particularly dense patch of crabgrass, the scream getting caught in her throat, instead coming out like a deep, wet choke.

Instead, I think about Daniel. I think about what he’s doing right now—walking into a cold auditorium in New Orleans, probably clutching a Styrofoam cup of complimentary coffee as he scans the crowd for an empty chair, a lanyard with his name dangling around his neck. He’s having no problem meeting people, I imagine. Daniel can talk to anyone. After all, he managed to turn an emotionally guarded stranger he met in a hospital lobby into his fiancée within a matter of months.

I had initiated our first date, though. I’ll give myself that. After all, it was his business card that was pushed into the pages of my book that day. I had his number, but he didn’t have mine. I vaguely remember slipping the book back into the box that was resting on top of my car before loading it into the back seat and driving away, watching him disappear into Baton Rouge General in my rearview. I remember thinking he was nice, handsome. His card said Pharmaceutical Sales, which explained why he was there. It also made me wonder if that’s why he was flirting with me—I could be just another client to him. Another paycheck.

I never forgot about the card; I always knew it was there, calling to me quietly from the corner. I left it there for as long as I could, leaving that box of books still untouched until, three weeks later, it was the last one left. I remember pulling stacks out by their spines, dusty and cracking, and slipping them into their spots on the bookshelf until finally, there was only one left. I peered down into the empty box, Bird Girl staring back at me with her cold, bronze eyes. Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. I bent over and picked it up, turned it to its side. I ran my fingers along the edge of the pages, fingering the gap where his business card still rested. I stuck my thumb inside and flipped it open, once again staring at his name.