A Flicker in the Dark(33)

“I’m—I’m sorry,” I stutter. “What did you just say?”

“If Lacey told you anything during your session on Friday that could potentially save her life, would you tell us?”

“Yes,” I say, my voice shaking. I glance down at my desk drawer, at my sanctuary of pills just barely out of reach. I need one. I need one now. “Yes, of course I would. If she had told me anything that raised even the slightest suspicion that she was in danger, I would tell you.”

“So why did she come into a therapist’s office, then? If there wasn’t anything wrong?”

“I’m a psychologist,” I say, my fingers quivering. “It was our first appointment together; it was very introductory. Just getting to know each other. She has some … family issues that she needs help dealing with.”

“Family issues,” Officer Doyle repeats. He’s still looking at me suspiciously, or at least, I think he is.

“Yes,” I say. “And I’m sorry, but that’s really all I can tell you.”

I stand up, a nonverbal cue that it’s time for them to leave. I was at the crime scene where Aubrey’s body was found—this very officer walked up on me holding a piece of evidence, for Christ’s sake—and now I’m the last person Lacey saw before her disappearance. These two coincidences, paired with my last name, would put me squarely in the center of this investigation—somewhere I desperately don’t want to be. I glance around my office, looking for any clues that could give away my identity, my past. I keep no personal mementoes here, no pictures of family, no allusions to Breaux Bridge. They have my name and only my name, but if they wanted to know more, that would be enough.

They look at each other again and stand in unison, the screech of their chairs making my arm hair bristle.

“Well, Doctor Davis, we appreciate your time,” Detective Thomas says, nodding his head. “And if you think of anything that may be pertinent to our investigation, anything at all that you think we should know—”

“I’ll tell you,” I say, smiling politely. They walk toward the door, opening it wide before peering out into the now-empty lobby. Officer Doyle turns around, hesitates.

“I’m sorry, Doctor Davis, one more thing,” he says. “You look so familiar, and I can’t seem to place it. Have we met before?”

“No,” I say, crossing my arms. “No, I don’t believe so.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m pretty sure,” I say. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a day full of appointments. My nine o’clock should be here any minute.”





CHAPTER FIFTEEN




I step into my lobby, the quiet stillness amplifying the sound of my own breath. Detective Thomas and Officer Doyle have left. Melissa’s purse is gone, her computer black. The TV is still blaring, Lacey’s face haunting the room with her invisible presence.

I lied to Officer Doyle. We have met before—in Cypress Cemetery, as he lifted the earring of a dead girl out of my palm. I also lied about having appointments today. Melissa cleared them—I explicitly asked her to—and now it’s nine fifteen on a Monday morning, and I have nothing to do but sit in an empty office and let the darkness of my own thoughts devour me whole before regurgitating my bones.

But I know I can’t do that. Not again.

I hold my phone in my palm, thinking about who I can talk to, who I can call. Cooper is out of the question—he would worry too much. Ask me questions that I don’t want to answer, jump to conclusions that I’m actively trying to avoid. He would look at me with concern, his eyes flickering to my desk drawer and back up again, silently wondering what kind of remedies I have in there, hidden in the dark. What kind of twisted thoughts they’re creating, swirling in my mind. No, I need calm, rational. Reassuring. My next thought is Daniel, but he’s at a conference. I can’t bother him with this. It’s not that he would be too busy to listen to me—that’s the opposite of the problem. It’s that he would drop everything and rush to my aid, and I can’t let him do that. I can’t drag him into this. Besides, what is this, anyway? It’s nothing more than my own memories, my own unresolved demons, bubbling to the surface. There’s nothing he could do to fix the problem, nothing he could say to me that hasn’t been said before. That’s not what I need right now. I just need someone to listen.

My head jerks up. Suddenly, I know where I need to go.

I grab my purse and keys, locking my office door before jumping back in my car and heading south. Within minutes, I’m pulling past a sign that reads Riverside Assisted Living, a familiar collection of pollen-colored buildings looming in the distance. I always assumed the color choice was meant to mirror sunshine, happiness, feel-good things like that. At one point, I actually believed it, convincing myself that a paint color could artificially lift the mood of the residents trapped inside. But the once-bright yellow is faded now, the siding perpetually discolored with the merciless effects of weather and age, missing blinds turning the windows into gap-toothed grins, weeds peeking through the sidewalk cracks like they, too, are struggling to escape. I approach the buildings now and I no longer see sunshine gleaming back in my direction, the color of warmth and energy and cheer. Instead, I see neglect, like a stained bedsheet or the yellowing of forgotten teeth.