Paranoid(91)

“He has,” she admitted and then told him the rest: sensing someone outside, the footprint, the scrawled message sprayed upon her door.

He returned her phone to her. “You file a police report?”

“Cade insisted on it.”

“They find anything?”

“Not yet.”

“Jesus. I’d say it was just teenagers—y’know, bored and making trouble—but the murders put a darker spin on it.”

“Yeah.” She told him about the precautions they were taking, then, seeing the time, got to her feet.

“Anything you want me to do?” he asked as she set her half-full cup in the sink.

“Nah. I just needed to talk it out, y’know.” She gave him a quick kiss on his beard-stubbled cheek. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Okay, but you be careful,” he warned, “and if you need anything . . .”

“I’ll let you know.”

He walked with her to the back porch. “You do that. Keep me in the loop.”

She sketched a wave and hurried down the two steps and shivered. It wasn’t cold outside, just gloomy. She had things to do.

Such as what?

Keep the kids safe?

Get real.



Patient, lying back in the recliner: “I don’t know what’s happening.”

Therapist: “What do you mean?”

Patient: “People are dying. People I know.”

Therapist, calmly: “Death is a part of life.”

Patient, a little more anxious: “But they’re being murdered! Killed.”

Therapist: “And how does that make you feel?”

Patient, whispering: “Responsible.”

A beat.

Therapist, concerned, leaning forward: “Why do you feel responsible?”

Patient, fighting tears: “Because I think . . . I feel that if it weren’t for me, for my lies, they wouldn’t have died. It all started with Luke.” Tears begin to sprout. “I lied to him, oh, God. I lied to him and I shouldn’t have. I want to talk to him, but I can’t find him. I think . . . I think he’s hiding from me.”

Therapist, eyeing the clock: “That’s long over.”

Patient: “I don’t think so and it haunts me. He haunts me.”

Therapist: “Luke haunts you?”

Patient: “Because of my lies. You told me I could speak to him.”

Therapist, pausing, then: “That might not be possible. You have to let him go.”

Patient, swallowing: “I try, but it’s hard.”

Therapist, relaxing a bit and inhaling the scent of lemongrass from the burning incense: “I know, but you can do it. Now, it’s time for you to surface.”

Patient: “He would never forgive me.”

Therapist: “You can’t bring him back. You can’t undo what’s done, but you can move forward. Look to the future.”

Patient, confused: “What? How?”

Therapist: “Just try. First, look back at the past. What do you see?”

The patient is still uncertain.

Therapist, encouraging: “Just look.”

Patient, head turning to the left and frowning eyebrows knitting in concentration: “I see dark clouds. A storm over a mountain. Rain and thunder pouring over the valley.”

Therapist, leaning in closer: “Good. Now, when you look to the future?”

Patient, head slowly rotating to the right, the knitted brow relaxing, a smile toying on previously downturned lips: “It’s bright.” Relief is evident. “A warm glow over the mountain, sunshine beaming down on the valley where a river is flowing like liquid gold.”

Therapist, pleased: “Then let go of the past. Of the storm. Accept the light. And now it’s time to return. Three: You’re beginning to surface.”

Patient: “But the storm is following. People are dying.”

Therapist: “Let them go.”

Patient: “But Luke. You’re saying I have to forget him. I don’t know if I can. . . .”

Therapist: “Two. You’re leaving them behind. You’re leaving the past behind. You’re leaving Luke behind.”

Patient, nodding in the chair, hair rubbing against the leather, face more relaxed: “I will.”

Therapist, relieved: “Good.” A pause. “One. And you’re back.”





CHAPTER 28


A redheaded twentysomething in blue scrubs with a name tag that read “Will Hart, Customer Service” was behind the counter at Ace Medical Supplies in Astoria. He had been stacking boxes on the back wall behind the register but had turned to face Cade and Voss when they’d entered the small storefront owned by Nate Moretti. The space inside was small, filled with freestanding shelves that displayed neat stacks of all kinds of medical equipment from bandages to blood pressure cuffs to latex gloves to diabetes monitors and more. Against one wall, a row of walkers stood at the ready, crutches stacked neatly behind, all gleaming beneath suspended fluorescent lights.

“Can I help you?” Will Hart asked. A lanky kid, he had a pug nose sprinkled with freckles, dark eyes, and an eager-to-please expression.

“Yeah. We’d like to speak with Nate Moretti,” Cade said. “We’re with the city police.” He showed his ID and badge, just as Voss retrieved hers and displayed it on the counter.