The House in the Pines(62)

Nothing else on the website helped clarify the identity of Dr. Hart—though Maya had her suspicions—or the nature of the treatment being offered. All she learned was that Dr. Oren Bellamy’s proprietary therapeutic method continued to be practiced at—and only at—Clear Horizons Wellness Center. Insurance was not accepted.

Maya read all of every page on the site, not sure what she hoped to find, but she kept looking. On the “About” page, she studied the initials after Oren’s name and realized that she didn’t know what CHT stood for. She Googled it, and the first thing that came up was “Certified Hand Therapist.”

Hand therapist? Could that be right?

She added “psychology.”

What happened next caused Maya to question if maybe something was wrong with her phone. A glitch in the screen. There was a certain phrase that appeared among her search results—two or three words, a professional title—that she couldn’t make out.

“Certified . . . therapist.”

She couldn’t read the middle portion. Her eyes didn’t seem to grasp it, like the letters kept slipping out from beneath her vision. No matter how she held her screen and regardless of what she clicked on, she couldn’t read what came before “therapist.”

Maya’s vision had stumbled over words now and again in recent years, but it was rare enough that she would chalk it up to tired eyes and move on.

But now it was obvious that it was just one very specific word—or part of a word—that she couldn’t read. She got out of bed, turned on the lights, and looked around. There was nothing wrong with her vision as far as she could tell. No dark spots or blurriness. Yet when she looked again at her phone, the problem remained. “Certified . . . therapist.” It was like an optical illusion. Something was blocking her from seeing it. She felt sick. Nothing about this felt possible. Maybe she really was crazy.

She sank down onto the edge of the bed. Held her head in her hands. Then she had an idea and got back on her phone.

She created an online document. Copied “Certified . . . therapist” and pasted it into the document.

She selected the “Read Aloud” option.

What she heard turned her blood to ice. The middle of the word sounded garbled. She couldn’t hear it any more than she could read it on her screen. “Certified *#@^-therapist.” The warping was subtle—she might not have noticed had she only heard it once—but it kept happening. “Certified *#@^-therapist.” Maya’s heart raced. She slowed down the reading speed. Held the phone to her ear and closed her eyes and listened over and over and over and over. She listened until she heard. And a black sun dawned in her chest.

Oren Bellamy had been a certified hypnotherapist.





THIRTY-TWO




Maya still hasn’t told Aubrey about the lost time.

She’s less sure of herself by the hour, and it’s not like she can point to any injury, or say for sure that it wasn’t her fault, so she didn’t mention Frank after the Tender Wallpaper concert last night or before they went back to Maya’s house and went to sleep.

But then she’d dreamed of the cabin. Not much happened in the dream—Frank sat across from her, the table set with bowls—yet terror had shrieked through the air and she couldn’t move, couldn’t open her mouth to let out the scream in her throat. The dream was so upsetting that, for the second morning in a row, she wasn’t able to fall back asleep afterward.

She walks quietly to the kitchen. Her mom and Aubrey are still asleep. The window above the sink has been left open. The room is cool with morning. She pours herself a glass of orange juice and tries to shake off the dread of her dream, but then sees the number flashing on the cordless phone. Eight. Eight missed calls, and she knows who they’re from. The call log confirms it—Frank’s been calling her all morning.

The murky fear she’s been holding at bay comes flooding back. It occurs to her that she has no idea who Frank really is.

“You’re up early.”

Maya startles.

Her mom sweeps into the living room in a cotton nightgown with roses on it, her blond curls a messy halo around her head. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Maya puts a finger to her lips. “Aubrey’s asleep.”

“She’s here?” Her mom seems rested after a full night’s sleep, a luxury in her line of work. She goes from room to room, opening curtains, filling the house with light.

“Aubrey! So good to see you.”

Maya hears them in the hall. Aubrey must have been on her way to the bathroom, probably hoping to sneak back to sleep afterward, but now she’s been caught awake. “Hi, Brenda.” Aubrey’s voice is sleepy but warm. She’s spent a lot of time here over the years, including a whole month last year after her mom kicked her out of the house for sneaking a boy into her room.

Brenda makes them all French toast and serves it with local maple syrup, a splurge. The French toast is crispy on the outside and soft in the middle. The house smells like fried batter and the coffee that Maya has recently begun to join her mom in drinking with breakfast. She started largely because she wasn’t allowed to drink it when she was younger, but she liked the way it made her feel and quickly learned to love its bitter taste.

She washes dishes afterward, and Aubrey dries. They talk over running water, the smell of Palmolive. “So about Frank . . .”