The House in the Pines(72)

Detective Diaz took notes as she listened, jotting down the strange words that filled the room. Her calm face betrayed nothing.

Frank went on for several minutes, then fell quiet, and all they could hear was the music. A man laughed in the distance. Someone set down a glass. Eventually Maya began to speak, but her voice was almost unrecognizable.

Her words dribbled from the phone like syrup, low and slurred. Unintelligible. She sounded like she was drooling.

Her mom’s mouth hung open.

“That’s you?” asked Diaz.

“It must be, but I don’t remember.”

They kept listening as she and Frank went back and forth a few times—and Maya thought she heard herself say Cristina. She leaned forward, hoping to catch his response, but the music drowned it out.

“We should be able to clean this up,” Diaz said. “Recover some of that audio.”

Frank was still talking when the song ended, and they heard relax and slow and breath in a voice that was even more singsong. Maya quaked with fear. Brenda and Diaz stared at the phone, all their attention on the recording—and suddenly Maya was sure that his words had worked their magic on them. On all of them. Aubrey’s blank face flashed through her mind, then Cristina’s. He’d put them all in a trance.

“Let go,” the recording said. “Relax your heart.”

Maya looked at her mom. At the detective. They looked vacant.

Her hand shot across the table—she stopped the recording. “Mom,” she said, panicked, terrified that Frank’s words had stopped her mother’s heart, just as they must have stopped Aubrey’s, Ruby’s, Cristina’s—just as they’d nearly stopped her own.

Brenda stared at her.

“Are you okay?” Maya asked.

Her mom blinked. “You’re the one I’m worried about. Are you okay?”

Maya exhaled.

“Would you like to take a break?” Diaz asked.

“No,” Maya said. “I’m all right.” She restarted the recording, and a moment later they heard her mom arrive.

“What the hell is wrong with her?” Brenda’s voice was clear and loud. “No, you settle down . . . Yes, Mom. I hear you.” Maya sounded normal again. The recording ended a few seconds later.

Diaz looked at her notes. Her brown eyes crinkled at the edges in a way that was thoughtful, even as it was impossible to tell what she was thinking. “You said you had a beer there,” she said. “Did you have anything else to drink?”

Maya sank. Here we go again. “I had some gin. Maybe two shots, but that was earlier. I wasn’t drunk at the bar.”

“Do you take any medications?”

Maya sank lower. She knew how this looked. Paranoia was a symptom of benzo withdrawal. She couldn’t look at either of them. “I used to take Klonopin, but I quit.”

“How recently?” Diaz asked.

“Last week.”

The detective wrote this in her notes. Then she sat back, tapped her pen absently on the pad.

Maya wasn’t hurt or angry at realizing that Diaz might not believe her. She was too exhausted for that. She wouldn’t argue this time. If no one believed her, she would happily swallow whatever pills Dr. Barry prescribed—the more, the better.

While Diaz tapped her pen, Maya imagined spending the rest of her life hiding from Frank. Changing her name. Moving out of state. She pictured herself telling Dan why it was no longer safe for him to live with her. She imagined the pain she would feel, but at least she would be medicated. She’d have to be.

“I’d like a copy of that recording,” the detective finally said.

Maya looked up. Blinked back tears. “Of course.”

“I’ve been in this job twenty years. Never heard anything like that.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what to make of it, not yet. But I’ll clear up the sound, see what else I hear. And I’ll look into that business you mentioned, Clear Horizons. I’d also like to have you talk to someone, a psychologist, about that med you were on. Get an assessment.”

“No problem,” Maya said, starting to feel hopeful. Diaz seemed to take her seriously. She asked a few more questions, then walked Maya and her mom back to the empty lobby of the police station. It was almost two a.m. and the station was quiet. A tray of Christmas-tree-shaped cookies sat on the front desk. “Let me know if he tries to get in touch with you,” Diaz said.

“I will,” Maya said. “Thank you.”

A ray of warmth cut through Diaz’s neutrality. “I’m sorry for what you’ve been through,” she said.



* * *



—

Brenda started the car, blasted the heat, and blew on her fingers, waiting for the fog on the windshield to clear. She was still in her pajamas, having run out as soon as she saw Maya’s note. She had always done her best to protect her daughter; Maya knew this. Brenda was just afraid of the wrong things. She’d thought that she was helping when she found Dr. Barry and set up Maya’s first appointment with him, and then when she brought home the meds he prescribed.

But tonight, she had saved her daughter’s life. Even if she didn’t know it—even if all she thought she’d done was interrupt a conversation—Maya knew and she was grateful. She was alive.