The Night Bird (Frost Easton #1)(52)

“So you can live with yourself if this happens again?”

“I’m not the one who’s doing this. I’m a victim, along with these women.”

Frost wanted to curse, but he swallowed it down. “Good-bye, Dr. Stein.”

He walked away, but he stopped when she called after him. “Wait.”

“What is it?”

Her face weighed what she could say and what she couldn’t say. Then she murmured, “Lost time.”

Frost’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Did any of the women experience lost time? Periods of time they didn’t remember?”

“Yes. Christie Parke was abducted from a parking lot. A day later, she went out on a date as if she had no recollection of what had happened to her. Brynn Lansing missed work and missed an appointment without any explanation shortly before the incident on the bridge.”

“That’s when he did it,” Stein said. “That’s when he programmed them.”

“I guessed that, but would a missing day give him enough time?”

“Depending on the person, yes. Some people are extremely suggestible.”

“Would you describe Monica Farr, Brynn Lansing, and Christie Parke that way?”

“Yes. All three were unusually responsive to treatment.”

Frost walked back to her. “How would he know that?”

“Excuse me?”

“How would he know that these women were highly susceptible? It can’t be an accident that he picked them.”

“I have no idea.”

“Is there anyone else who has access to your patient records?”

“No.”

“Not even your assistant?” Frost asked.

“No, she has access to a contact database for appointments, but I keep my patient records myself. And they’re all in writing. I refuse to put psychiatric records online or even in a computer. So he’d have to break into my office to read them, and this building has excellent security.”

Frost thought about it. He went from wall to wall on the lush carpet of Dr. Stein’s treatment room. This room had secrets. Patients talked about their deepest fears here. They shared things that they didn’t share with anyone else in their lives. Only the patients knew. Dr. Stein knew.

And the room knew, too. If the walls could talk, they could spill everything.

He froze.

Maybe the walls could talk.

He stared at Dr. Stein’s phone, which was connected to a portable battery charger. “Could you turn off your phone?”

“What?”

“Please. Just for a minute.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion, but she pushed the button to switch off her phone and returned it to her desk.

“Do you typically keep your phone with you during treatment sessions?” he asked.

“Yes. It’s muted, of course, but I have to be reachable in the event of emergencies.”

“Every time I’ve seen you, your phone has been connected to a portable battery charger. Why is that?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ve been getting terrible battery life. It drives me crazy. I should get a new phone, but I haven’t had time.”

“Have you received any unusual text messages?”

“Unusual?” she asked.

“Letters, numbers, garbage that doesn’t make sense.”

Stein frowned. “Actually, yes, I have received a few messages like that. I just figured it was weird spam. Why?”

“How long has that been happening?”

“About four or five months, I guess. What does it mean?”

“Get your phone checked,” Frost told her. “Or replace it right away. It’s possible someone has hacked it and loaded spyware on the phone. You’d probably never see the footprints, but he could be eavesdropping on your whole life.”

Stein stared at him in horror. “Do you mean someone could be listening to my calls? Seeing all my contacts and e-mails?”

Frost nodded. “Yes, but not just that. Some spyware programs have ambient listening features. They can turn on the microphone of your phone without you knowing it and without leaving any record. He could be right here in the room with your patients during your sessions, Dr. Stein. He could hear everything they tell you. He’d have a roadmap for how to play with their minds.”





26


Lucy squeezed a heavy garbage bag through the doorway of her apartment. It was filled with a year’s worth of old magazines and leftovers from the refrigerator that had grown a layer of green mold. She’d already split open one bag and stuffed everything into a second bag. She could barely lift it, so the plastic dragged along the ground.

She navigated the bag down the stairwell. The plaster on the walls was cracked, and the stone floors had been worn by decades of foot traffic. The stairwell had an ammonia smell. The front and rear doors were gated, but homeless people still found their way inside, and there were mornings where she had to step over pools of bodily fluids on her way to the street.

Halfway down the stairs, her phone rang, startling her. The garbage bag slipped from her hand and tumbled end over end to the next landing. She swore, hoping it didn’t break again. She grabbed her phone from her pocket. “Hello?”

“Lucy, it’s Frost.”