The Night Bird (Frost Easton #1)(8)

Jillian lay on a white chaise in the middle of the therapy room. When Frankie pushed the intercom button, she could hear piano music playing softly inside. Jillian’s eyes were open, but she was already under hypnosis. The curved wall in front of her served as a movie screen, playing a slow-motion track of flowers and plants growing. Typically, Frankie used a video of ocean waves to relax her patients—but not for Jillian.

Water was Jillian’s problem.

When Frankie first met the girl a month earlier, they’d chatted in Frankie’s office, which adjoined the therapy room. They talked about boys. School. Music. The ordinary parts of a teenager’s life.

And then, with a glance at Jillian’s mother, Frankie poured a glass of water.

The reaction was even worse than she expected.

Jillian gasped for air. A choking noise belched from her open mouth, and redness rose in her face. Her chest seized. The episode continued until Frankie poured the water out in the sink, and once the water was gone, Jillian became her typical young self almost immediately. She laughed and joked about Taylor Swift. She talked about her last vacation with her parents to Disneyland. Neither her mind nor her body showed ill effects of the trauma.

It was the most extreme case of aquaphobia that Frankie had ever seen.

“Three months ago, I took Jillian kayaking in the bay near the San Mateo Bridge,” her mother had explained. “We ran into unstable currents, and her kayak flipped. She couldn’t right herself. I paddled like crazy to get to her, but it was nearly a minute before I could reach her and get her out of the water. She nearly died. The doctors said there was no physiological damage, but a few days later, I noticed that—well, I noticed that Jillian was starting to smell. And I realized she hadn’t showered since that trip to the bay.”

“I can’t stand to have water touching me,” Jillian added. “As soon as I get wet, I’m back there under the bay. The whole thing comes to life for me again. It’s not just that I remember it. I’m there.”

“Since then, it’s gotten worse,” her mother went on. “The very sight of water can trigger an episode. We’ve gone to doctors and therapists, and no one has been able to help. We’re desperate, Dr. Stein.”

Jillian leaned across the desk and took Frankie’s hand. Her young eyes had pleaded with her. “I read an article that called you the master of memory. You help people forget bad things, right? Please, can you help me forget what happened in the bay?”

Frankie squeezed the girl’s hand. “I’ll do everything I can to help you, but this won’t be easy, Jillian. You can’t change your memory without reliving it. That’s how it works. So before you forget anything, what I really need you to do is remember.”

As Frankie stared at Jillian through the window of the therapy room, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection. It was strange how you could live inside your skin and still see someone you didn’t know in the mirror. For months, she’d felt like a stranger in her own life. People told her that was how it was when you lost your father. You became a shell, empty, stranded on the sand.

At least you have your memories, people told her in the sympathy cards they sent. Which, to Frankie, was a cruel joke. She of all people knew that memory was unreliable. Memories played tricks on the brain.

She was nearly forty years old. Her brown hair was short, with a few loose strands dangling past her ears. Her face and nose were long and narrow, with a sharply defined chin. She dressed more like a CEO than a psychiatrist or scientist, in dark pantsuits. She was very thin and tall, and she wore high heels to make herself even taller. Her pencil shape attracted notice. In college and medical school, she’d endured whispers of anorexia. They weren’t true. She had skinny genes; her parents were tall and thin, like her. Genetics were funny, though. Her sister, Pam, had an almost identical face, despite being four years younger, but her body had luxurious curves that Frankie envied.

Men’s eyes followed Pam, and she welcomed it. Frankie, who was just as pretty, had spent most of her life shutting men down. They looked at her and knew she had little time for anything or anyone outside her brain. Her cool dark eyes cut people down to size. Her husband, Jason, was the only one who’d ever stood up to her, in the lab or the bedroom, but their relationship was more a meeting of minds than a passionate love match. Frankie reserved most of her passion for helping her patients, which didn’t make for a happy marriage.

In her therapy practice, she worked with kids like Jillian who’d developed crippling phobias. She worked with soldiers returning from overseas who’d seen the worst horrors of war. She worked with victims of physical and emotional abuse—and sometimes, she worked with the abusers, too. The criminals. The sociopaths. Regardless of who they were, they all had one thing in common.

They were haunted by memories, and they wanted to exorcise their ghosts.

Frankie let herself quietly into the therapy room with Jillian. This place, more than anywhere else, was her home. It was lushly carpeted to reduce extraneous noise, and sound baffles were built into the walls. She kept the temperature at a consistent seventy-two degrees, day or night. Built-in speakers allowed her to communicate from outside the room, depending on the patient—but with kids, like Jillian, she preferred to be seated next to them. The wrap-around floor-to-ceiling screen, almost like an IMAX theater, created a 4K high-definition world in which to shape what the patient’s brain saw and remembered.