Every Single Secret(19)
“Thank you for having us on such short notice,” Heath said.
“I wholeheartedly approve of an emergency relationship intervention. Not to be glib about marriage, of course.” Cerny smiled at me. “I’m impressed with people as young as you who take their transition to the institution with such sobriety.” He turned to Heath. “Mr. Beck. A pleasure, at last.”
“Likewise,” Heath said in an even voice. He seemed tense—or coiled for attack, I couldn’t tell which.
Cerny rubbed his hands together. “Business first. Dr. Teague has gone down to Dunfree. Family issues, nothing to worry about. So, unfortunately, there’s no one who can show you around the property. Or pull up the correct papers for you to sign. Seems I’m helpless without my assistant.”
“Well, it’s not like we’re going anywhere,” I said. “And I can show myself around.”
And find where Reggie Teague had stashed our car.
“Excellent,” Cerny said. “Then Heath and I will have our first session. Meanwhile, I’d encourage you to find a spot outside where you can meditate or journal.”
I saw one corner of Heath’s mouth twitch.
“Will do,” I said.
“Mr. Beck? Ready?” Dr. Cerny gestured toward the hall that led to his office, then looked back at me. “I believe the rain has stopped. You know, Daphne, you ought to go outside and visit the bird garden. Watching the birds, I find, is quite a peaceful pursuit. For most.”
His dimples appeared, and I couldn’t help it—I flashed to Mr. Al. Then I glanced at Heath, but he’d already turned toward the doctor’s office, like he couldn’t wait to get started.
Chapter Seven
It hadn’t quit raining completely, but I wasn’t about to stay inside jotting my thoughts in a journal or go swanning around some bird garden. I needed to get out of this house. Pull off the tentacles of claustrophobia that had started to curl around me and do something proactive.
For starters, I needed to track down a knife. That morning in the shower, I’d suddenly remembered Heath kept a spare set of keys under the car, secured with a zip tie. There was no way the flimsy cuticle scissors in my makeup bag were going to slice through the zip tie, but a kitchen knife should do the trick. Once I got the key, I’d be able to hide in the car and check the iPad to see if Annalise Beard had come up with any answers for me.
What I would do after that, I was less sure of.
Maybe I’d just lay it all out on the table. Tell Heath that he didn’t need Dr. Cerny, because I knew what had really happened to him. Maybe it had been an abusive boyfriend of his mom’s, some guy who had tormented him physically or, God forbid, sexually. Whatever it was, I’d reassure him that it didn’t have to ruin his life, that we could handle anything together, privately, without interference from a therapist.
After we talked, after the truth was out, we’d get the hell off this mountain. Go home, back to the safety of our little house and our orderly lives. Back to the way things used to be.
In the kitchen I nicked a paring knife off the end of a magnetic rack, tucked it up the sleeve of my sweater, and headed back down the front hall to the porch. Outside, the air had taken on a noticeable chill, and everything shone, still slick with rain. The Baskens property was clotted with mountain laurels, oakleaf hydrangeas, and multiple varieties of pine, oak, and maple. The vegetation was thick and lush and heavy with droplets of water. I could hear the faint roar of the waterfall somewhere above me, but hidden from sight on this side of the house, it just sounded like a throaty rumble. I hugged my old, lumpy fisherman sweater around me and hoped the clean-washed air would blow away the thoughts squirreling around my mind.
Just beyond the house, I found where the cars were parked. There were five of them—an old silver Mercedes, a white minivan, a forest-green extended-cab Tacoma, Heath’s blue Nissan, and an ancient brown Buick. And at the end of the row sat a John Deere Gator.
I scooched into the bushes and ducked under the front bumper of the Nissan, settling onto a bed of soggy leaves. I planted the knife in the dirt and ran my hands all under the greasy grille, but didn’t find the key. I repeated the same thing under the rear of the car. No key there either. Dammit. Had Heath used the spare key recently and not mentioned it?
I palmed the knife and strolled away from the cars toward the backyard. A sad collection of damp chairs and tables was arranged around the mossy stone patio, including an old potting bench that was pushed up against the house. Behind the patio lay a grid of raised beds with the bedraggled remnants of a summer garden. Farther back, set against the line of trees, sat a small, unpainted outbuilding, its lopsided double doors chained closed. No bird garden that I could see.
I ambled to the structure, a barn from the looks of it. The trees ringed it, the tips of their overhanging branches, encased in dense caterpillar webs, reaching like a parent’s protective arms. The double doors were fastened with a large, rusty padlock. I fiddled with it a minute, then let it drop with a clank against the door, pressing one eye against the crack and waiting for my vision to adjust to the darkness. The only thing I could see was what looked like a bunch of old furniture draped with dingy sheets. A trio of white moths fluttered in the gloom.
Up at the house a door slammed, and instinctively, I flattened myself against the side of the barn. A woman, maybe in her sixties, stood on the back patio, dressed in hiking clothes—cargo pants and a thermal top and a bandana holding back her hair. Mrs. Sieffert. The woman who’d been watching us as Reggie Teague showed us to our rooms. The woman I’d seen fighting with her husband last night.