They look at each other again and stand in unison, the screech of their chairs making my arm hair bristle.
“Well, Doctor Davis, we appreciate your time,” Detective Thomas says, nodding his head. “And if you think of anything that may be pertinent to our investigation, anything at all that you think we should know—”
“I’ll tell you,” I say, smiling politely. They walk toward the door, opening it wide before peering out into the now-empty lobby. Officer Doyle turns around, hesitates.
“I’m sorry, Doctor Davis, one more thing,” he says. “You look so familiar, and I can’t seem to place it. Have we met before?”
“No,” I say, crossing my arms. “No, I don’t believe so.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m pretty sure,” I say. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a day full of appointments. My nine o’clock should be here any minute.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I step into my lobby, the quiet stillness amplifying the sound of my own breath. Detective Thomas and Officer Doyle have left. Melissa’s purse is gone, her computer black. The TV is still blaring, Lacey’s face haunting the room with her invisible presence.
I lied to Officer Doyle. We have met before—in Cypress Cemetery, as he lifted the earring of a dead girl out of my palm. I also lied about having appointments today. Melissa cleared them—I explicitly asked her to—and now it’s nine fifteen on a Monday morning, and I have nothing to do but sit in an empty office and let the darkness of my own thoughts devour me whole before regurgitating my bones.
But I know I can’t do that. Not again.
I hold my phone in my palm, thinking about who I can talk to, who I can call. Cooper is out of the question—he would worry too much. Ask me questions that I don’t want to answer, jump to conclusions that I’m actively trying to avoid. He would look at me with concern, his eyes flickering to my desk drawer and back up again, silently wondering what kind of remedies I have in there, hidden in the dark. What kind of twisted thoughts they’re creating, swirling in my mind. No, I need calm, rational. Reassuring. My next thought is Daniel, but he’s at a conference. I can’t bother him with this. It’s not that he would be too busy to listen to me—that’s the opposite of the problem. It’s that he would drop everything and rush to my aid, and I can’t let him do that. I can’t drag him into this. Besides, what is this, anyway? It’s nothing more than my own memories, my own unresolved demons, bubbling to the surface. There’s nothing he could do to fix the problem, nothing he could say to me that hasn’t been said before. That’s not what I need right now. I just need someone to listen.
My head jerks up. Suddenly, I know where I need to go.
I grab my purse and keys, locking my office door before jumping back in my car and heading south. Within minutes, I’m pulling past a sign that reads Riverside Assisted Living, a familiar collection of pollen-colored buildings looming in the distance. I always assumed the color choice was meant to mirror sunshine, happiness, feel-good things like that. At one point, I actually believed it, convincing myself that a paint color could artificially lift the mood of the residents trapped inside. But the once-bright yellow is faded now, the siding perpetually discolored with the merciless effects of weather and age, missing blinds turning the windows into gap-toothed grins, weeds peeking through the sidewalk cracks like they, too, are struggling to escape. I approach the buildings now and I no longer see sunshine gleaming back in my direction, the color of warmth and energy and cheer. Instead, I see neglect, like a stained bedsheet or the yellowing of forgotten teeth.
If I were a patient, I already know what I’d say to myself.
You’re projecting, Chloe. Is it possible that you sense neglect in these buildings because you feel as if you’ve neglected someone inside?
Yes, yes. I know the answer is yes, but that doesn’t make it any easier. I swerve into a parking spot near the entrance and slam my door a little too hard before walking through the automatic entryway and arriving in the lobby.
“Well, hello there, Chloe!”
I turn toward the front desk and smile at the woman waving in my direction. She’s big, busty, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, her patterned scrubs faded and soft. I wave back before leaning my arms against the counter.
“Hey, Martha. How are you today?”
“Oh, not bad, not bad. You here to see your mama?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I smile.