“Or Palumbo is right, that’s what you’re going to say, and my daughter is a psychopath.”
“Like I said, until I do my own work, I can’t form an opinion. Who gave her the DID diagnosis, if I may ask?”
“Dr. Caroline Cross, do you know her?”
Mitch shook his head.
“She wasn’t our first doctor, believe me, but she was the best. Passed away a few years ago … cancer. Heartbreaking loss. Such an amazing woman.”
“I’m sorry to hear.”
“Thank you. I’m not ashamed to say that Dr. Palumbo being gone isn’t a loss for any of us. I’d like nothing more than to purge that man from my memory.”
“Try not to be too hard on him,” Dr. McHugh suggested. “He was doing what he believed was right. Dissociative identity disorder is a polarizing diagnosis that’s split our profession into believers and nonbelievers. That’s a fact.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re one of the believers,” Grace told him.
“Statistically, it’s thought that one percent of the population has this disorder, which puts it on par with schizophrenia. A case like Penny’s has the potential to end some of the debate about the validity of DID within my profession, so I confess I’ve got a keen interest in your daughter’s care.”
“So do I,” said Grace. “What do you think about our chances in court?”
“Funny you should ask. Your lawyer called me yesterday,” McHugh said. “Wanted to introduce himself, a Navy man, former chief public defender, good guy to have on your side, I’d say. He was being diligent, knew I’d taken over for Palumbo. I think he was feeling me out to see if I’d be a good expert witness.”
“And?”
Dr. McHugh rubbed his trim beard again. “And I’m sure you’re well aware that the insanity defense is extremely difficult to prove.”
“Maybe you can help us with that,” Grace responded coolly. She had little room in her life for the negative. She gave herself plenty of that already. The guilt Grace hauled around, little links of it, were like the chains wrapped around Marley’s ghost.
You did this, Grace would say to herself in the mirror some mornings when she couldn’t put on eye liner because her eyes were still wet from crying. You wanted this. You had it in your head you wanted to mother a daughter and you made it happen … for better, or for worse, you are the one responsible for this stress, for everyone’s unhappiness.
McHugh rose and made his way over to a black metal file cabinet pushed against a wall. The top of the three drawers was mostly empty of files, making it easy to locate the one he was after. He returned to his desk, and from underneath pulled out a large plastic container filled with colored paper and a variety of arts and crafts supplies. He removed the plastic lid and fished out safety scissors and several boxes of crayons before locating a pencil.
“I specialize in child psychiatry, and I do a lot more psychotherapy than most, so I brought this with me from my last job,” he said, clearly feeling a need to explain items Grace would have stocked in her classroom back in her teaching days before the pizzeria became her work life.
“I might have said something if you had started taking notes in laser lemon or mango tango,” replied Grace with something of a smile.
McHugh returned a smile of his own, opened the folder, and jotted something down, in pencil, on a lined piece of paper within.
“How old was Penny when you adopted her?” he asked.
“Five,” Grace said, happy to step away from the legal morass that always stressed her out. “But we had fostered her before the paperwork went through.”
The eraser end of McHugh’s pencil vanished in his mouth, his attention focused on something in the case file.
“You found her, is that correct?” He glanced up with an endearing eagerness.
“Yes,” Grace said. “In a park.”
CHAPTER 9
IT WAS LATE OCTOBER, thirteen years ago, and the sun was setting earlier and earlier. Grace led her then-six-year-old son, Jack, through the park near their home in Swampscott. They had just left the Montessori school where Grace taught preschool, and where Jack and Ryan also attended. Ryan had stayed home from school that day with a little cold, otherwise he’d have been with her when their lives forever changed.
She remembered being in a hurry, knowing if she didn’t arrive home soon, she’d be doing her training run not only in the rain, but in the dark as well. On her thirty-fourth birthday, Grace had given herself a year to prepare for her first marathon, and the race was fast approaching. Her long legs may have helped with the miles, but she’d found they could be a lethal weapon in a crowded yoga studio.