Eric groaned. “I treat depressed people, anxious people, people in deep grief. It’s not Silence of the Lambs.”
“Let me continue. ‘In addition, Petitioner Husband treats these mentally ill patients during the evening hours, when the likelihood of dangerous assaults on the couple’s seven-year-old daughter is far greater, and the possibility of sexual assault is ever-present—’”
“Enough,” Eric said, his stomach turning over.
“To be honest, it’s a winning argument.”
“I could move. Get a new place that has a separate building for my office, like an outbuilding. I have a lease, but I guess I could break it.” Eric thought of Hannah’s bedroom, which he’d just painted Primrose Pink. “Or I could rent an office that’s not in my home.”
“Okay, now we’re talking. Those are two possibilities.”
“Do we tell the court that?”
“Eric, hold that thought. I have an appointment, I have to go.” Susan paused. “We have ten days to respond. Do you think you’ll be clear of this murder investigation by then?”
“I hope so.” Eric looked down at Max’s file.
“Good. I’ll send you their papers in hard copy, so you can read them yourself. In the meantime, keep me posted.”
“I really don’t get Hannah tonight?”
“No, you don’t. I’m going to write the judge a self-serving letter, saying that he needn’t issue an order and we’ll agree not to see her tonight, in view of the extraordinary circumstances. I’ll play up your actions at the mall, how brave you were.”
Eric sighed, temporarily defeated. “Maybe it’s better for her tonight. I have reporters on the front lawn.”
“It’s the right way to go. Pick your battles. Let this cool down before you start making demands.”
“Okay, thanks.” Eric hung up, and his attention returned to his notes from his first session with Max. He pressed Hannah to the back of his mind and started reading. The landline on his desk rang a few moments later, and he answered it reflexively, in case it was a patient. “Hello, this is Dr. Parrish.”
“Dr. Parrish, my name is Tyler Choudhury and I’m calling from The Philadelphia Inquirer, and I’d like to ask you a few questions about the Bevilacqua murder—”
“I’m sorry, I have no comment.”
“But Dr. Parrish, this would be a chance for you to tell your side of the story. You can try to explain whether you’re standing on the confidentiality laws, or hiding behind them—”
“No comment. Good-bye.” Eric hung up the phone, opened Max’s file, and got busy.
Chapter Forty-nine
An hour later, Eric had read his notes thoroughly, and though they jarred his memory for many details, they didn’t give him any thoughts or clues about who could have killed Renée. His gaze strayed out the window to the leafy butterfly bush, and orange monarchs and yellow swallowtails flitted here and there. It would’ve been a restorative sight if not for the reporters out front, who talked constantly, laughed, and sent clouds of cigarette smoke wafting through the screened windows.
He felt distracted, and it struck him how odd it was that he was at home, when he should’ve been at the hospital. His life, like his house, had been turned upside down. His thoughts reverted to his patients at the hospital, as if his mental processes followed the track during the workday, and he found himself wishing he could hold the morning meeting and hear from Amaka how everyone’s night had been, then make treatment rounds, go through each of his patients, wondering how they were doing, expecting Sam was up to the task, hoping that Perino was improving. He thought then of Perino’s wife, wondering if she believed that Eric was the bad guy she’d pegged him as, now that he was officially protecting the secrets of a murderer, or maybe was one himself.
Eric realized that Kristine would probably have a good laugh over his troubles, delighted to see that her attempt to ruin him was being done even more efficiently by the police. He still had no idea why she’d filed the sexual harassment charge, unless it was out of some jealousy of Laurie, but if that were so, Kristine had a level of pathology that Eric hadn’t detected, undoubtedly because he wasn’t paying any attention to her. To him, she was just another medical student on a psychiatric rotation, even though she was an exceptionally pretty one, but it struck him that Kristine was unusually skilled at hiding her emotions, as well as bizarrely focused on harming him. But she and her bogus harassment charges were the last thing he had to worry about right now.
Eric heard the reporters out front burst into laughter, so he got up and closed the windows, his thoughts churning. It was almost impossible to try to understand who had killed Renée, because he knew almost nothing about her. He went back to the desk, thinking more clearly now that the room was quieter. It was also possible that Renée’s murder could’ve been an instance of random violence, so that the murderer would be unrelated to Renée. That was a possibility about which he would have no information, exclusively within the knowledge of the police, but Eric doubted they were even exploring those avenues, now that they had Max in custody.
The phone rang again, and Eric knew it was probably a reporter, but he couldn’t not answer. There was no other way for anyone to reach him, either his patients or his staff from the hospital. “Hello, this is Dr. Parrish.”
“Dr. Parrish, my name is Nancy Steinman, I’m calling from USA Today regarding your patient, Max Jakubowski. We’re doing a think piece on the relationship of gun laws to mental health laws, and I was wondering if you would comment—”
“I’m sorry, no comment.”
“But your experience would really illuminate—”
“No comment.” Eric hung up. He thought a minute, wondering again about Renée. She was a teenager, so she had to have a Facebook page. He hardly spent any time on Facebook; so much of his work was confidential and Caitlin was the one in their household who kept it up. She spent time on Facebook at night, reading her feed, keeping her status updated to her network at the D.A.’s Office, and posting their family and vacation photos.
He returned to his phone, opened the Facebook app, and out of curiosity, went first to check up on Caitlin. He typed her name in the search field, but Add Friend popped up next to her name. Eric blinked, stung. Of course, he was already Caitlin’s Facebook friend, but he realized that Caitlin must have unfriended him, which was evidently the Facebook version of divorce. He tapped to double-check and could see only a limited version of Caitlin’s profile. He stalled a moment, eyeing the screen, which showed only thumbnails of their Facebook friends, noticing that there were a few new ones. He scanned quickly and found the one he was looking for. Brian Allsworth, it read beside his name.
Eric was about to touch the profile picture, but stopped himself, realizing it was a vortex he didn’t want to enter. Caitlin had moved on, he would have to as well, and in any event, his personal life wasn’t as important as Renée Bevilacqua.
So he typed Renée’s name into the search function, and a long list of Renée Bevilacquas appeared, their thumbnail pictures difficult to see on the tiny phone screen. He scrolled past older women, women from Australia and Italy, and clicked on a few that looked a little like Renée, but weren’t her. Finally, a thumbnail of Renée jumped out at him, and he touched the screen.
A large profile picture of the young girl filled his screen, fresh-faced and beaming, surrounded by girlfriends, their arms around each other at the beach. Renée looked so alive that it was almost impossible to understand that she was dead, much less murdered. Eric glanced down on the page, and the only thing that showed about Renée were her past profile pictures and the most recent one, from about a month ago, had a caption that read CAN’T WAIT FOR SUMMER, BITCHES!!!!!! It showed her with a giggling group of girls wearing 3-D glasses, in front of the IMAX theater at the King of Prussia Mall. It was the same mall that Max tried to get himself killed in, despairing over her death.
Eric swallowed hard, imagining that Renée’s last Facebook post would be on he
r page, with memorial R.I.P. posts from all of her friends at school and work. He suppressed his emotion and scanned thumbnails of Renée’s Facebook friends, grinning, making faces at parties, wearing funny hats, or girls just trying to look their prettiest or their most provocative.
Their names were beside each face, and Eric scrolled down to the left and saw her friends’ photos. He went back to Renée’s page and saw the music that she liked: Iron and Wine, Bruno Mars, Katy Perry, Taylor Swift, and Faith Hill. Books like The Fault in Our Stars, the Divergent series, Mockingjay, and Eleanor & Park. All of it touched Eric’s heart, making her more real to him, bringing the tragedy of her murder into poignant focus.
The phone on the desk rang again, and Eric still couldn’t ignore it, so he picked up. “This is Dr. Parrish.”
“I’m calling from the New York Times and—”
“I have no comment.”
“But Dr. Parrish—”
“Thank you, but no.” Eric hung up and returned to the task at hand. He was going to go through Renée’s photos, trying to determine who was closest to her and see if any of them seemed remotely off or suspicious. She could’ve had a jealous boyfriend, a frenemy, a mean girl, or a bully. He knew it was a longshot, but it was a start and it was all he had. He clicked on the first picture on the left, which was of a young girl named Katie Shoop. Her privacy settings were in place, so he couldn’t see much about her. However, Katie changed her profile picture often, and in almost every picture, she was hugging the same group of girls, including Renée. They appeared to be in the choir, because they were wearing blue robes, grinning with their arms around each other.
Eric grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil, and took notes as he went through the photos of Renée’s Facebook friends. Almost all of the girls, but none of the boys, had protected their pages from the public, but Eric could still get information about the girls from their profile pictures, finding connections between them from their photo albums, Facebook friends, the groups they joined, and even where they lived. It was helpful, as well as scary, to see how much information he could glean.
An hour turned into two, and Eric ended up with a list of Sacred Heart sophomores, juniors, and seniors—nineteen girls and thirteen boys—who looked to be in Renée’s inner circle. Oddly, Eric didn’t see any mention of Renée’s boyfriend, though he knew she had one from Max. He couldn’t figure out which of the boys was her boyfriend, nor did any of the boys list her as a girlfriend on his page. One of the boys, senior Jason Tandore, listed Pickering Park as one of his favorite places, which set the hair on the back of Eric’s neck on end, since Pickering Park was where Renée had been found dead.
Eric also learned that Renée was close to her Uncle Pat, a slick-looking single lawyer in Philadelphia who practiced products liability law. He’d also seen that Renée seemed close to her parents, Margaret and Anthony Bevilacqua, particularly her father. Anthony Bevilacqua was reasonably active on Facebook, and his settings were public, concerning his fruit-importing business, the amateur running club he belonged to, and his activity in the Masons. He posted lots of photos of him and Renée, riding bicycles and running together, and Eric couldn’t help identifying with the dad, as a suburban father who adored his daughter. Anthony was about Eric’s height and had thick black hair, but he was more muscular, in bicycle shorts. Renée resembled her father in the nose and smile, as best as Eric could tell; many of the pictures of Anthony Bevilacqua were taken outside and he was wearing either sunglasses, a ball cap, or a bike helmet.
Eric went to Renée’s mother Margaret’s Facebook page, which was also privacy-protected, with far fewer friends than her father. The only group the mother belonged to was Knurses Who Knit, on the labor and delivery service at Lankenau Hospital, so Eric noted she was a nurse, though out of his system. He could only imagine that Renée’s mother would probably die a little inside every time she helped deliver a new life. He thought of Leah Barry, his patient who had lost her child to stillbirth, agonizing every time HGH played their lullaby.
His landline rang again on his desk, bringing him out of his reverie, and he reached for the receiver. “Dr. Parrish here.”
“Dr. Parrish? This is Peg—”
“I have no comment.”
“I’m not a reporter and I need to speak with you.”
“I’m sorry, no, I can’t—”
“Dr. Parrish, I’m Peg Bevilacqua. Renée Bevilacqua’s mother.”
Chapter Fifty
Eric kept checking the window in his living room, to see when Stan from Enterprise Rent-A-Car came to pick him up and deliver his rental car. Renée’s mother had wanted to meet him in person, but wouldn’t say more. The press was camped out in front of the Bevilacqua house too, and they were going to meet at an out-of-the-way restaurant. He dreaded the prospect of facing her, but at the same time, hoped that he could get some information.
Eric spotted the beige Buick from Enterprise slowing in front of his house, so he hustled back through the house, headed for the office, and let himself out the back door. He locked it quickly and hurried down the driveway just as the Buick came to a stop at the curb. He sprinted for the car, but reporters realized what was going on and surged forward, cameras focused on him and shouting questions.
“Dr. Parrish, where are you going?” “Dr. Parrish, please give us a comment.” “Dr. Parrish, what happened inside the mall?” “Are you going to tell the police what you know about Max Jakubowski?” “What do you know about the Renée Bevilacqua murder?” “Do you want to give us a comment?” “Why did you take time off from HGH? How long are you taking off?” “Where are you going?”
“No comment!” Eric called to them, hustling down the driveway. Stan from Enterprise was already shifting into the passenger seat, as they had discussed, leaving the engine running. Some of the reporters turned around and ran to their cars, to give chase, but Eric made a beeline for the driver’s seat, jumped in, slammed the door behind him, and sped off.
“Sweet!” Stan said, with a loopy grin. He was young, with spiky hair and diamond shaped earrings.
“Hold on.” Eric knew all the back roads, so he took a sharp left turn, then the first right turn, glancing into the rearview mirror. The reporters’ cars hadn’t caught up to him yet, so he took another sharp right turn into a random driveway and pulled all the way up to the house, hoping the hedges along the driveway would give cover for him.
“Nice!”
“Duck.” Eric slipped quickly out of view, and so did Stan, waiting. After a few moments, the reporters’ cars sped down the street, passing the driveway.
“Bam! That was sick!”
“Thank you, I think.” Eric ascertained that no more reporters were following him, then pulled out of the driveway, and headed back to Enterprise. He dropped Stan off, thanked him, and made his way west, toward the suburbs farther from the city, passing into Downingtown, where he navigated the strip malls until he found the one he wanted, pulled into the parking lot, heading toward Tudy’s, a small restaurant that served only breakfast and lunch.
He hurried to the restaurant, opened the glass door, and looked around. The walls were painted brown with white paneling, and the floors were of the same dark hardwood. It was tiny, maybe only fifteen tables, and few were occupied. He caught sight of Peg’s curly red hair, a more strawberry-blonde shade than Renée’s, skimming her shirt collar in back. She sat along the wall in a booth, facing away from the door, wearing a crisp white shirt and a pair of jeans.
Eric signaled to the approaching hostess that he was heading for a specific table, then walked over, stopping tableside before he sat down. “Hello, I’m Eric. You must be Peg.”
“Yes.” Peg glanced up, then gestured to the other side of the booth. “Please, sit down.”
“Thank you.” Eric slid into the booth and folded his hands in front of him. “I’m very, very sorry about the loss of your daughter. Please accept my deepest condolences.”
“Thank you.” Peg met his eye di
rectly, though hers were puffy, bloodshot, and shot through with pain so deep that it seemed to dilute the otherwise pretty blue color of her irises to a paler hue, as if they’d been washed out by too many tears. Her nose was pert, turned up at the end, with just the faintest smattering of freckles, like Renée. Her skin was pale.
“Not at all, I’m glad you reached out to me.”
“I can’t begin to tell you what a loss this is, for my husband and me.” Peg swallowed hard, and deep wrinkles bracketed her mouth, which formed a flat, tense line, like a rubber band stretched to the limit.
“I really am so sorry,” Eric said, speaking from the heart. He knew his voice carried the honest emotion he felt, so he just let it come.
“Are you a parent, Dr. Parrish?”
“Yes, I have a daughter, she’s seven. And please, call me Eric.”
“Renée, is, was our only child. She was everything to us. My husband was especially close to her, she was a true daddy’s girl.” Peg smiled just the slightest, bittersweet. “The two of them, they were two of a kind. They look so much alike, they acted so much alike. It’s just too much for him, right now. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this, maybe because I know you’re a psychiatrist, you’re used to listening to people. I know you work at HGH, I’m a nurse at Lankenau, so … we have that in common.”
“Yes, we do.” Eric didn’t know exactly what to say, but just let her talk, knowing that she would find her way to the point.
“My husband is so upset, he’s just beside himself. He won’t get out of bed but he can’t sleep. He cries so hard, its awful, awful. I had to call our doctor, we got him a sedative.” Peg shook her head slowly. “Anyway, he doesn’t know I’m here. I told him I was going to spend some time with my sister. The reporters are out in front of our house, it’s like they’re camped there. The whole thing, it’s a waking nightmare, it truly is. It’s just beyond what anyone should ever bear.”