Could Adam not be trusted? Could he have some kind of ulterior motive in seeking her out?
The scene at the plantation home with her mother, Lucille, Ian and her siblings, then Berneda being rushed to the hospital, had been more than she’d been able to handle. All the melodrama. All the secrets. All the damned innuendoes. No wonder the family was cursed with mental problems; everyone seemed to feed on them.
And it was time to put a stop to it. At least for her.
She had to get better. To end the demons in her mind. Adam Hunt was a psychologist; what transpired between them was private, and she had to trust somebody. Not the police. Not her own family. Not her own mind. Not even Kelly.
So you’re going to spill your guts to a total stranger?
Caitlyn could almost hear Kelly mocking her.
You are nuts. Bona fide and certifiable. Just like Nana!
“Stop it!” Caitlyn screamed, pounding a fist on the steering wheel. The horn blared and she jumped. Shocked herself out of the rage that consumed her. She couldn’t put up with this another second. Couldn’t stand listening to the doubts in her mind. Wouldn’t be a victim any longer. For years she’d been a prisoner of her own mind, but no more.
Either Adam Hunt was salvation or he was destruction, but he was damned well something, her only hope.
She had to push forward, to find a way out of the trap that was her mind. Whether it turned out to be the biggest mistake of her life or her deliverance, she was going to go through with it. She swung out of the car. Before she could second-guess herself, she strode up a short path and up the back flight of stairs to Adam’s office.
The door was ajar.
She tapped lightly on the old painted panels; the door creaked open to a darkened, empty room. Caitlyn felt a chill. As if it were a warning reminding her that she shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t step across the threshold. Which was silly. She was just a few minutes early. And she had to change the course of her life. Today. Before she lost what fragile hold she had on her own sanity.
You’d better take a seat outside, in one of the chairs clustered around the corner at the landing, where all the patients who visit this floor wait until they’re invited in. It was a cozy spot. Magazines littered the small table, and water was available from a cooler. She knew Adam would expect to find her there.
But tonight, after hurrying up the back staircase, Caitlyn saw no reason for that kind of protocol. Tonight she was a new person. Bold rather than timid. Forthright rather than shy. She stepped into the darkened office and noted the empty coffee cups on a small table and the crumpled tissues in the wastebasket tucked discreetly behind one arm of the couch. Were they hers from her last visit, or did Adam have more clients, other people he was trying to help?
She heard a creak and turned to the open door, but no one arrived.
Ghosts, she thought, remembering how Lucille had told her that if she listened very hard and concentrated, wasn’t distracted by outside noise or even the sound of her own heartbeat, she could hear them.
No one arrived. She ran a finger along the edge of Adam’s desk and wondered what he thought of her, what notes he’d jotted about her and her family. Did he think she was truly going out of her mind? His legal pads were stacked in a corner of the desk. All she had to do was lift one up and start reading. What was the harm in that? As long as she only looked at her file, what kind of trouble could she get into? After all, it was her life and she was paying him to help her.
Biting her lip, she picked up the first tablet, but dropped it as if it burned her fingers when she heard footsteps on the stairs. Quickly, making as little noise as possible, she flew to the couch and had just sat down when Adam walked in and flipped on a light switch. He visibly started, his body flinching as he saw her in the corner of his couch.
“Caitlyn?” Glancing at his watch, he said, “I didn’t realize I was late.”
“You aren’t. I got here early and the door was open, so I decided to park it.” She smiled and hoped she didn’t look as guilty as she felt. All her doubts seeped away as she saw the ghost of a smile touch his lips. He seemed so genuine. So caring. “I hope that was all right.”
“Of course it is.” But his voice didn’t sound as warm as it usually did. “I just ran out to get some more coffee.” He held up a small brown bag, then opened it and pulled out a jar of coffee crystals and non-dairy creamer. He carried the soup heater into the bathroom and filled it with water, then plugged it in. As the water heated, he took his chair and reached for his notepad. The one on the top of the stack.
“You want to tell me about what happened to your sister and your mother? You sounded pretty shook up when you called.”
“I was. Am,” she admitted, refusing to back down, to listen to the warnings in her mind. Tonight. She was going to start reliving her life. Right now. This very moment. Her fists clenched so hard she felt her nails bite into her palms. Slowly uncurling her fingers, she started with her sister’s accident and its aftermath. She explained the family dynamics, about Ian’s anger, Berneda’s frailty and Hannah’s bad attitude. She mentioned that Lucille had been bristly and that the whole family treated Caitlyn with a hands-off attitude.
“It’s as if they not only think I’m addled or feebleminded,” she said, standing to walk to the window and watch night descend over the city, “but they treat me as if I’m some kind of scary creature and they’re afraid that if someone says or does the wrong thing, I might completely flip out and end up in the mental hospital again.”
“Are you afraid of that?”
“Yes!” She turned to stare straight at him. “Yes! Yes! Yes! I’ve been in one and let me tell you, it’s no picnic. The people in there . . .” She lifted her hands toward the ceiling, as if in supplication from heaven. “My God, for as long as I can remember I’ve heard people whispering about me, about how I’m some kind of freak. Some people think I killed Charles, even members of my family, because I pulled the damned arrow from his chest and they think . . . Oh, I don’t know what they think. Just that I’m crazy, I guess.” She flopped back onto the couch. “Looney Tunes is the favorite phrase. I guess that’s not quite as harsh as insane, and please, don’t ask me if I’m insane, okay? Because I don’t really know.” Tossing her hair out of her eyes, she fought the urge to crumble completely. “You should have seen them at the house. All of them. Mom included. It was just plain weird.”
“Well, let’s try to keep you out of the hospital, okay?” He offered her a smile that somehow cut through all of the shadows in her mind.
“I’m all for it.”
His gaze held hers, maybe a second longer than necessary, and she experienced that little jolt of excitement, the sizzle in her nerve endings, whenever she met a man she found interesting.
“You said something about your mother being in the hospital,” he prodded. His voice seemed a bit rougher than it had been.
“Because of all the anxiety over Amanda’s claims that someone was trying to kill her, I think, she had an angina attack as she climbed the stairs for bed. It was touch and go for a while, but she’s stabilized.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“Me, too,” she admitted, then pulled herself together. It was now or never.
“Adam,” she said and her voice sounded unnatural, even to her own ears.
His eyes found hers again, his pupils darker with the shadows in the room.
“There’s something you should know. I don’t think I’m crazy—I mean, I pray that I’m not, but . . .” How could she explain what she herself didn’t understand? Her palms were suddenly damp, her heart racing. Slowly, she forced an unnatural calm to settle over her.
“What is it?” Any hint of a smile had left his lips. His expression was wary, his muscles tense. As if he knew what she was about to say.
Still, she plunged on. “Strange things have been happening. Not just to the family, but to me specifically.” Her chest was so tight she had to force the horrid words out.
“Aside from the bad dreams, I have flashes of memory or a sense of déjà vu about certain events, things tied to some of the ‘accidents’ that have occurred. I remember flashes, little glimmers that don’t make a whole lot of sense. Like touching my sister’s car, the one she nearly died in, or seeing my mother’s medication in her room.” She swallowed hard and felt the quivering inside, the feeling that she was about to step into a dark void, like opening the locked doorway to the forbidden cellar stairs and taking the chance that the door would slam behind her and she’d hear the turning of a key, that she’d be trapped forever in the terrifying void.
Closing her eyes, she plunged on. “The morning after Josh was killed, I woke up and . . . and there was blood all over my bedroom. I mean, all over.” She began to shake as she pushed up the sleeves of her sweater. “In the bed, on the curtains, pooled on the floor, in the bathroom . . . oh, God, it was all over. On the walls and carpet, smeared on the sink and tiles. The glass shower door was cracked . . . but I don’t remember pushing my arm through it. And there was blood on the curtains, oh, dear God . . .” Her voice had risen an octave, and she had trouble forcing the words out.
Opening her eyes, she saw that Adam’s face was a mask, but beneath his controlled expression, in the tightness at the corners of his mouth, she sensed his shock. No reason to stop now. Plunging on, Caitlyn said, “I had a nosebleed that night and I discovered . . . these.” She held out her arms, palms rotated to the ceiling, displaying the ugly scabs on her wrists. “I don’t remember making them. I don’t recall a nosebleed, and even if I had done this . . . mutilated myself, I don’t think I bled enough to make all that mess, and I’m afraid . . . oh, Jesus, I’m afraid that somehow I’m responsible for my husband’s death.”
Twenty-Two
“You think you killed him?” Adam asked, the skin on his face drawing tight.
“That’s just it. I don’t know. I don’t remember. But the police are saying that my blood type was at the murder scene and then there was the blood all over my room. I kidded myself into thinking that it was all mine, but that would have been impossible.” She took in a long breath, not certain if she’d made the right decision to confide in him.
“What do you remember?” His voice was gentle, not filled with accusations, no hint of judgment in his tone.
She explained everything that she could, from waiting for Kelly at the bar to drinking too much and not remembering if she’d left and gone to Josh’s house, only to somehow wake up twisted in blood-stained sheets.
“. . . It’s been awful. Hideous. I was scared and I couldn’t stand looking at the mess, so I cleaned it up as best I could, washed the linens, walls, bedclothes, sinks, carpets, anywhere I saw the blood. I just had to get rid of it.” She plowed the fingers of both hands through her hair, fought a headache beginning to throb at the base of her skull. “I think I’m cracking up. I think I should go to the police, but I’m afraid to. Detective Reed already has me pegged as his number-one suspect.”
“Do you think you’re capable of murder?”
“No! Of course not.” She shook her head as she pulled the sleeves of the cotton sweater lower on her arms, covering the wounds. “But I don’t know what to think. I have glimmers, little fragments of thoughts, about the crime scene. In my mind’s eye I see Josh dead at his desk—and there’s more.” She related her feelings of déjà vu and her bits of dreams, little pieces of memory that connected her to the accidents and tragedies within her family. “And that’s not all. I feel that I’m being watched and I don’t know if the police have set up a surveillance of my house or if someone sinister is stalking me or if it’s just my own wild imagination.” She let out a weary breath. “I feel like I’m running, but I don’t know where I’ve been and I have no idea where I’m going. It’s disconcerting. Crazy-making.”
“You’re not crazy.”
“Stick around. You don’t know me that well.”
“Well enough to know you’re not crazy, so let’s not even go there.” He was serious as he laid down his pen. “Let’s take a break. This is pretty heavy stuff. Why don’t we go out for real coffee or dinner? My treat and the professional time clock will be turned off.”
She was wary. “I don’t know.”
“Come on,” he said, “I’m hungry. I promise we won’t talk shop.” Setting his notes on the desk, he stood. “There’s a great restaurant just around the corner. Guaranteed authentic local cuisine. We’ll walk.”
“But—”
“My treat. Come on.” He was already walking to the door, jangling his keys.
What could it hurt? So he was her counselor. That didn’t mean they couldn’t get to know each other, did it? Oh, Caitlyn, this is trouble. Big trouble.
But then, it wasn’t as if that was anything new.
Outside, he took her hand and led her through an alley and across a square to a house built two hundred years earlier. Up the front steps to a reception area, where a waitress led them upstairs to what had once been a bedroom and covered verandah outside the glass French doors. Potted plants decorated with tiny white lights separated the tables. From their vantage point, they could observe the square and look down the tree-lined streets. A warm breeze carried with it the smell of the river, the warm scent of baked bread and a trace of cigarette smoke.
“Can I get you something from the bar?” the waitress asked after she rattled off the specials.
“Caitlyn?” he asked and she thought about the last time she’d had a drink. The night that Josh had died. The night her memory was riddled with huge holes. “Iced tea with sugar,” she said.
One side of his mouth lifted, a hint of a smile touching his eyes. “I’ll have scotch. Neat.”
As the waitress disappeared, he glanced at the park where a few people strolled through the pools of light cast by the street lamps and the oaks grew tall and dark. Caitlyn wondered who lurked in the shadows, if anyone was watching. She opened her menu, realized she had no appetite and scanned the list of entrees without much interest.
“Do you think I should go to the police?” she asked, pretending to study the appetizer choices.
“I thought we were leaving all that talk back at the office.”
She lifted a shoulder. “I’d like your opinion.”
“I don’t have a law degree.” He snapped his menu shut and dropped it onto the table. “I think you might need a lawyer.”
“I’m getting one. My sister’s an attorney, remember, not criminal law, at least not anymore, but she gave me some names and I’ve got an appointment with one of them the day after tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“This is such a mess.” She felt that pressure again, the one that felt like a two-ton weight on her chest, the one that didn’t allow her to breathe.
Adam reached across the table. Placed one hand over the back of hers. His eyes were dark with the night, his pupils dilated. The hand over hers was warm. Calloused. Strong. It gave her more comfort than she expected. More than she wanted. “It’s time to relax,” he said softly. “We’ll figure it out.”
“Will we?”
“Yeah.” Again the hint of a smile in a jaw that was darkening with beard shadow. He was handsome, not in a bold, rugged way, but more quietly good-looking. Not the first man you would notice in a room of strangers, but one you might gravitate toward, one you would trust, one, if you looked beneath his aloof veneer, was a strong, passionate man with a few secrets he kept locked away.
“Do you have any other patients?” she asked, withdrawing her hand as the waitress, a slip of a girl with streaked blond hair and a mouth too big for her face, returned with their drinks.
“Have you decided?” she asked.
Adam motioned to Caitlyn. “What would you like?”
“Red rice with shrimp and fried okra.” Caitlyn managed a smile. “My father’s favorite. Real Southern cooking.”
Adam chuckled. “And I’ll have pork chops with corn bread and country gravy.”
“Anything else?” the waitress asked.
“Wine?” Adam lifted an eyebrow in offering, but Caitlyn shook her head, couldn’t take the chance. “Maybe a slab of praline pecan pie for dessert,” Adam stage-whispered to the waitress as he handed the girl their menus.
“I’ll see to it.” She sauntered to the next table.
For the first time since Josh had been killed, Caitlyn felt safe. Could unwind a bit. Adam made a couple of corny jokes, caused her to laugh, and she managed to quit worrying, at least for a while. By the time the waitress returned with steaming platters, Caitlyn’s appetite had returned and she dug into the plate of spicy rice and succulent okra.
“I think I owe you an apology,” Caitlyn said when she caught him observing her.
“For?”
“Being a wet blanket. This”—she gestured to the verandah and restaurant—“was a great idea.”
“I thought so.”
“I think I could make it even better,” she said as she sipped her iced tea.
“How so?”
“We could play doctor.” She lifted her eyebrow in a naughty invitation, and when she saw him turn serious, added, “I’ll be the doctor and you be the patient.” He set down his fork.
“Caitlyn?”
“I’m talking about the kind of doctor you are. You know, a Ph.D. My turn to psychoanalyze you for a change.”
“Oh.” He grinned. “You did that on purpose.”
“Gotcha!” She laughed. “I do have a sense of humor, you know, though the past week or so it’s been pretty much dead.”
Setting his utensils down, he cocked his head and studied her. “You’re a fascinating woman, Caitlyn.”
“You think?” she teased, but was flattered.
“Complex.”
“Uh-uh. I’m the doctor, remember? My turn.” She pointed her fork at his chest. “Turn it off for a while. You know, the trouble with psychologists is that they’re always working. Every time they meet someone, it’s like a new case study ready to be pounced upon.”