“He did, some.”
“It was very difficult for him, I expect, opening up about his past. Especially given the fact that you’ve chosen to be more discreet about yours. I imagine you feel some pressure to reciprocate now. Fulfill the social contract. Perhaps tell him about the ranch and what happened to you there.”
I swallowed. “Not necessarily.”
“Heath already feels quite protective of you. I believe he would be entirely sympathetic if you told him about your surrogate father being sent away to prison.”
I shrugged.
“Just a bystander’s opinion, of course.” He scratched his cheek absently. “Unless, that is, you had something to do with the man’s incarceration. In that case, your reticence would make complete sense—if you were in some way responsible.”
His tone was light, but alarm still zipped through me.
“I had nothing to do with it,” I said curtly. “And if anyone really wants to know what happened, it’s just a Google search away. For those of us with access to Wi-Fi.”
“Touché.” He grinned, all friendly dimples and casually wavy hair. I had to admit it was a little disconcerting. He was so much like Mr. Al, and yet, not at all. This man was careful, and he didn’t appear to miss a single detail.
I inhaled deeply. “You know you’re not going to keep cornering me when I’m alone and trick me into spilling my guts for you. So you might as well give it up.”
He sobered. “You think that’s what I’m doing out here? Have you considered that I simply enjoy talking to you?”
“No. But it seems . . . possibly unethical.”
“Psychologists are allowed to converse with people who are not their patients. To have friends.”
“Okay, so let’s converse. Let’s talk about you.”
“Ah, ha. So clever.” I lifted my chin, and he smiled back at me. “What do you want to know?”
“You don’t wear a ring. Are you married?”
He ran his fingers through his hair. “Right to the heart of things, eh? All right. The answer is, no, I’m not married and I never have been. I’ve no children either.”
“That’s interesting. A relationship expert who’s never been married.”
“Marriage isn’t the only kind of relationship. I have been in love, plenty of times.”
“Okay, not going to touch that one.”
He laughed.
“What’s with the monster faces in the fireplaces?” I asked.
“Ah.” He smiled at me. “The fiery fiend. I believe my ancestor Horace Baskens was a bit of an eccentric. Probably be diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic today. Back in the gold-rush days, he made a fortune for himself, but was always afraid of it being stolen by friends, even family. It was why he built his home so far up the mountain—he was terrified of losing his stash. The fiends were the guard dogs of Baskens, watching over every move of the visitors who came to call. Or his family members. He was obsessed, I hear, that his own wife and children were plotting against him.”
“Yikes.”
“When I was a boy, I was terrified of them. Their watchful eyes kept me from a great deal of mischief, as a matter of fact.”
“And provided the inspiration for the cameras?”
“An astute observation,” he said with a smile. “I had begun my practice in Atlanta when my mother passed away and left me the house. I supposed the fiery fiends had not done their job, as all the Baskens money had been frittered away by then. But yes, moving back up here among them probably did spark my imagination. I’ve never thought of it that way.”
“You must have seen some interesting things up here.”
He chuckled. “That I have.”
I forged on, hoping my voice sounded casual. “Do you get many repeat clients? I mean, do some people ever bring one partner, then a different one later?” I swallowed uneasily. I sounded about as subtle as a hammer.
He eyed me. “I take it you’re talking about Heath. You’re asking me if he’s ever brought another woman to Baskens?”
“I’m just curious if he ever called to check out the program . . . for him and someone else? Before me?”
“I’m sorry, Daphne. I’m not free to give out that information. But, if I may . . .”
I raised my eyes to meet his. Asking the question, laying myself out like that to a stranger, had left me feeling exposed. Vulnerable in a way I hadn’t experienced in a long time. I felt an unaccountable rush of grief slam though me. The desire to let down my defenses and cry like a little girl.
“You understand, don’t you,” he said gently, “that sometimes people hide certain facets of who they are, who they were, from the people they love? Not because they’re willfully trying to hurt them, but simply because they’re deeply, deeply afraid that the one person they care about most may reject them.”
Of course I understood that. It was basically the single motivating factor of my entire life: don’t let anyone know the truth, because if they find out, they will leave you. Heath was afraid, just like me. We were the same, in more ways than I’d ever imagined.
“I understand,” was all I said.
“That’s good to hear.” He nodded a few times, like he wanted to say more on the subject, but then decided against it. “Very good indeed.” And he turned and walked back to the house.
For the third night in a row, Heath slept. No middle-of-the-night yelling, leaping out of bed, or taking random swings at me. I wondered if it was partly because he’d told me about the couple he’d lived with, somehow the confession letting his subconscious mind off the hook.
And if the therapy was working, why would I complain? Even though I didn’t like being here, this was what I had wanted.
I put on my glasses. The clock on the mantel showed past midnight. While Heath snored softly, I stared toward the windows. Where exactly was the camera hidden? It unnerved me, that Cerny might be up in that spooky attic room full of hulking machines, waving needles, and blinking lights, sitting at the metal desk, watching us.
I sat up, grabbed a hair band from the nightstand, and swept my hair up. I wasn’t going to sleep anytime soon, but I couldn’t lie here, worrying about things I had no control over. I decided I should sneak up to the attic, see what Jerry McAdam was up to with his forbidden phone. Maybe after a little spying—thinking about somebody else’s problems for a change—my brain would settle down, and I could get some sleep.
I climbed out of bed, went out the door, and tiptoed past the Siefferts’ and McAdams’ rooms. At the end of the dark hall, I eased back the pocket door. I climbed the narrow stairs to the attic and felt a welcome slam of adrenaline—the fireproof door was cracked open. I crept in, careful to leave it open behind me, just enough that it wouldn’t shut all the way. Locking myself in up here wouldn’t be wise.
The oddly shaped room looked exactly as I’d left it, except the desk was bare. No pad or pen. The monitors were up and running—grainy and gray and still. The monitor on the left showed the McAdams, tucked in and fast asleep. The middle screen showed Glenys and her husband in their bed as well, back to back, motionless in sleep. On ours, Heath curled next to my empty side of the bed.
Back on the Siefferts’ monitor, something flickered. I moved closer. The screen was dark and the image just a shadowy blob, but I could see clearly. It was Glenys, climbing out of bed. Her back was straight and narrow in her nightgown, and her light hair tumbled over her shoulders.