I watched her saunter away, her hips swaying in her tight, low-slung jeans. Her deputies running to flank her as they approached the bus. They were a force to be reckoned with, the Super Tramps. And I was going to be one of them.
When I got to school, I scooted into the girls’ bathroom, counted the cookies one more time for good measure, then threw them in the trash. I brushed the crumbs from my palms, as something warm and strong surged through me. It was a new sensation, one that made me feel ten feet tall. I didn’t need cookies. And I wasn’t going to be a fat fuck anymore. Omega had given me a gift. And it had made me into someone completely different.
It was the new Daphne.
And she could withstand a million earthquakes.
Chapter Thirteen
After Glenys and I parted, I felt raw and skittish—sandblasted from the inside out from talking about the ranch. That was probably why I forgot my plan to retrieve the knife from the barn and return it to Luca’s kitchen.
After I’d finished, Glenys asked if I would tell her the end of the story. Before weighing the consequences, I agreed, promising to meet her at two thirty the next afternoon on the brow of the mountain.
She’d taken my hand once again, before we parted. “I know it may sound strange to you, but hearing your story makes me feel like I’m not so alone.”
“That doesn’t say much for Dr. Cerny’s therapy.”
“It’s different with him.” She pressed her lips together. “Hard to explain. I feel like you and I understand each other in a way that a man like Matthew Cerny never could.” She studied my face. “I’m thankful for your friendship, Daphne. And I’m glad we met.” She hugged me before I knew it was happening. “See you soon.”
Talking to Glenys had felt as natural as the turning of the leaves, but now, back at the house, I was wondering why I’d been so quick to agree to meeting her again. What she’d said about therapy made sense—I did feel lighter after talking to her—but I couldn’t say that I was ready to completely let go of all of my story. The truth was, I didn’t know this woman, and there was no guarantee she could be trusted to keep my secret. If it even still needed to be kept.
On my way down the first-floor hall, I heard Cerny lumbering up the back stairs to his suite. He called down to Luca that he was not to be disturbed, and I paused.
His office was empty. Possibly unlocked.
I waited, listening for the door of his suite to close. When I finally heard the distant click, I hurried toward the office. I tried the door, and it opened. Cerny probably didn’t intend to be away for long. Maybe he’d only gone upstairs to use the bathroom—at any rate, I would have to be quick. If there were any files on Heath, this might be my only opportunity to learn something.
The office was bright and spacious, spanning the length of the side of the house and glassed in, just like our room. It was furnished with a desk, a couple of squishy chairs, and, no surprise, one sleek black leather couch. A few Mark Rothko–esque paintings hanging on the brick wall and a couple of giant palm trees. I turned to the fully packed bookcase. Freud, Skinner, Piaget, Ainsworth, Jung—familiar names from the intro-level psych class I’d taken in school. There were other books too, of a darker sort. Marx and Kipling, Hitler and Machiavelli.
Such a tasteful room for spilling your nastiest secrets.
Cerny’s elegant marquetry inlaid desk was bare except for a sleek desktop computer, a black landline phone, and a tablet—an iPad, just like mine. Did the doctor keep his files on the iPad instead of on yellow pads? There were no file cabinets in the room. But he had to keep the personality assessments somewhere. All the interviews and the surveillance videos had to be kept somewhere too. When the avalanche of VHS cassettes fell on me up in the attic, I hadn’t noticed any tapes labeled Beck/Amos, even though, honestly, I hadn’t taken the time to really look. But surely he didn’t store them that way, not in this day and age.
I edged around the desk and swiped the screen of the tablet. The lock screen lit up. I sat and opened the one narrow desk drawer, revealing a mountain of envelopes and papers, sticky notes, and receipts. I bit my lip and plunged a hand into the pile, feeling around, and drew out a stack of business cards bound with a rubber band. A couple were Cerny’s, a few from a caterer, a lawyer, a limousine service. But it was the one at the bottom of the stack that stopped me.
JESSICA KYUNG, INVESTIGATOR
GEORGIA STATE BOARD OF EXAMINERS OF PSYCHOLOGISTS
I mentally calculated how much time I had before Cerny returned, then decided to chance it. I lifted the phone receiver and tapped in the number on the card.
“Jessica Kyung,” a woman said in a brusque voice—so quickly, in fact, that I had to gather myself.
“Hi, Jessica,” I stammered. “I was just, ah . . . vetting a particular therapist, and I wondered if you could verify his status with the board.”
“I’m sorry, we don’t discuss individual cases with the public. Who is this again?”
“I’d rather not tell you my name, if that’s okay.”
“It is.” She hesitated. “There is a license-verification database I can direct you to, if you’d like.”
“I don’t really have access to a computer where I am. And I think you might’ve met with him, at one point. Maybe given him your card?”
“I’m sorry. I’m really not—”
“It’s Matthew Cerny.”
There was a long silence, then she spoke again, her voice low. “I don’t mean to push, but it would really help if I knew your name.”
I cleared my throat. Time was running out, and I needed to wrap this up. “My name is Daphne Amos. I’m staying at Baskens Institute, in Dunfree, with my fiancé, for the week. I just want to know—is there any reason I should question Matthew Cerny’s ability to treat him?”
“Look,” she said evenly, “if you have any questions or concerns about a particular doctor, any licensed doctor in the state of Georgia, I would encourage you to go to our site. Since you aren’t near a computer, I can tell you that Dr. Matthew Cerny is a licensed psychologist, currently in good standing, in the state of Georgia.”
“Okay.”
“But . . .” She went quiet, and I glanced toward the door. Even if Cerny’s bowels were knotted tighter than a Boy Scout’s rope, the clock was running down.
“How about I just hang on to your card?” I suggested and she cleared her throat.
“Yes. Why don’t you do that.”
I hung up and tucked the card in my pocket. On the desk, the iPad screen had gone black, a reflection of my face staring out at me. Everything could be right here, right in front of me. A recording of my fiancé telling someone all the things he didn’t want to share with me. That he didn’t feel safe telling me. The real reason for his nightmares. His secrets. His obsessions.
And possibly some professional dirt on Cerny.
I swiped the home screen again. Tentatively tapped out a guess: C-E-R-N. The screen vibrated its rejection. I tried again, another miss, and again. Still nothing. I heard a noise then, the sound of the door banging against the wall. I clicked off the iPad and stepped away from the desk, back into the center of the room, just as Dr. Cerny entered. His sleeves were rolled up, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He smiled when he saw me.
“Daphne. What an unexpected surprise. Unexpected, but not unwelcome. What brings you here?”
I arranged my face into a careful neutral. “I was looking for Heath.”
“I imagine he’s gone back up to your room. For lunch. Isn’t it about that time?” He was moving toward me. His dad-smell filled the room: sweat, aftershave, wood chips. “You look well. Full of light and vitality and fresh air. The sun, the moon, the stars. What have you been doing with yourself, Daphne, while we damaged souls toil away in here, attempting to reclaim our sanity?”
“Wandering, I guess. Walking through the woods.”
“Pulling a Robert Frost, eh?” He went to the desk. Swiped the iPad. Tapped it a few times. “You go up the mountain or down to the creek today?”
“To the creek.”
“Good choice. Tell me, has Heath confided in you any more about our sessions?”