“I’m so sorry,” Mena whispered.
I made a decision and turned to Tom. “Tom? Let’s take a really quick break, okay? You need to go to the bathroom?”
He shook his head.
“Want a snack or anything?”
He nodded.
I smiled and told him Mena would get him something. “I’m just going to be in the next room, right outside this door, okay?”
“Okay.”
I stepped out of my office, wanting to give the investigators a few choice words. You don’t just interrupt a session like that. This had better be good.
After Mena went into my office and shut the door, Mooney locked her gaze on me. “We need this to move along a little bit.”
“Move it along?”
“Listen, I’m sorry, I know. Things are developing.”
“What does that mean?” I was used to working with law enforcement, and understood the need for discretion. But this was making me nervous.
“It means this is delicate right now,” Mooney said. “I’ve spoken to someone close to the family. Things are . . . There are just some things that have come to our attention.”
Starzyk stood back by the door to the hallway, checking out the room the way cops do. He wore a gray suit and aviator sunglasses.
It was vague. Vaguer than vague. I shook my head. “All I can tell you is that I have a severely traumatized little boy in there who saw his father dead on the floor of his kitchen. And I need him to talk about that on his own. I can’t force him.”
“You said three sessions.”
“I said three minimum, but maybe five.” I kept my voice low, but forceful. “I think he needs to tell me something. I think it’s bottled up in him. This boy has an unsettling knack for compartmentalizing. He’s highly intelligent, but he has PTSD. He’s walled off the memory of that night — seeing his mother and father in the kitchen, his mother cradling her dead husband’s head in her hands — he only remembers what won’t hurt him.”
I was breathing hard by the time I finished.
Mooney, who was half a foot shorter, looked up at me with intensity. “That may not be all he saw.”
“What?”
I glanced at Starzyk, no longer checking out the room but watching me from behind his reflective lenses.
“The boy’s mother has made plans to leave the state,” he said. “They’re moving. She’s getting on a plane in less than a week, with plans to take him with her.”
Mooney stepped closer. “Dr. Lindman, we know it’s not your job to work this case for us. You need to submit your evaluation. We just need you to do it as soon as you can. We’re out of time.”
It seemed that what they were talking about was more than getting the description of a murdering intruder. My throat felt dry.
“I’ll do the best I can. When he’s ready, he’ll tell me what he saw. But only when he’s ready.”
CHAPTER SIX
I wait for Paul and Michael to return from the lake. They’re gone about an hour. After they dock and walk up the hill toward the house, they’re shoulder to shoulder, like a couple of old buddies. You could say Paul has a way with people, and he does. It’s what makes him a good friend of many, but it would make him a lousy therapist. To do therapy, you have to keep a certain distance. You have to have boundaries. Without boundaries, not only do you lose objectivity, but you can lose compassion.
I’ve seen young therapists fall into that trap. They think getting close is the way into the healing. But it can lead to complication, even harm.
“Hi there, wife,” Paul says as he reaches me. They’re both wet around the cuffs of their pants.
“You guys have fun?”
“Michael really likes it out there,” Paul says with pride.
“I grew up near the ocean, which is great, but there’s something about these glacial lakes,” Michael says. “Cold and dark and deep.”
They’re both smiling. There’s no hint that any tough words were shared; it’s all good vibes and bonding. But each time I look at Michael, his gaze seems to shift just before I see something he doesn’t want me to see. “Well,” he says, “I guess I’ll go find Joni. She inside?”
“She’s upstairs, yeah.”
“Go on in,” Paul says. “Make yourself comfortable.”
“Okay, thanks.” He flashes us another quick smile before moving on.
We watch as he approaches and enters the house.
I can’t keep it quiet any longer. Paul must read it in my face because his mouth turns down, eyebrows knitted with concern. “What?”
I take him by the arm, trying to be casual, and walk him toward the driveway. Our Range Rover is there, plus the old Ford pickup truck we leave at the house. Behind them both is Joni’s Subaru. The garage, where cars usually go, has been serving as Paul’s workshop. He’s building a boat, a process that’s spanned four summers now. He swears it will be done before we return home at the end of next week.
I lead him inside, the smell of sanded wood filling my nose. We’re out of view of the house, out of hearing range, too.
“Em? What’re you doing? What’s going on?”
We stand together beside the boat he’s making. It’s upside down, the wood bare and smooth. Paul can’t help it — he looks at his creation and then runs his hand over it. But his eyes come back to mine. “I know,” he says. “It’s nuts. But it’s Joni. Par for the course. ‘You just gotta laugh because it’s all so crazy.’ Right? He seems like a good guy, Em. I know you think I just like everybody. But he really cares about her. He—”
“I think he was a former patient.”
Paul’s hand stops. He looks at me, brushes his palms together absently, kicking off a little dust. “What?”
“Fifteen years ago.”
“In what . . . ? I mean . . .”
“A murder case. An evaluation I did for the New York State Police. Remember? Investigator Mooney?”
I see the memory hit his eyes, changing his gaze. “The Bishops,” he says.
“Yeah.”
He points towards the house. “That’s him? That’s the boy?”
“I think so.”
Paul’s hand drops. He takes a step closer. “You think so? Or you know?”
“I think I remember him. He looks exactly like Tom Bishop would look if he were now twenty-three. I mean, exactly.”
“But he’s . . . Michael Rand . . .”
I wait, lifting my eyebrows at my husband, inviting him to work it out.
“Maybe he changed his name? Because of everything that happened?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“I mean, he was a kid . . .”
“He had people looking out for him. His aunt and uncle, for one thing. David Bishop’s sister and her husband. The ones who took Tom in after it all . . . after the trial.”
Paul has been staring off, but now he focuses on me. “What are their names?”
“I thought of that. I’m not sure I remember, but I don’t think it was Rand.”
“Can you check? Is there some way you can find out?”
“Well, maybe. My files, but those are back at my office. And I didn’t write much down, just some notes for myself and then the report, which went under judicial seal. Because he was a minor.”
I’m quiet, contemplating, and notice Paul has gone kind of lifeless again.
“So,” I say.