“And what?” I ask. “They concocted some whole elaborate thing? Joni met Michael at college . . .”
Reynolds nods. He’s taller than Parker, with a mole on his jawline. Short, dark hair gelled to perfection. “We think he was already enrolled. That’s the one true bit of serendipity in all of this. He met your daughter there and told his mother. Otherwise, every bit of this has been calculated. Laura and her son have conspired to . . . well, essentially break into your life, for some time.”
“Why?”
The detectives trade another look between them. Parker picks up the thread. “To mess with you. It seems as simple as that. To mess with you and your husband. The way it seems, to kind of tear you apart. The way it seems to us, she blames you for her conviction. We know Thomas, or rather Michael, has been visiting with her for years. We think she sort of sent him in to destabilize you and your family. Put you through all this business about remembering his past.”
Reynolds chips in, “Of course they must’ve figured you would, you know, recognize Michael, which is why he did the whole partial amnesia thing.”
“They’re just messed-up people,” Parker adds.
I’m shaking my head with disbelief. My throat is so dry. I ask for a drink.
Detective Parker tilts his head. “I’m sorry? I didn’t catch that.”
“I need water,” I whisper.
Parker glances at Reynolds, who leaves to run the tap in the bathroom. He brings me back a plastic cup and I drink from it greedily, water running down my chin.
“Easy,” Parker says. “Careful.”
I set it aside and wipe my mouth. My mind goes blank with overload.
“Listen,” Parker says. “Why don’t you get some rest? We’ll come back and follow up with you a little later.”
“Where is Laura now?”
“In custody,” Reynolds assures. “We’re keeping an eye on her.”
“And we’re still talking to her,” Parker says.
For some reason, that scares me more than anything.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
When the detectives leave, another pair of investigators enter, this time a man and a woman. They’re better-dressed in more expensive suits. They tell me they’re with PSB — the Professional Standards Bureau — and start asking me questions about Steven Starzyk and Rebecca Mooney.
Now’s my chance. I tell them about the transcripts I was given prior to evaluating Tom. Transcript of his interviews. And one of them which, toward the end, has Mooney and Starzyk talking about contamination of the scene. On the tape, Starzyk tells Mooney to erase the last minute, but she never did.
“Interesting,” the woman says.
Once I’ve told them everything else I can, I ask them to do me a favor.
“It depends,” the man says.
“Can you check on Frank Mills for me? He’s in Yonkers — he’s a private investigator. I asked him to help me out when . . . when this thing all began. And then he stopped responding to my texts or calls.”
“Do you have a phone number? Address?”
I give them what I have for Frank.
Once they’re gone, I try to get some rest. I doze for perhaps fifteen, twenty minutes. When I wake up, I’m briefly disoriented.
Then:
Mena . . .
She called, way back when Paul was driving me out of the woods to see Sean, and I let it go to voicemail. Then my battery died. Someone at the hospital was nice enough to loan me a charger, so I can now return her call.
She answers on the second ring. “Dr. Lindman?”
“Mena . . . how are you? Is everything all right?”
“I heard about Sean . . . I’m so sorry. How is he?”
We go through it, with me giving her the abridged version of events, and Mena gasping and sighing and worrying about me. To divert her, I ask about things at the office. “It’s been quiet. Everyone knows you’re on vacation.”
Vacation. Is that the word for what I’m on?
“Maggie Lewis’s funeral was today,” Mena says, tentative. “I didn’t want to bother you. I sent an email to remind you but didn’t call . . .”
“It’s fine, Mena.”
“I went,” Mena says. “I hope that’s okay.”
“Really? You went?”
“People saw that I was there. I thought maybe it . . . I’m sorry. I think about it now, and it was the wrong decision . . .”
“No, Mena. Not at all.”
“People will understand,” she says. “With everything you have going on. Your own family . . .”
“Mena, it’s okay. I’m not worried about appearances.”
Silence follows. I sense Mena is stuck on something. She was acting strangely when I saw her during the past weekend, too. Mena has always been introverted, even skittish. But this is something else. “Mena? Is there anything you want to talk to me about?”
“No.”
It sounds like a yes.
“Mena, it’s okay. There’s been a lot going on. Maggie Lewis’s suicide, then everything that’s happened up here, with Sean . . . I think it’s best we talk. So there’s no more surprises.”
“They sent over the sealed record for the Bishop case,” she blurts. “I think the clerk for Judge Meyers forgot you weren’t at your office. I . . . I have the records.”
“Okay. That’s okay, Mena. Things are kind of . . . well, they’re pretty much over up here now. You can’t even believe the things that . . . I’ll have to explain later. It’s been a crazy weekend. Craziest of my life.”
Mena sounds close to tears. “I know.”
“You know?”
“I figured it might be.”
“Mena?”
“I would never do anything like this. But when you called me a few days ago, asking about . . . you know . . . and your case notes, it brought some things back to me.”
I sit up a little in the bed. I’m dimly aware the rain is streaking the dark windows of my room. That I can still smell smoke from the burning yurt — maybe my clothes are somewhere in the room? “Okay — what wouldn’t you do?”
“I’d never go through your files. Your notes. But I just thought . . . Oh God . . .” She sobs, unable to finish.
“Mena. It’s okay. Really. What about my notes?”
“I read them.”
“Why would you do that?”
But it’s already ignited a memory. And the process of remembering feels a bit like the flames that threatened to consume me not hours ago. I’m hot, and I push down the sheet of the hospital bed.
“Why would you do that?” I repeat to Mena, my mind racing. If I said or did anything wrong, it wouldn’t be in my case notes. Even though what I sent was a formal evaluation, a judge can subpoena case notes, or anything else.
“Because I wanted to be sure,” Mena says, sounding like she already is.
“Sure of what?”
“That you lied in them.”
“Mena . . .” I feel my insides turning cold. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
Yes, you do.
“Being in this office all these years, I know the good you’ve done, Dr. Lindman. You’re an incredible therapist. You truly care about people. And you’re good at what you do. So good that . . .”