“What is it?”
“I’m having strange memories,” he told her.
“Of your cousin?” she asked. “Of what he did to you?”
“No, this is completely different. I’m remembering things that never happened. And yet it’s like they did.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Yeah, me neither. I mean, it’s like waking up from a dream where you have flashbacks of what was in your head, but you can’t really put them together. I see things—I remember things—but only fragments. They’re disconnected. Like somebody snipped pieces out of a video. I’d swear they were dreams, but it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like I’m remembering something that really happened. I can’t explain it.”
Frankie was silent as she processed what Todd was saying. He went on in a voice that was so soft she struggled to hear him: “I was just wondering if this could be a side effect of what we did.”
“You mean the therapy?”
“Uh-huh.”
“No, I’m sure this is something else, Todd.”
“You mean I can’t remember false things? Because online, they talk about recovered memories that aren’t true. People will remember things that never actually happened to them.”
“I really don’t think that’s what this is.”
He nodded, but he looked doubtful. “Okay, whatever you say, but I’m scared. I don’t like what’s going on in my head.”
“How long have you felt this way?”
Todd rubbed a hand across his face. He blinked and looked lost. “The first time was two months ago. And then it stopped, so I figured it was some weird one-time thing. But this week—this week it happened again—”
“What exactly do you remember?” Frankie asked him.
“Torture.”
Frankie recoiled. “What?”
“That’s what I remember, Dr. Stein. Horrible shit. The pictures in my head, they’re graphic and violent.”
Her mind was in a whirl. “Did this happen to you? Were you suffering some kind of physical or mental abuse?”
“No, I saw it. I was watching it. It’s like I was a witness, you know?”
“Who was being tortured?” Frankie asked.
“A woman. Women, actually. It’s happened more than once.”
“What happened to them? Who was doing this?”
“I’m not sure I can describe it. It’s all bits and pieces. There’s this white room, and the woman is on a bed or chaise or something. She’s like—I don’t know, she looks drugged. Tied up, too, so she can’t move. And I remember some guy in a creepy-ass mask. He’s the one torturing her.”
“A mask?”
“Yeah. Some weird grinning mask with bug eyes. Scary as shit. I mean, it’s so bizarre, it can’t be real, right? But I feel like it happened.”
“Have you told anyone else about this?” Frankie asked.
“Are you kidding? No way. Like I said—no notes, right? I don’t want anybody thinking I’m nuts. You can’t tell anyone about this, can you? Doctor–patient privilege or whatever?”
“That’s right,” she said.
Todd exhaled in relief. “Good.”
Frankie hesitated. This wasn’t the kind of question she usually asked a patient. You didn’t challenge their hallucinations. “Listen, Todd, can you tell me one other thing? You said this felt like a dream, and yet you seem convinced that it really happened. Why?”
He slid closer to her on the bench. She was uncomfortable with the lack of personal space between them. He eyed the Bay Trail to make sure that no one else was within earshot. He looked frightened now.
“When this first happened two months ago, I thought it was a dream, too,” he said, “but then I realized it couldn’t be.”
“Why not?”
“Because the women I saw are real. I saw them on TV. That chick who threw herself off the bridge this week? She was one of the women in the white room. I mean, I don’t know her, I’ve never met her, I don’t know who she is. But I remember her.”
14
Frost waited for the cable car to pass, and then he crossed into Union Square. He finished a foot-long hot dog as he walked. Ketchup, pickle relish, no onions. It drove his brother crazy that Frost ate so many hot dogs. Duane was a chef, and he didn’t appreciate Frost’s argument that street-vendor hot dogs were better than just about any other food in the world.
The sun beat down on his neck. Entering the plaza, he passed under the palm trees. The Macy’s building was across the square on his right. People swarmed the park, clustering around musicians, mimes, jugglers, and acrobats. Above the street music, he heard the chants and drums of protesters, and he could see hand-painted signs waving in the air. It was San Francisco. Someone was always protesting something.
He found the terraced steps leading down to Geary Street, and it took him a minute to spot Lucy Hagen among the hundred-or-so people eating lunch on the steps on the warm afternoon. She was small and alone, watching the world go by with a dreamy expression on her face. She wore a belted red dress with black stripes at the hem. Her knees were pressed together, and she wore red high heels. The dress showed off her pretty arms and legs. Her brown hair nestled on her shoulders.
He squeezed his way down the steps and slid to the ground beside her. He whistled a tune that had been stuck in his head all day.
“Hey, Lucy,” he said.
“Oh, hey, Frost.” She welcomed him with a smile.
“Sorry to interrupt your lunch break, but I had a few more questions for you.”
“That’s okay. I like the company.”
Her lunch consisted of a couscous salad with olives and artichoke hearts. She took dainty, uninterested bites with a plastic fork. He guessed that if he’d offered to buy her a hot dog, she would have jumped at the chance.
“You look great,” he said.
“Have to look good for the Macy’s customers, you know.” But he could tell she was pleased with the compliment.
Lucy always looked a little lost when he saw her. Some single women owned the city, and some looked overwhelmed by it. Her big, curious eyes followed the people around her. She was a watcher, not a doer. He had the feeling that she stared at other San Franciscans on the street and wondered how they could make it look so easy. The businessmen. The construction workers in bright yellow. The drag queens. Even the homeless wrapped in blankets.
She noticed him studying her face and went back to her lunch in embarrassment. Her mouth twitched into a frown. “Have they found Brynn’s body yet?”
“No.”
Lucy shivered. “That’s awful.”
“It is. I’m sorry.”
“I checked with her supervisor, by the way. Brynn missed a day of work this week. She didn’t show up. She didn’t call.”
“And you have no idea where she was?” he asked.
“No.”
Frost craned his neck to study the plaza. “Did you say Dr. Stein’s office is nearby?”
Lucy pointed at a tall building on Stockton on the east side of the square. “She works in there.”
“Did Brynn say anything about seeing Dr. Stein lately? Is there a chance she could have gone to her for some kind of follow-up appointment?”
“I don’t think so. She didn’t mention it.”
“Did she say anything at all about Dr. Stein recently?”
“On the bridge, when we were stuck up there, she suggested I talk to her. She said she was pretty good. That’s it.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Lucy closed the plastic lid on her salad, as if she weren’t hungry anymore. She put her chin up, savoring the sun. “I love hanging out here, don’t you? Especially on the weekends. It’s so crazy. All the street performers. All the wild getups.”
“There’s nothing like it in the world,” Frost agreed.
She played with her hair, wrapping a curl around one of her fingers. “So did you always know you wanted to be a detective? Were you one of those little boys who played cops and robbers all the time?”
Frost shook his head. “No, when I was a kid, I didn’t have a clue what I wanted to do.”
“That’s like me. I still don’t.”