In the town of Grand Marais, we check into a hotel, a traditional little inn on Lake Superior, with a sign boasting Free Continental Breakfast that catches my eye. Our return flight is not until morning.
Dr. Rhodes has given Mia a tranquilizer that knocked her out. I carried her to the double bed in a room she shares with Eve. The rest of us stand in the hallway and talk.
Eve is a jumble of nerves. She knew this whole thing was a mistake. She goes almost as far as to blame me, but stops short. “Sooner or later it would have all come out,” she decides, but I can’t tell if she believes it or if she’s only trying to appease me.
Later I will remind her of the case, that Colin Thatcher was not the one who ordered a hit on Mia. There is someone out there looking for her, and we need Mia as cognizant as possible to track this someone down. He must have told her something. Colin must have told her what this was all about.
Eve leans against a hallway wall covered in pastel wallpaper. The doctor has changed into a pair of lounge pants and slippers. Her hair is tied into a stringent bun that makes her forehead look huge. She stands with her arms crossed and says to us, “It’s called Stockholm syndrome. It’s when victims become emotionally attached to their captors. They bond with them in captivity and when it’s all said and done, they defend their captors and become fearful of the police who came to their rescue. It’s not unusual. We see it all the time. In domestic abuse situations, abused children, incest. I’m sure you can relate, Detective. A woman calls the police department to say her husband is beating her, but when the police arrive at her door, she turns on them and comes to the defense of her spouse.
“There are a number of conditions that aid in the development of Stockholm syndrome. Mia would have needed to feel threatened by her aggressor, as we know she did. She would have needed to feel isolated from others besides her aggressor. We know this to be the case, too. She needed to feel an inability to escape the situation. This goes without saying. And finally, Mr. Thatcher would have needed to show a minimal amount of humanity to her, such as—”
“Not letting Mia starve to death,” I offer.
“Precisely.”
“Giving her clothes to wear. Shelter.” I could go on and on. It makes perfect sense to me.
But not Eve. She waits until Dr. Rhodes has said good-night and retreats down the hall—out of hearing range—before uttering, “She loved him,” in that mother-knows-best tone.
“Eve, I think—”
“She loved him.”
I’ve never seen Eve so sure of anything as she is this. She stands in the doorway watching Mia sleep on the bed. She watches her like a new mother might watch her infant child.
Eve sleeps in the bed beside Mia. I sleep in the second double bed though I have my own room. Eve begs me not to leave.
Who am I to talk, I think as I slide between the sheets. I don’t know a damn thing about being in love.
Neither of us sleeps.
“I didn’t kill him,” I remind Eve, but it doesn’t matter because someone did.
Eve
After
The entire flight home, she’s lost. She takes the window seat and presses her forehead against the cold glass. She’s unresponsive when we try to speak to her, and at times I hear her cry. I see the tears she sheds drip down her cheeks and fall to her hands. I try to console her, but she pulls away.
I was in love once, so long ago that I can barely remember. I was enraptured by this handsome man I’d met in a restaurant in the city, this alluring man who made me feel like I walked on air. Now he’s gone and all that remains in the space between us are hurt feelings and despicable words. He wasn’t taken from me. I drifted away, far enough that I can no longer see that youthful face or persuasive smile. And still it hurts.
Dr. Rhodes leaves us at the airport. She wants to see Mia in the morning. The doctor and I decided amongst ourselves that we would increase her sessions to two times per week. Acute stress disorder is one thing, grief another.
“This is a lot for someone to handle,” she says to me, and we look over to watch as Mia’s hand drops to her abdomen. This baby is no longer a burden, but a last trace of him, something to hold on to.
I think what it would have done to Mia if she’d had the abortion. It would have pushed her over the edge.
We find Gabe’s car in long-term parking. He has offered to drive us home. He tries awkwardly to manage all of our bags; he won’t let me help. Mia walks faster than the rest of us so that we struggle to keep up. She does it so she won’t see the uneasy countenance on my face, or have to look into the eyes of the man she believes shot her lover.
She rides the entire trip in the backseat in silence.
Gabe asks if she’s hungry; she doesn’t respond.