Finally, when it looks like the guy on the other end is never going to shut up, Bren covers the cell’s mouthpiece with one hand. “Wick, honey, can you go inside without me? I promise I won’t be too long.”
I nod and get out, take the elevator to Norcut’s third-floor office. This late in the afternoon, it’s deserted. There’s only the office assistant manning the sleek front desk.
“Hi, Wicket,” Trina says, pulling off a headset that’s probably meant to look more Nicki Minaj than “Do you want fries with that?”
“You can go in,” she says. “Dr. Norcut will only be a few more minutes.”
“Thanks.” I smile, close the office door behind me. The psychiatrist’s tastes are a study in grays. Gray chairs. Gray carpet. Gray walls.
I drop onto a gravel-colored sofa pushed against a granite-colored wall and check my phone.
One. Lights go off. Backup generator turns on. I hunch into the cushions, watching the shadows flick back and forth underneath the door. Norcut and Trina are on the move and Norcut sounds pissed.
Two. Norcut asks Trina to get a handle on the situation and Trina say she’s trying. She sounds like she’s failing.
Three. The alarm system goes off and I launch myself across the room. Norcut’s keyboard is shiny clean (God, the woman’s predictable) but the keys are worn on the L, M, and N. The number keys to the right are worn on the 1, 5, 6, and 9.
I roll my eyes, unable to stop the grin. God, I love it when people never change their password. I key in Norcut’s initials, the password Milo gave me: ALN1965. The home screen populates.
Hot damn. I open her My Documents folder and skim through the file listing, where Norcut’s literal brain is a total windfall for me. It’s crazy easy to navigate. I click on the file marked Patients and scroll through the list.
BAY, KYLE is near the top.
I double click the folder and skim through the documents inside. Patient histories. Lots of them. Looks like Norcut scans her handwritten notes and saves them as PDFs. I don’t know what will be useful so I select the entire group and copy it to my jump drive. After the backup is complete, I scroll down and select the last file she added.
It’s dated the eleventh, four days before Kyle and Lell supposedly eloped, and talks all about his rage.
Patient highly agitated and convinced someone is following him. No amount of reason can sway him. He is unable to articulate why someone would follow him, but he is insistent that it’s happening.
Paranoia? That’s interesting. Outside, Norcut’s voice goes up another octave and I cut a quick look at the door. Not much more time. Kyle’s paranoia is definitely interesting. Doesn’t make him the killer though.
Both boys exhibit depression symptoms. May need to adjust Kyle’s medication dosage. Complaints of blackouts. Real or imaginary? Must speak with parents to confirm.
Both boys? I flip to My Documents again and check the file listing for Ian. There’s nothing. Was he a patient? It doesn’t look like it. Then again, it’s not like I’ve found everything Norcut has. She could have filed Ian somewhere else. Why keep Kyle here? And how do the parents figure in? Kyle’s mom would’ve been undergoing chemo treatments at this point. Was she supportive?
Will recommend an in-patient therapy program for long term. I have serious concerns about the upcoming reelection. The pressures in the current environment could prove to be too great. He could relapse. Or worse.
Several family members support a long-term psychiatric solution. The mother, in particular, feels it’s necessary and she mentioned several times that her husband’s assistant feels the same. They’re afraid.
Of Kyle. Interesting—even more interesting that Chelsea recommended Kyle be put away and now she’s dead. Could the murders be about revenge? What if “remember me” is a question and a command? Remember who you put away. Remember me.
Because my head is filled with Kyle, I don’t hear the door. It opens with the faintest whoosh against the carpet and I have just enough time to double tap CTRL, ALT, DEL, sending the computer into a full reboot. I spin around, ready to say . . . something.
But it isn’t Dr. Norcut standing in the doorway.
It’s Bren.
“Get away from the computer,” she whispers and, for a second, I think I’ve misunderstood. This is wrong. Bren should be pissed.
“Get. Away.”
Nope, she’s pissed. I bounce from the chair, pushing the jump drive deep into my coat pocket as I head for the couch. I sit down and Bren sits next to me. We both listen to Norcut outside, and when the doctor returns, Bren grabs my hand, her palm slick against mine.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Callaway. We seem to be having computer difficulties. Could we”—Norcut winces, anticipating Bren’s response—“reschedule?”
“Yes. Sure. No problem.” Bren hauls me to my feet while the psychiatrist stares at us, mouth slightly unhinged. She can’t believe her good luck. “I’ll call you.”