“Because you’re—I dunno—the Bette Davis of Insighters. Or something.”
She groaned. “Oh, my God, you’ve all got to stop that. Not least because you’ve got it wrong. Davis had natural talent that she built on. She was relentless and fearless about her craft—she liked playing monsters—and the work was always, always her number one focus. It’s why she was so mesmerizing on-screen. If you go back and watch the early films, you can almost see how each picture is a stepping-stone to the deeper characterization she found for the next.”
“Oh, my God.”
“I know.”
“Film geek.”
“Yes, well, Hollywood childhood. Those movies were my homework. And the best part—” She laughed a little, remembering. “My mom was furious when I told her she’d never been famous except for that time she’d been a serial killer—”*
“Wait, what?”
“—and she certainly wasn’t the reincarnation of Davis. Or Garland. Or Hepburn. Or anyone of note.”
“Can we circle back to your mom the serial kil—”
“The thing is, Jack, if I was the anything of Insighters, I’d be Greta Garbo: skilled, but ultimately resentful of the attention it brought and constantly tempted to exile myself.”
“Um . . .”
“Sometimes I can barely be bothered to try. Which makes me the jerkass of Insighters.”
“You’re not making me feel better about being a freak.”
“Ah, but as I remind my clients, my job isn’t to make them feel better. It’s to help them see. What I’m trying to explain is, it doesn’t have to define you. It doesn’t have to be a career. You don’t have to end up—” Like me. “For most people, like your sister, it’s just something they have a knack for. Like being great with numbers—the fourteen-year-old kid taking college trig, for example. Or like knowing what spices go together with what food even if you’ve never cooked. It helps—or hinders—exactly as much as you want it to. What if that same math whiz decides on medical school? It doesn’t mean they’re not a math genius, they’re just putting their focus elsewhere.”
She cleared her throat. “Wow, I’m talking a lot.”
“Uh-huh. But, Leah, the thing is—” In his anxiety, Jack grabbed Leah’s hand, squeezing for emphasis. “That’s why Angela’s always been so obsessed with Dad’s case.”
Unspoken: And I don’t want to be like that.
“Is that what you think? That it’s about her gift, and not her personality?” Is that what you all think? That explains quite a bit, come to think of it. She shook her head. “No, Jack. Your sister’s obsessed—and I don’t think she’s clinically obsessed, by the way. We throw that word around far too often, so many people use ‘obsessed’ when what they really mean is ‘focused’ or—”
“Argh.”
“Sorry. Your father’s murder is a constant, strong issue for her because that’s her nature, and it’s nothing to do with Insight. Her attention to detail, her reliance on being in control—”
She was delighted when he snickered; it was an improvement over tearful despair. “Soooo tactful.”
“Yes, well, I’ve got skills. Angela’s personality traits have little to do with the ability. The way she looks after all of you—do you think that’s because she knows Jordan died of gangrene after biting his tongue?”*
“What?”
“No, it’s because something in her compels her to take care of all of you. Your sister isn’t driven to spend years researching a murder because she can see other lives. She’s driven to research it because she knows something’s wrong and she wants to fix it.”
“Okay. That’s—okay.” He sighed. “Can we stop talking about this for now? I’m not trying to be mean. It’s just, there’s a lot to think about.”
“Of course.”
“I don’t feel . . . better, exactly? Just less bad, and I don’t think that’s the same thing. But I’ll take it. To be honest, I’m so tired I feel like you wrapped a brick in cotton and whacked me in the forehead with it.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
He started to get up from the table, then paused. “Don’t tell anybody, okay?”
“Of course.”
“And thanks. For talking to me.”
“Of course.”
“You want some more juice?”
“No, I thought I’d go back to bed and try to sleep.”
“Me, too.” He headed for the doorway, then paused and turned. “Y’know, you’re really screwed up,” he said cheerfully. “Your family’s worse than mine, which I sort of thought was impossible. But think about it!”
“I have.”
“Your mom killed you a lot—”
“I remember.”
“—and was a serial killer—”
“Yes, I’m aware.”
“—and you’re pregnant with a Drake baby—”
“For Christ’s sake. I get it.”
“—and you have to go back to prison again.”
“All true. Not sure what your point is.”
“There’s just so much madness wrapped up in all that. It’s kind of glorious, you know?”
That made her laugh. Hard. And why not? The kid had a point. He’d also reminded her that helping clients see themselves gave her perspective into her own brand of insanity. She still didn’t know what to do about The Return of Nellie Nazir, but it was a problem she didn’t have to solve on her own, and remembering that was always valuable.
THIRTY-THREE
A lighthearted fact about chronic depression: One of the first things to bid you adieu is your sex drive. When you don’t have the energy or drive to get out of bed, the last thing you want is someone in the bed with you, especially when they’re advocating a vigorous skin-to-skin workout.
I am in a cemetery (aboveground, fortunately) pondering my sex drive. This is probably one of those thoughts to keep to myself.
He finished sorting the items in his trunk and turned when he heard the car roar in past the gates, dart around the parking lot, swing into a spot, and there was Angela, trying to get out of the vehicle before she unbuckled her seat belt. Or turned off the ignition.
How can you help but admire the woman’s drive to vindicate her uncle? She nearly strangled on her seat belt in her rush to get to the truth. Outstanding.
She waved and came over in a hurry, blowing her delightfully tousled bangs off her forehead. “Good morning almost afternoon.”
“Angela.” Ah. She’s here, so it must be time for me to stiffen up and display my lack of interpersonal skills. “Hello.”
“Not that I mind, but why did you want to meet here?” She looked around the beautiful cemetery while simultaneously avoiding the gaze of the Eternal Silence statue. “We’re not due at ICC until four o’clock.”
“I thought—”
She had slowed as she got closer and was only a couple of feet away. “Oh. Hey! Oh.”
He blinked, glanced down. He was in jeans and a short-sleeved dark green button-down. Loafers with socks. Most definitely with socks. “Something wrong?”
“No-no-no. I’ve just always seen you in suits. It’s nice. You’re nice. It looks nice, is what I mean. You do. Look nice.” She smacked herself on the forehead. “Oh, my God, I’ve got to start getting more sleep.”
He laughed. “That seems to be a common theme this month. I suspect the only one getting a full eight hours per is your uncle. And possibly your mother.”
“I promise I don’t always babble this much.” She looked down at herself. “But now I’m wondering. Am I overdressed?”
“Not at all.”
In fact, she was perfectly dressed in crisp black capris with a white blouse and over that, a deep rose sweater with whatever those wide necklines were, the cut that showed off her slender shoulders.* Shiny black loafers completed the look, which was practical and lovely for the mild summer weather.
“You look—” Beautiful. Perfect. Cemetery-friendly? No. “You’re fine.” Oh, for . . .
He pulled his keys out of his pocket and hit the button to open the trunk, then stepped aside so she could see. He’d asked for, and gotten, permission to bring his car through the gates and park on the side road less than thirty feet from Donald Drake’s grave.