Down the Rabbit Hole

“God. About a month after her parents died—she and Marcus were in grief counseling, but she stopped going. I asked her why she’d stopped, and she told me she wanted to explore another avenue. She hadn’t been able to say good-bye, had questions she needed to ask them, so she’d gone to a sensitive. A friend of a friend had a friend, that sort of thing. I was . . . tolerant. I probably showed how fucking tolerant. The sensitive she went to didn’t have the capabilities to communicate with the dead.”


He waved his hand by his ear as he used the phrase. “But she had some recommendations. I said something like I thought grief counseling would be more beneficial than tossing time and money at some gypsy with a crystal ball.

“I don’t believe in that sort of thing, so I dismissed it all. I—I dismissed her. So she hid all this from me because she felt I wouldn’t understand or approve.”

“Was she going to someone?” Louise asked.

“We’re looking into that, but we do know she withdrew cash weekly from a new private account she set up a few months ago.”

“A new account?”

“A new account in a different bank. Every week she withdrew nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars.”

“Ten thousand a week?” The stricken guilt on Henry’s face shifted to puzzlement. “For how long?”

“Including the withdrawal she made yesterday morning, eighteen weeks. Do you know of any reason she’d want or need that much cash?”

“No. Just no. She’d have some cash, sure, but Darlene preferred using plastic. She’d have a clear record monthly that way. She was generous, and she didn’t deny herself either, but she was raised to know where her money went.”

He pointed to the evidence bag. “One of them. One of them was scamming her. Scamming her.” He shoved forward in his seat. “Marcus must have found out and threatened to go to the police. That could be why he wanted to hold the intervention, Louise. Because he found out some fake medium was scamming Darlene.”

“Henry, he would’ve told me,” Louise said.

“But it makes sense,” Henry insisted. “It finally makes sense. This medium got into Marcus’s apartment somehow, and killed Marcus. When Darlene got there, he forced her onto the terrace, pushed her over. You have to find him,” he said to Eve. “You have to find whoever she was paying. That’s who killed her, killed Marcus. You have to find them.”

“I intend to. Do you know if she took any trips, did any traveling in these last eighteen weeks?”

“I know she didn’t. She was supposed to go to East Washington last month and to London, ah, about six, eight weeks ago—both trips she sent her assistant in her place, and handled her part via ’link conference. She said she didn’t want to leave home. Just couldn’t leave home.”

“One more thing. You’ve all said she didn’t use—and that’s bearing out—but did you notice any changes in her behavior, any signs she seemed impaired over the last weeks?”

“She started sleepwalking.”

“Henry, you never told me.”

He shook his head at Louise. “She asked me not to say anything. The first time—maybe three months ago—I found her downstairs, in the kitchen, middle of the night. She was making these pouring motions. I asked her what she was doing, and she looked at me. Through me, I guess, and said she had to pour the tea for the tea party. It was kind of funny, really, and she woke up as soon as I touched her. She didn’t remember getting up.”

He set his untouched coffee down. “A few weeks later, I woke up, heard her talking. She was crawling under the bed, calling out to someone to come back. I thought she meant her parents—that she was having a stress dream about them. I tried to coax her out at first, and she laughed. She laughed, and said she wanted to go down the rabbit hole. She wanted to see where he’d gone. She woke up again when I took her hand.”

“And didn’t remember?” Eve prompted.

“No. She was baffled, and a little embarrassed. It happened one more time about two weeks ago. I woke up, and she was sitting on the side of the bed staring at me. I asked her what was wrong. She said—it was like a riddle. Ah, she said: Why is a crow like a desk? I think.”

“A raven?” Louise asked. “Why is a raven like a writing desk?”