“He’s not bad, but I need to be there. Just let me know when.”
They pushed the door open and found themselves in a dimly lit room. Rose was staring at the ceiling and tied to the bed in four-point restraints. “Is that really necessary?” Barry asked.
“She was violent at the station,” Rafferty said, gesturing to Zee’s face.
“She was agitated,” Zee corrected.
“What’s her diagnosis?” Barry asked Zee.
“It’s a little early for diagnosis—”
“Okay, then. What was the diagnosis twenty-five years ago? After the Goddess Murders.”
“A conversion disorder as the result of complex trauma.”
“And how long was she catatonic then?”
“I’m not sure catatonic is the right term.”
“I’ll rephrase. How long was she uncommunicative?”
“Almost a year.”
“Okay,” he said again. The three looked at Rose for an awkward moment. Barry shook his head. “Doesn’t look like I’ll accomplish much by talking with her. Let me know when the commitment hearing is. I’ll be in touch with you both.” He looked at the restraints again. “And get those things off of her ASAP.” He headed for the door, and Rafferty opened it for him, just as a uniformed officer arrived to stand guard.
The lawyer left the room, and Zee and Rafferty stood together silently, watching Barry’s back disappear down the hall. “I don’t envy you this case,” Zee said.
“Right back at you,” Rafferty said.
“I mean, this can’t be easy personally,” Zee clarified. “You and Rose are friends.”
She was giving him the opportunity to talk about his feelings, the way any good therapist might. But she wasn’t his therapist, though she had once been Towner’s. He pressed his lips together and shrugged. Truth be told, he felt a little uneasy around Zee Finch. It was she and Towner who were really friends—they worked together at the shelter for abused women and children that Towner’s family ran on Yellow Dog Island and also at the tearoom Towner owned and managed in town, which employed the abuse victims who were ready to make their way back into the world. And even before that…Towner’s terrible childhood and her breakdown were legendary in Salem. She had needed counseling, and Zee had a personal understanding of complex trauma that made her the right choice. She’d been instrumental in helping Towner recover. Still, Rafferty felt Zee knew too much, both about Towner’s history and about their rocky path back together after their separation. Being around Dr. Finch for too long made him uncomfortable.
“I know you care about Rose,” Zee offered.
“We all care about her,” he said.
She waited for him to continue.
“I hate to cut this cleverly disguised attempt at a therapy session short, but I have to get back to work.”
Zee laughed and shrugged. “I’ll get you on the couch one of these days, my friend.”
“Don’t hold your breath.”
It may be most widely known as the site of the Salem witchcraft trials of 1692, but this colorful, coastal city has much to offer both residents and visitors: a culturally diverse population, a rich maritime heritage, an impressive display of historic architecture and amazing stories that span almost four centuries.
—The Comprehensive Salem Guide
Callie drove from Northampton, pulling off the Mass Pike onto 128, then following Route 114 to Salem, missing a turn along the way and ending up down by the waterfront. She turned left and drove up by the common, circling the statue of Roger Conant to change direction and head back toward the station.
Rose is alive? How is that possible? They told me she was dead.
After the newscast had ended, Callie simply left the nursing home. She didn’t check in with her supervisor, the longtime prioress of both the nursing home and the children’s home where she’d spent most of her early years. Sister Mary Agatha was her name, but the girls at the home had nicknamed her Sister Mary Agony, and the name had stuck. Though a big part of her wanted to storm into Agony’s office and demand to know why they had lied to her, Callie couldn’t do it. Not right now. Not without losing it altogether. She just had to get out of there. She didn’t tell anyone she was leaving. Instead, she went home, packed an overnight bag, and started driving to a place she had once promised herself she would never set foot in again. She drove as if in a trance.
Rose was alive!
Salem didn’t look at all the way Callie remembered it from her childhood: a struggling city, a historic seaport that had seen better days, its harbor district dotted with hippie houses and a few witch shops. What she saw now was a collection of upscale shops, restaurants, and restored homes whose grandeur rivaled the antebellum mansions of the south. Witch kitsch was liberally scattered through the downtown landscape, along with haunted houses and psychic reading studios.
Though Callie had only a handful of memories from her life in Salem, the moments she remembered were vivid and crystal clear, more like snapshots or videos capturing precise moments in time, with no trace of what came between. Her therapists—she’d had a few; the nuns had seen to that—had tried to get her to fill in the blanks, to paint a more comprehensive picture for them, but Callie hadn’t seen the point. The few times she’d tried their exercise, it felt contrived or, worse, as if she were picking up their cues, giving them what they wanted in a effort to satisfy their morbid curiosity about what happened that night. Eventually she’d stopped therapy and stopped thinking about it altogether. Callie was a practical girl. Re-creating the worst time in her life had done little to heal her; all it did was keep reminding her. If there were times she couldn’t remember, it was just as well.
She did remember Rose, though. Not as much from the night of the murders as from before them. Rose had been a respected scholar of the Salem witch trials who had written several books on the subject and opened a research library in Salem, a place Callie’s mother and her friends referred to simply as the center. People came from all over the world to research the witch trials, both for scholarly purposes and to look up the history of their ancestors. Each of the girls on the hill that night had initially come to the center looking for information about her ancestors, leapfrogging over present-day branches of family in favor of finding roots that traced back to 1692. In that way, Rose had always supposed that the girls were all a family of a sort, and she’d treated them as if she were their mother.