“They wanted to know about Rose.” Callie frowned. “They think she’s weird.”
“She is weird,” Towner said. “But in a good way…I’m afraid you’ll find that people have a lot to say about Rose in this town, not much of it good.” Towner put the bowl on the counter and started to place salad greens inside.
“Wait!” Callie said.
Towner turned and looked at her.
“You’re using that as a salad bowl?” Callie was horrified.
“I usually do. Why?”
“That’s a singing bowl!”
Towner looked at her blankly.
“It’s made out of quartz crystal.” Callie’s eyes searched the room, looking for a way to demonstrate. She grabbed a rubber spatula. She lifted the greens out of the bowl, gently placing them on the cutting board, and began to draw the spatula around the outside rim of the bowl just as Gail and Sally came back with another load of dishes. Callie smiled to herself, knowing full well that the two women were about to find her as “weird” as they found Rose. Good, she thought. Maybe it would end their gossip.
All the women stopped when they heard the sound. It started with a soft ringing, then built in volume until it circled the room, filling the air with its clear tone.
As the sound faded, Callie turned to look at Towner, who was staring at the bowl. “Wow.” Towner shook her head. “I always thought it was a salad bowl,” she said after the tone had faded to silence. “I found it in the pantry after Eva left me the house.”
Callie laughed for the first time since arriving in Salem. “It is definitely not a salad bowl. I’m a music therapist, I should know.”
“Gail, could you go to the pantry and find another bowl for the greens?” Towner asked. “Hopefully one that doesn’t sing.” Gail nodded, looking grateful to escape. Sally scurried after her.
“You’re a music therapist?” Towner looked interested.
“Yes,” Callie said. “I work at a nursing home in Northampton, and I have a private practice out there as well.”
“I’ve heard good things about music therapy,” Towner said. “I think they’re using it at the Brigham. To help with surgical patients and palliative care.”
“That’s traditional music therapy. Which is what I was trained to do. The bowls are a little different. A little more ‘alternative.’?”
“I’d say Gail and Sally think they’re quite alternative.”
Callie laughed.
“Hey, I promised John I’d give you a ride over to the station to pick up your car. If you can wait until I finish the salad…”
“That’s all right,” Callie said. “You’re busy. It’s not too far. I can walk.”
“You sure? I don’t mind doing it.”
“I’d like the fresh air, actually.” Her head still ached; the ocean air would help.
“Good enough then,” Towner said, turning back to the salad.
Callie was good at sizing people up, which was why she didn’t choose to have a lot of friends, especially female friends. She was definitely more comfortable with men. She blamed it on the nuns, who dealt in subtleties she’d never quite understood—doling out advice that walked the line between truth and fiction, saying it was for her own good, their de facto answer for everything.
But Towner was direct, matter-of-fact. The same way Rose used to be. And there was something else. She didn’t ask a lot of questions. She just seemed to understand some things without being told. Callie appreciated it.
“I’m going to visit Rose,” Callie added. “I hope that’s allowed.”
“I think it’s expected,” Towner said. “Ask for…”
“Do you think she’ll be there today?”
“Rose?” Towner looked at her strangely. “Why wouldn’t she be?”
“I’m sorry. I thought you were going to tell me to ask for Rose’s doctor.” Callie shifted nervously.
“I was,” Towner said, curious. “Did you meet Dr. Finch yesterday?”
“No,” Callie said quickly, deciding to be honest. “I guessed what you were going to say. I sometimes do that. Sorry.”
Towner looked at Callie for a long moment, then continued. “You’ll find Zee Finch’s offices in the medical building across the street from the hospital. She’s been Rose’s doctor for a long time.”
As she strode down the pedestrian walkway on Essex Street, Callie remembered some of the buildings, though most had changed a great deal. Salem was both familiar and strange to her. At Riley Plaza she passed the newsstand and glanced at a headline from The Salem Journal: HAS THE BANSHEE STRUCK AGAIN? Below it was a photo of Rose, the same one she had seen on the news broadcast: Rose on Derby Street with her cart, an angry expression on her face, her wild white hair trailing behind her like a shroud.
Callie found her car at the police station just as she’d left it, and drove to the hospital, taking a back entrance to avoid the reporters still camped by the front door. She made her way to Rose’s room, nodding to the guard and steeling herself for what she would see. The first thing she noticed was that the restraints had been removed, and a woman was rubbing Rose’s wrists to help restore their circulation.
“Are you Dr. Finch?”
The woman turned. Zee Finch was in her midthirties and had natural auburn hair, though it was already losing its vibrance. She dresses like a doctor, Callie thought. Not in the blue scrubs she’d seen in the corridors, though, but in a tasteful silk dress and jacket.
“I am,” Zee said.
“I’m Callie.” She stopped short of reciting her last name. “Rose’s niece. Sort of.”
Callie caught Zee taking a quick glance at her palm. Towner or Rafferty must have briefed her. “Any improvement?” Callie asked.
“At least she’s no worse,” Zee countered. “I suspect she’s experiencing a dissociative reaction to complex trauma. She suffered that once before.”
Callie didn’t have to ask when.
“Talk to her while you visit,” Zee said as she prepared to leave the room. “All appearances to the contrary, there’s a very good chance that she’s aware of what’s going on around her.”
“What should I talk about?” How I thought she was dead?
“Well, nothing too disturbing,” Zee said with a wry smile.
Callie nodded. “Until yesterday, I hadn’t seen her since that night.”