DR. LEWIS: You have told her about me?
ME: Uh, yeah. Yeah. But … you didn’t tell her anything … private we have talked about?
DR. LEWIS: About your mother?
ME: Yeah.
DR. LEWIS: No. The bare facts only. That we were talking.
ME: Okay.
Okay, okay. That wasn’t so bad.
Anyway.
The conversation went on.
ME: Blah.
DR. LEWIS: Blah blah.
Etc., etc., etc.
At the end of the half hour, I didn’t stand up. “I want to stay for group,” I said.
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Dr. Lewis. “There are a lot of people here who loved Paris. Love Paris.”
“Yeah,” I said, though that wasn’t why I wanted to stay. I was out of leads, and Dwight was the only one who might have some more information on Paris. I wanted to grab him once group was over.
But Dwight wasn’t first that day, and I worried that he wasn’t going to come. Five people, maybe, turned up, poured themselves coffee into their plastic cups and then sat down on plastic chairs in the circle.
He’s not coming, he’s not—
But then he did. He rushed in, wearing that NJPD SOFTBALL T-shirt he was always wearing, sweat patches under the arms. His jeans had food stains on them; on his feet were old Nike sneakers. He looked stressed.
“Hey, everybody,” he said. “Cass! You’re staying for group today?”
“Yep,” I said.
“Cool.”
He sat down, and Dr. Lewis got people to talk about how they were doing. We heard about the Red Voice and how it had been very aggressive all week, had made Rasheed burn himself with cigarettes.
“My dad’s voice has been bad this week too,” said Dwight. “Telling me I’m worthless. Telling me I’ll never amount to anything. That I don’t care about … don’t care about …”
“It’s okay,” said Dr. Lewis. “Go slow.”
“That I don’t care about Paris.”
“We all care about Paris,” said Dr. Lewis. “The voices can’t change that.”
“We all care. But we’re not all cops,” said Dwight.
Dr. Lewis nodded. “You feel a personal sense of responsibility.”
Dwight: “**** yeah, I do! I know what people say. That we don’t care about the whores, that we’re not doing anything. But we have nothing. We have no clues. Nothing. ****. I shouldn’t be talking about this.”
“This is a confidential environment,” said Dr. Lewis. “You’re in the circle of trust.”
“Anyway,” said Dwight. “I do care.”
“In this instance, then,” said Dr. Lewis, “the voice is representing the opinion of some of the media. That the police are incompetent.”
“I guess.”
“So tell the voice what you would tell the media. That it doesn’t understand the facts. Remind it of your schedule. You have it down to once a week, yes? The voice can talk on Fridays?”
“I did,” said Dwight. “Before …”
“Paris,” I said. I didn’t mean to speak, I just did.
“Yeah. Your voice bad too?” said Dwight. His zits had come back hard, fresh new red spots over his scars.
I forced myself back into the moment. “Yeah. Before … before, I had a big victory.” I looked out at the faces of the people. This was the first time I had spoken in group. They were looking at me with love, it seemed to me, their faces shining, some with hands clasped together. Willing me on. I smiled to myself. “The voice wanted me to cut off my toe and said it would kill my dad in the night if I didn’t. I didn’t. I couldn’t sleep all night, but in the morning my dad was alive.”
“That’s amazing, Cass,” said Dr. Lewis. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“No,” I said. “I get that the voice doesn’t have the power it thinks it does. But then Paris … and then it started being nasty again. Insulting me. Telling me—”
“That you’re a nobody little ***** and everybody hates you.”
That was the voice.
Obviously.
“—telling me bad things,” I finished lamely.
“Anyone else?” said Dr. Lewis. “Let’s talk about how Paris’s disappearance has impacted our voice hearing.”
Blah.
Blah.
Etc.
Here’s the important part:
After the group was finished, I hung back. I was bursting with my insight; I was such an idiot. So naive. Thinking I could get Dwight to help me.
When Dwight was leaving I kind of followed outside the bowling alley to the 7-Eleven. At the coffee counter where the sugar and stuff was, I touched his arm. He had a bag slung over his shoulder.
“You’re working on the Houdini Killer case, right?” I said. “With Agent Horowitz and the other guy, the fat one?”
“Cass! I shouldn’t—”
“But you are?” I had told Julie not to talk to the cops, but I trusted Dwight. I had heard him talk about his voice, about the way his dad abused him. I knew he wasn’t the Houdini Killer. I knew that. I thought I knew a lot of things.
He sighed and nodded.
“There must be something I can do.”
“Leave it to the police,” said Dwight. “That’s what you should do.”