Driving home, those awkward moments with Adam wheel toward annoyance.
I fully realized my theory about Donny Ray wasn’t concrete yet; there was no need to point it out. He said he was just trying to help but instead came across as extremely overcritical.
The simple fact is that while Donny Ray’s previous psychologist had an inkling of what was going on, she obviously wasn’t skilled enough to ask the right questions, therefore she never got the right answers. I have far more practical experience in the field of forensic psychology than she. I’ve been doing this for years and doing it well. Talking to Adam, you’d think I was some kind of rookie fresh out of school, seeing a zebra where there was only a horse. I’m greatly bothered that, instead of acknowledging my discovery, Adam demonstrated a lack of respect for my abilities. He doubted me.
That’s because Adam despises you.
I can’t help but question whether his doubt came from a bad place, if beneath his voice of concern was a whisper of professional competitiveness. He’s already completed his assessment and concurred with Ammon that Donny Ray is malingering. If my theory is right—if Donny Ray dissociated during Jamey Winslow’s murder, and his amnesia was caused not by the head injury but instead his previous psychological trauma—that would make both of their opinions irrelevant. Mine would prevail.
Adam has always felt threatened by you.
This is very disappointing.
I have every intention of closing the missing links he mentioned, and when I do, Adam will realize he was wrong. He’ll feel embarrassed, and then I’ll flaunt my success in his face. I’ll be the one who gets to shame him. See how he likes it.
Don’t forget when he asked about the MRI. It was a vicious move.
As if he thinks the accident has in some way compromised my professional judgment. That simply isn’t true. The injury has compromised many things but not my ability to properly assess Donny Ray’s case, and I resent the implication.
I just don’t understand what’s gone wrong inside Adam’s head.
52
I walk into the house and find Jenna talking on the phone. She takes one look at me, and I can tell she senses the residual steam rolling off my back. I head for the refrigerator and try to play it down, but after looking inside, I can still feel the heat of her gaze on me.
“I’m not sure what to tell you,” Jenna says, continuing her conversation. A minute or so later, she hangs up.
I look back at my wife, and now I see more than concern. She stares at the phone as if it might answer her confusion.
“It was Kayla,” she says.
“Kayla?” I repeat and feel a stab of discomfort. She never calls here. We don’t exactly have that kind of relationship with her, especially after my disturbing outburst at her home. “What did she want?”
“Something about a globe?”
Oh, shit. The globe.
I’d forgotten all about the damned thing. It’s still upstairs in the closet, inside a pants pocket.
You need to lose that thing, buddy.
I’m not your buddy.
Jenna waits for my reaction.
“A globe . . . ,” I repeat, knowing my statement to be a weak avoidance effort. Then I shake my head because there’s not really much more that I can say. Anything else could potentially cause a slipup.
“She noticed it went missing from her living room right after we left, then struggled for days over whether to mention it.” Jenna wrinkles her nose. “The whole conversation felt really awkward.”
“So she thinks we stole it?”
You did steal it.
“She didn’t say that, but I can’t see any other reason why she’d call to mention it.”
“She’s probably just still angry about the way I treated her. You know how Kayla loves her drama,” I reply, giving pause to the thought of secretly returning something that, in retrospect, I haven’t the slightest clue why I stole in the first place. Too risky, I decide. Its reappearance after another visit to the house would point the finger at me even more.
Jenna appears to be thinking about my comment, but I’m unable to determine whether she agrees with it.
“It’ll turn up,” I try again.
Her nod is speculative.
I shift my attention toward the floor, but there I only find more discomfort, because Jake’s food is only half eaten. By the time I get home, his bowl is typically licked clean. But not tonight.
“Honey,” I say, “have you noticed Jake acting different lately?”
“Different, like how?”
“He seems a little lethargic and withdrawn.”
Jenna shakes her head and shrugs. “He seems fine to me.”
“And there’s still food in his bowl.”
She looks down and examines the uneaten food.
“Strange,” I say, “right?”
Jenna slowly raises her gaze to meet mine. She doesn’t answer, but we’ve always been able to read each other, and the misgiving that streams across her face speaks volumes.
The bowl is empty.
53
“The dog knows.”
I wake up with a start.
That voice again, but this time, I could swear it didn’t come from inside my head. This time, it sounded as if someone were speaking from right beside me.
Beside me?
I survey my surroundings. I’m in the family room. I look at my watch. Dinner was close to an hour ago.
“Jake knows.”
I nearly fall out of my chair because now the voice comes from a far end of the room. I spring to my feet and inspect every inch of that corner.
“Not there,” the voice taunts as it zooms swiftly overhead and toward the other corner.
“Where the hell are you?” I pull furniture out of position, search under tables, and lift the rug, trying to find it. “Stop hiding!”
From the floorboards beneath my feet now: “I’m not hiding. You are.”
I leap from my spot as if it’s just caught fire. “Quit chasing me! Leave me alone, goddamnit!”