A Breath After Drowning E-Book

Alice Blanchard

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The stunning new psychological thriller from the award-winning author of Darkness Peering and The Breathtaker.Sixteen years ago, Kate Wolfe's young sister Savannah was brutally murdered. Forced to live with the guilt of how her own selfishness put Savannah in harm's way, Kate was at least comforted by the knowledge that the man responsible was behind bars. But when she meets a retired detective who is certain that Kate's sister was only one of many victims of a serial killer, Kate must face the possibility that Savannah's murderer walks free. Unearthing disturbing family secrets in her search for the truth, Kate becomes sure that she has discovered the depraved mind responsible for so much death. But as she hunts for a killer, a killer is hunting her…

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part I

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

Part II

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Coming Soon from Titan Books

Also Available from Titan Books

A Breath After Drowning

Print edition ISBN: 9781785656408

Electronic edition ISBN: 9781785656415

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: April 2018

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© 2018 Alice Blanchard. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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For Doug, forever

PART I

1

KATE WOLFE’S 3 PM appointment stood in the doorway wearing a jaw-dropping miniskirt, a light blue tee, plaid knee socks, and chunky platform heels. Fifteen-year-old Nikki McCormack suffered from bipolar disorder. She believed that she was the center of the universe. She lived in a world of her own creation.

“Hello, Nikki,” Kate said warmly. “Come on in.”

The teenager took three small steps into the spacious office and looked around as if she didn’t recognize the place. It was all part of the ritual. Nikki scrutinized the charcoal carpet, the blue-gray walls with their framed degrees, Kate’s swivel chair, and her large oak desk, as if something might’ve changed in her absence. She’d been coming to therapy for seven months now, and the only thing that ever changed was the mood outside the windows—cloudy, sunny, whatever—but Nikki wanted the place to always be the same. Another quirk of her illness.

“Hmm,” the girl said, index finger poised between glossy lips.

“Hmm good? Or hmm bad?”

“Just hmm.”

Okay, it was going to be one of those days.

The weather forecasters had been predicting snow. They argued over inches. It was deep into winter, February in Boston, but Nikki wasn’t dressed for the cold. She was dressed to impress. She wore a flimsy vinyl jacket over her skimpy outfit and a red silk scarf—no gloves, no layers, no leggings. Her pale, slender body was covered in gooseflesh, and her nipples showed through the flimsy tee, but Kate knew better than to suggest more seasonal attire. Nikki might storm out of the office as she had before, and that would be counterproductive to her therapy, so Kate ignored her maternal instinct and kept a steady focus on Nikki’s eyes—the azure depth of her sly intelligence. “Have a seat.”

Nikki hesitated on the threshold, and Kate could read her emotions morphing across her face like the Times Square news ticker—the girl doubted she was welcome anywhere. She didn’t feel loved. She believed people were laughing at her. It saddened Kate to discover that such a smart, healthy, promising young person could have such low self-esteem. It was more than troubling.

“I’ve been expecting you,” Kate said, coaxing her in like a kitten. “Have a seat, Nikki.”

The girl entered the office with gawky teenage dignity, sat in the camel-colored leather chair and crossed her waifish legs. Her chunky shoes with their thick wedge heels looked ridiculous on her and were probably dangerous in the snow. Nikki wore enamel rings on every finger and a slender gold chain around her neck. She was heavily made up, with careful strokes of peach lipstick on her skeptical mouth and too much gummy mascara on her eyes. She came across as beguilingly bumbling, and yet there was something disturbingly passive-aggressive about her.

“So,” Kate began. “How are you?”

The girl’s attention wandered everywhere. She studied the framed art prints on the walls, the overstuffed inbox on Kate’s desk, and finally Kate herself. “Yeah, okay. So I’ve been wondering… how do you deal with your patients and stuff?”

“My patients?” Kate repeated.

“I mean, because we’re so messed up? How do you cope? Day after day? How do you sit there and listen to us whine and complain and kvetch—how do you cope?”

Kate smiled. She’d only recently begun her fledgling practice. Her framed degrees barely covered two feet of wall space behind her desk. She had a bachelor’s degree in psychiatry and neuroscience from Boston University, and a medical doctorate from Harvard. The birch bookcase held dozens of scientific journals containing articles co-authored by her. On her desktop was the psychiatrist’s bible, the DSM-V, the one resource she was constantly reaching for. “How do I cope with what exactly?”

“With the stress? From having to deal with us crazies?”

“Well, first of all, I don’t consider my patients ‘crazies.’ We all deal with stress in different ways. For instance, I like to go running and hiking and rock climbing and work it off that way.”

“Seriously?” The girl rolled her eyes. “Because I can’t picture you running the Boston Marathon or anything, Doc.”

“Did I say marathon? Oh no. Not me.” Kate laughed. “But exercise helps with the stress.” She was understating it just a bit. She loved to go running and hiking and climbing. These activities were her biggest release, next to sleeping with her boyfriend.

“So how did you become a shrink?” Nikki asked, switching subjects.

“It was a long process. I got my BA and did my doctorate, and then there was the internship, the residency and the fellowship. Finally, just this past year, I’ve started seeing private patients, like you.”

“Oh.” Nikki smirked. “So I’m a guinea pig?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“No? What would you say?”

Kate smiled, enjoying the way Nikki confronted the world—part adult skepticism, part naïve bravado. “Well, I consider you to be a bright, intuitive, sensitive human being, who just so happens to have bipolar disorder, which you need help managing.”

Nikki jiggled her foot impatiently. “How old are you?”

Okay, that was out of left field. “I’ll be thirty-two soon.”

“How soon?”

Kate’s relaxed smile contained a thorn of frustration in it, but she did her best to draw on the fathomless well of patience she’d accrued during her residency at McLean Hospital in Belmont, where she’d dealt with the craziest of crazies. Real hard cases. Human tragedy on an epic scale. Nikki would’ve been impressed. “Any day now,” she answered vaguely.

“Wow. Thirty-two. And you aren’t married yet?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“My boyfriend asks me that all the time.”

“He does?” Nikki laughed. “James is right. You should marry him.”

James. Kate had mentioned him a few times, but she didn’t like hearing his name echoed back to her like this, as if Kate and James were characters from some TV sitcom.

“You have a great laugh,” she said, redirecting the conversation. “And a terrific smile.”

Nikki smirked. “You’re one of the privileged few, Doc. I don’t smile very often.”

“I know. Why not?”

She shrugged. “Maybe because life sucks?”

“Sometimes it does suck. Sometimes it doesn’t.”

“Wow. You’re honest. Most adults won’t say ‘suck.’”

“Well, I want you to trust me, so I’m honest.”

“I do. Pretty much.”

“Good.”

“So you’re going on vacation and leaving me all by my lonesome?” Nikki made a frowny-face. “Please don’t go, Doc. Not now. I know. Selfish me.”

“Well,” Kate said hesitantly, and then smiled. “Everybody deserves a vacation now and then, don’t you think?”

“Just kidding. LOL. Sarc.”

But they both knew she wasn’t.

“Is James going with you? On your vacation?”

This session was veering dangerously off-course, and the girl’s questions were becoming a distraction from her therapy. Kate tried to right the ship, but she wasn’t on her game today. They still had a lot of packing to do. “Why all the questions?” she asked. “What is it about me going on vacation that concerns you?”

Nikki scratched her chin with a painted nail and stared at something beyond Kate’s shoulder. “What are those? Nuts?” She pointed at the bookcase. “Are you trying to tell me something, Doc? Like maybe I’m nuts?”

Kate was startled to see a jar of Planters Roasted Peanuts on top of her bookcase. Ira must have left them there. Dr. Ira Lippencott was Kate’s mentor, a brilliant Harvard-educated psychiatrist with an offbeat sense of humor and a maverick approach to psychotherapy. “No,” she said calmly. “That’s a coincidence.”

“Are you sure? Because, you know, theoretically, I am nuts.”

Kate couldn’t help smiling. “I assure you it’s completely unintentional.”

“Ah ha! Nothing’s unintentional.” Nikki pointed an accusing finger at her and grinned. “You told me that once, remember?”

“Ah ha.” Kate tried to appear wise but couldn’t help wondering if Ira had left those peanuts in her office on purpose, as a sort of test. And Kate had failed to even notice them. How long had they been sitting there, gathering dust? He was probably wondering what the hell was wrong with his favorite former resident that she didn’t even notice the “nuts” on her bookshelf.

“What’s that?” Nikki asked, pointing at Kate’s desk. “Is that new?”

“Oh. It’s a paperweight. A trilobite.”

“Wow. And a big one.” Nikki McCormack had an interest in paleontology. She knew perfectly well what a trilobite was. “Coltraenia oufatensis. Of the order Phacopida.” She shifted around in her seat and yanked her creeping miniskirt back down. “Hey, I just thought of something. What if I end up like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like a trilobite? Maybe a thousand years from now? Or maybe just my skull, holding down paperwork so it doesn’t blow away? I could end up like that, right?”

“I doubt that very much.”

“Why do you doubt it? Why couldn’t I end up a fossil on somebody’s desk?”

“Is that what you’re worried about? Being studied like a fossil?”

Nikki’s lips drew together in a long flat line.

Kate picked up the trilobite. “Is that what you think, Nikki? That I’m studying you? That you mean nothing more to me than this trilobite?”

Nikki’s troubled eyes glazed over, and she looked away.

“Because nothing could be further from the truth. You’re very real to me, and very much alive, and it’s my biggest hope that someday soon, you’ll learn to love yourself as much as others love you.”

Tears squeezed out of Nikki’s beautiful eyes and spilled down her cheeks. Eight months ago, Kate had diagnosed her during her crucial four-week stay at Tillmann-Stafford Hospital’s Child Psychiatric Unit, and she’d come to the conclusion that the girl suffered from bipolar disease and depression, which made it impossible to predict if she would be alive a few decades from now. Would she live to see thirty-two? Kate certainly hoped so, but the statistics were sobering. Her role was to improve those odds.

“Nikki,” she said softly. “We’ve discussed this before, but I’d like to brush on it again. Since I’ll be on vacation next week, Dr. Lippencott would be happy to see you for therapy while I’m gone. Can we set up an appointment?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Trust,” the girl said in a shaky voice.

“Trust?”

“I don’t trust people. I’m supposed to trust them, right? Well, I don’t.” She grabbed a tissue from the floral-patterned box placed strategically on the blond-wood table next to her chair and blew her nose.

“That’s okay. It takes time to trust people. But you can trust Dr. Lippencott. Should I set up an appointment for next Tuesday? Same time?”

Doubt misted her face. “Just because you say I should trust him doesn’t mean I can or I will.”

“No. But what I mean is… I trust him. And you trust me.”

“One plus one doesn’t always equal two.”

“That’s true, but—”

“Wait. I almost forgot.” The girl lifted her scruffy backpack off the floor, settled it on her lap and rummaged through it. “I got you a few things,” she said excitedly.

A red flag went up. “I can’t accept gifts from my patients, Nikki. We already discussed this…”

“They aren’t gifts per se.” She took out a handful of weathered items and lined them up on the edge of Kate’s desk: a barnacled pair of 1950s eyeglasses; a translucent tortoiseshell comb; and a corroded compass. “You can find the most amazing things at the beach. People throw all this stuff away, and it ends up on some garbage barge in the middle of the ocean, and they dump it overboard, and then it washes ashore. Some of it’s very old,” she said breathlessly. “And look, I saved the best for last.” She reached into a hidden compartment of her backpack and took out a circular piece of metal, which she placed in Kate’s hand. “It’s made out of lead. Guess what it is, Dr. Wolfe. Go on. Guess.”

Kate studied the object in her palm. “A button without the button holes?”

“It’s a skirt weight from the twenties. Insane, right? Women used to sew them into the hems of their dresses to keep the wind from blowing them up. Pretty cool, huh?”

Kate smiled. “Very interesting.”

“They were so modest back then,” Nikki said wistfully.

Kate’s fingers curled around the skirt weight. “It was a different time.”

“They were all veddy prop-ah ladies and gentlemen,” Nikki said in a mock-British accent, tugging on the hem of her miniskirt.

Kate tried to hand the gifts back to her, but Nikki shook her head. “You keep them. I’ll take them back at our next session. That way you’ll have to come back.” Her smile was forced. “Where are you guys going for your vacation?”

Kate decided not to press the issue. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be back in two weeks.”

“Two weeks,” Nikki whispered, touching her flushed cheeks. “What if I… need something? I mean, what if something comes up?”

“You can always call Dr. Lippencott, or else you can call me,” Kate said. “You have all my numbers, right? Call me any time, Nikki. I mean it. Day or night.” She plucked a business card out of the wooden cardholder on her desk and wrote down her personal contact information again. “Everything’s going to be okay. That’s what I want you to understand.”

“Thanks.” Nikki took the business card and held it in her lap.

“Promise me you’ll call if you need anything. I’m serious. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said softly.

Kate gave her an encouraging smile. “You know, my sister and I used to play this game when we were little, where I’d measure her height on the kitchen wall. Always in the same spot, once a week, to see if she’d grown any taller. Savannah was on the short side, and she was an impatient little girl… she couldn’t wait to get bigger. And so, just to please her, I’d cheat a little by adding a sliver of height to the chart. She’d get so excited, thinking she’d grown taller during the week. That was our little game.” Kate leaned forward. “But I can’t do that here, Nikki. I can’t add a sliver of height to your chart. I can’t fudge the truth. I’m going to be absolutely honest. No cheating. Okay? We’ve got a long way to go, but I promise, we’ll get there together. You aren’t alone.”

Nikki nodded rigidly. “And you’ll be back in two weeks?”

Kate smiled. “Two short weeks.”

2

KATE’S BOYFRIEND COULDN’T WAIT for his steaming hot pizza to cool down before he took a bite. “Ow. Ow.” Dr. James Hill waved his hand in front of his mouth and gulped down some beer.

James was a psychiatrist in the Adult Locked Unit at the same hospital where Kate worked. His patients were often the toughest to deal with: psychotics and schizophrenics who’d fallen through the cracks; often homeless, often hopeless. James dealt with the pressure by cracking a cynical smile at the broken mental health system that didn’t help these people. He shared his stories with Kate and laughed at some of his patients’ misadventures. Dark humor was a coping mechanism, and even psychiatrists needed to cope.

“Okay, you can mock me now,” he said, wiping his mouth on a paper napkin.

“Me? I never mock you.”

“Ha. You mock me every day. As a matter of fact, I’d really miss it if you didn’t mock me.”

“Okay. Give me a second.”

He laughed. “You’ll think of something.”

“Anyway.” She smiled happily. “Thanks for bringing me to my favorite place in the whole world and not insisting we go somewhere fancy.” She said the word fancy as if it had air quotes around it.

“Fancy schmancy. Who needs fancy? Happy birthday, babe. How’s your pizza?”

“I love this fucking pizza.”

“It is the best pizza on the planet.” He gleefully sucked a string of mozzarella into his mouth and wiped the grease off his chin. They were huddled together in their favorite Back Bay dive. It was Tuesday night, and they practically had Duke’s all to themselves.

“Anyway, guess what my 3 PM wore today?” She kept her voice low, even though no one else was sitting close enough to overhear their conversation. They’d snagged a secluded booth, their favorite spot, and always broke doctor–patient confidentiality sotto voce. Kate and James shared everything with each other, but never outside their private bubble. “She was dressed in the skimpiest outfit. Platform shoes, a miniskirt, and a vinyl jacket. In this weather. No coat, no boots, no gloves. And I had to ask—where’s the mother in all this? I’m surprised she didn’t get hypothermia.”

“Meh. The parents are coping with their own bullshit.”

“It breaks my heart all over the place. I should’ve gone to law school.”

He looked her in the eye. “We both know why you got into this field, Kate.”

“Yeah, and that’s another thing. I mentioned her again today. Savannah.”

“So?”

“Nikki’s very inquisitive. What if she starts to ask questions?”

He shrugged. “Then you’ll deal with it.”

Kate shook her head. “It was dumb of me. She’s finally beginning to trust me. I told her I’d always be honest with her. But I’m not sure I could handle it if she started asking questions about my sister.”

“You’ll handle it just fine. Your training will kick in.”

“Maybe. Anyway. She wanted to give me some things, and I had to remind her—no gifts.”

“What kind of gifts?” he asked.

“Some things she found at the beach. A skirt weight from the twenties. Ever heard of them?”

“Skirt weights? No, but this is intriguing. Why did she give my girlfriend a skirt weight? Does she know something I don’t know?”

“Ha. My boyfriend is hilarious. No, apparently flappers used to sew them into their skirts to keep the wind from blowing them up and revealing their legs.” She shook her head. “It’s so sad. Here’s this whip-smart, funny, brave, naïve teenager talking about the olden days, when the women were much more modest. She kept tugging on her miniskirt. It’s supposed to be empowering.” She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“That’s what peer pressure and a lack of parental control will do.”

“I’m telling you. It breaks my heart.”

He paused with the pizza poised an inch from his mouth and said, “You can’t get emotional about your clients, Kate. It doesn’t help them. Not one bit.”

“But what if I fail them? What exactly does it prove, after all my years of training, if I can’t help them?”

“Some of them you’ll fix. Some you won’t.” James shrugged. “Nobody ever promised you a rose garden.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “More snark on my birthday?”

“You’re welcome.”

Kate leaned back. “You never have a moment of self-doubt, do you?”

“No, but isn’t that what you like about me? My blind self-confidence?”

“Yeah, sort of,” she admitted with a laugh.

“See?”

“I’m just saying…”

“Hey, guess what? I got you something.”

“Sorry, but I can’t accept gifts from my patients,” she quipped.

“Close your eyes.” He dropped his pizza and wiped his hands on a rumpled napkin and waited until she’d obeyed him. Then he took something out of his coat pocket. “Okay. Open.” He was holding a ring-sized jewelry box in his hand.

“James, no.” She cringed. “Seriously?”

“Relax. It’s not what you think.”

She covered her face with embarrassment. Today was her thirty-second birthday, and she’d told him repeatedly— no parties, no people, no presents. Just you, me, and Duke’s bacon-and-cheese pizza.

“Happy birthday,” he said, handing her the little box.

It had a perfect weight to it. Her face softened with delight and dread as she opened it and gazed at the slender silver ring with the dazzling amethyst centerpiece. “Wow,” she whispered.

“It’s just a ring,” James said. “Nothing special.”

“It’s gorgeous.”

“Matches your eyes.”

“Ooh. Not exactly.”

Kate’s eyes were lavender. She blushed easily. She was blushing now. She took the ring out of its velvet box and slipped it on her finger. “Oh, James. I don’t know what to say.”

“It’s just a ring, for God’s sake,” he said tenderly. “Because I kept passing it in the jewelry store on my way to work, and it reminded me of you every damn day. Same color eyes. Although, yeah, now that you mention it, spoilsport, you’re right, it’s not the exact color, but close enough. Cut me some slack, slugger.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Happy birthday.” He leaned in for a kiss.

She kissed him gratefully, tenderly, and then paraded her hand. “So, how do you like my non-engagement ring?”

“Yeah,” he said with a sarcastic smile. “Your I’m-not-ever-getting-married ring.”

“My he’s-just-my-boyfriend ring.”

“Christ. You’re such a commitment-phobe.”

“You can thank my miserable childhood for that.”

“Relax. It’s an ordinary gift-type ring. Okay? Because I love you.”

“I love you, too.” She rarely wore rings or necklaces, a fact that she must’ve mentioned to him a thousand times before. Her sensitive skin couldn’t tolerate jewelry. Not even exquisite, expensive jewelry. But James, being a psychiatrist, had assumed it was the thought of marriage, rather than the ring itself, that was causing her to break out in hives. And this was probably a test, or else a “blind trial” if you will, to find out how long she could tolerate the ring before she took it off and put it away in its box. Or maybe he wasn’t so much testing her (that would be manipulative) as he was seeking answers. Kate didn’t want to get married, and yet she was crazy in love with the guy. Which brought her to the same sore spot in her brain, the gray area she was constantly prodding and poking. What the hell is wrong with you? Why not marry him? He’s fantastic. James is everything you ever wanted. What is your freaking problem? She figured they were headed in that direction, just waiting for her to make up her mind—put another way, she was waiting to fall in love with the idea of marriage. She’d already fallen in love with James.

In truth, Kate had trust issues. She had abandonment issues. She and her sister, Savannah, had lost their mother early on, and their father had been emotionally remote. Dr. Bram Wolfe, an old-school family physician, possessed the uncanny ability to disappear on you, even when he was sitting right in front of you—emotionally, psychologically, mentally. His eyes would glaze over and his mouth would stitch shut, and he’d zoom a million miles away in seconds. He would stay gone for a very long time—detached, unreachable. It never ceased to amaze Kate, this remarkable disappearing act of his. She called him “the bullet train of fathers,” because he could take off like a shot.

And the hits just kept on coming. Six years after her mother passed away, Kate’s little sister went missing. It ended badly, and her father vanished for good after that, psychologically speaking. By the time she turned seventeen, Kate’s entire family had disappeared on her. Mother—dead. Sister—dead. Father—emotionally unavailable. This trifecta of traumas was at the root of all her deep-seated anxieties and self-doubts, as well as a source of her strength. It was the main reason she’d gone into psychiatry, as opposed to law or medicine.

“Glad you like the ring,” James said with grave seriousness now.

“I love it.”

Ten minutes later, she was still wearing the ring. They paid the bill at the register and pushed the heavy front door open, laughing at the handwritten sign that said PUSH HARD. Kate made the same joke every time—“Harder, James, harder.” And he responded the same way every time—“I’m pushing, I’m pushing.”

“God, we are so easily amused,” she sighed as they linked arms and tumbled out into the crisp cold night air. Winter in Boston. Dark streets and frosty breath. Soon it would be spring, but not soon enough. They walked the two and a half blocks to James’s silver Lexus and got in. She sat shivering inside the new-smelling interior and eyed him suspiciously.

“What?” He activated the seat warmers and started the engine.

“I love my ring. I love Duke’s pizza. And I love you.”

“In that order?”

“Ha. My boyfriend is…”

“Hilarious, I know.” He reached for her hand, turned it over, and kissed the old scars on her wrist. Tenderly. Softly. “I love you, Kate. I’m glad you like the ring.”

She could feel the weight of their three-year relationship and luxuriated in the warmth and familiarity of it as they headed towards Harvard Square.

It began to snow, fat white flakes flurrying past their windshield. The sparkling city contained all the magic of a fairytale, and Kate decided to tuck her worries away. Nikki McCormack would be okay. She shouldn’t feel guilty about taking a vacation—her first in years. You’re entitled to a life.

She glanced at the ring on her finger. Perhaps she should marry James. What was her problem? He was handsome and smart and one of the funniest people she’d ever known—he made her laugh from the gut, those genuine belly laughs— and she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. She just couldn’t bring herself to take the next step because… her sister, her mother. The lump of tragedies that sat like a disfiguring scar on her soul.

The Lexus straddled the off-ramp lane, and they took the exit to Harvard Square, which was snowy and all lit up. They drove down Massachusetts Avenue, past the crowded university campus with its centuries-old dormitories, and headed toward Arlington, Cambridge’s drab sister city. Before reaching the town line, they took a left onto a quiet residential street—still Cambridge, which mattered to James, that ever-important zip code—and found a parking spot in their brand-new neighborhood.

James propped their freshly minted parking permit on the dashboard, and they got out and inhaled the rejuvenating winter air. Kate’s worries receded. Soon they’d be rock-climbing in the Southwest, hiking through the red-clay canyons of Sedona, toasting spectacular sunsets, and tumbling into hotel beds.

But tonight it was snowing, and they were in chilly, intellectual Cambridge, and the moon was just a smudge behind the clouds. Snowflakes dusted their eyelashes. James took her hand and they navigated the icy cobblestones together, half-strolling, half-stumbling past the subdivided Victorians and Gothics, where Harvard grads and post-docs studied in lonely obscurity. The streets were eerily silent except for the whisper of falling snow and the occasional whoosh of tires spinning through slush.

At the end of the block, they turned the corner onto a centuries-old thoroughfare. Around each old-fashioned streetlamp was a halo of falling snow. Their renovated brick condominium was built in 1915, with granite steps and hovering gargoyles on the roof. Several months ago, they’d closed escrow on an incredible two-bedroom in this desirable location and had spent the past five or six weekends painting the walls designer shades of white and installing new light fixtures. A few days ago, they’d rearranged everything just the way they liked it, and now they were ready to enjoy the rest of their lives together. It was a bit overwhelming.

The ring. The condo. The two-week vacation. Might as well be married.

James opened the front door for her, and they stepped into the lobby, where the wood was dark-stained, the lights were elegantly dimmed, and the strange scent of cured animal skins and cracked leather pervaded the warm, stuffy air.

“Is it my imagination,” James said, “or are we the only tenants in the building?”

“I know, right?” she agreed. “Where is everybody?”

“How come we never see anyone? Where’s the welcome party?”

She glanced at the vaulted ceiling. “I guess we’ll meet them eventually.”

“I guesssssss,” he hissed in her ear, before launching into The Addams Family theme song. He grabbed her around the middle, and she caught a whiff of something smoky and elusive about him. He was an athletic man in his mid-thirties, with thick dark hair and warm brown eyes. In the summer, his hair was more golden than brown. He was a typical American male—virile, passionately intense about sports and video games, sometimes loud and opinionated, sometimes vague and introspective, always respectful and well-mannered. When she was with him, she felt indestructible. She supposed it was dangerous to feel that way.

She pressed the call button for the elevator. “Are you ready?” She showed him her ring. “Ready for couple-dom?”

“Readier than you, apparently.” He crossed his heart like a Boy Scout. “I will never use first-person-singular again.”

Kate laughed. Her phone rang, and she rummaged through her bag, but by the time she picked up, the caller had hung up. She checked the ID. Unavailable.

“Hey,” he said with mock suspicion. “Was that your other boyfriend?”

“Yeah, he’s so annoying.”

“I’m jealous. I’m supposed to be the annoying one.”

“You are. Hands down.”

The elevator creaked to a shuddering halt. It was one of those old-fashioned brass cages you had to operate yourself, prying the stubborn hinged doors open. They stepped into the slightly swaying cage, closed the jittery doors and pushed the button for the eighth floor. As soon as it began to move, they kissed passionately, groping one another like horny teenagers.

The elevator seemed to take forever to climb to the eighth floor. James grew gradually still as the brass cage swayed on its creaky cables—he had a deep-seated fear of elevators that wasn’t a secret to her. He’d gotten stuck between floors once as a child, while visiting his grandmother in New York City. He rang the bell and banged on the doors and hollered for help, while the elevator had slowly filled with smoke from a blown motor in the basement—long story, happy ending.

Now his lips tasted cold and ozone-y from the newly fallen snow. Her ring didn’t itch. Miracle of miracles. They were on their way up to their very own condo, just a stone’s throw from Harvard Square. She was thirty-two years old. She was deeply in love. She wanted this moment to last forever.

The elevator came to a halt, jerking on its rusty cables.

James winced. “I’ll have to get used to that.”

“Last stop, everybody out.”

They pulled the heavy brass doors open.

“Cheaper than a gym membership,” he quipped, flinging an arm around her.

They headed down the stuffy corridor toward their unit, their boots leaving crumbs of slush on the mauve carpet. Discreet indirect lighting hid the flaws in the elegant plaster ceiling. They stopped in front of their varnished door with its scratched brass nameplate that said 8D.

“Home at last,” Kate sighed.

The landline began to ring inside their condo as James fumbled with his keys.

“Okay,” she said. “Tell me again why we gave your mother our number?”

“Meh. Let the machine pick up.” James found it much easier to ignore his rich, leisured mom than Kate did. Vanessa Hill was like fingernails on a blackboard—grating. She often called to boast about the Boston charities she was involved with and all the non-profits she was on the board of, but she rarely asked James about his life, which bothered Kate more than it bothered him. He shrugged it off with the kind of resignation he reserved for airports and insurance forms.

He unlocked the door and they tumbled inside, a curl of light sweeping across the hardwood floor. It was dark except for a blue haze coming from the city lights below. James groped at the wall and found the switch, and the place lit up.

The phone stopped ringing.

“Ah,” she breathed.

“Nice,” he agreed.

They waited for the inevitable voicemail message, but Vanessa must’ve hung up. It wasn’t like her to be so non-verbose.

They peeled off layers of outerwear—unzipping, untying, unbuttoning.

“Yeesh,” James complained. “It’s like an oven in here.”

Despite the stuffiness, Kate was in love with the condo. It was the first place she’d ever owned, and she felt so lucky to have it. The living room was a grand open space with a marble fireplace and an arched doorway leading into an airy dining room. She adored the master bedroom with its muted color scheme and cozy touches. The kitchen and bathroom were lovely in their period simplicity, especially the deep claw-footed tub, where she planned on soaking for hours after a long day at the hospital. The huge kitchen windows were perfect for an herb garden.

“I’m sweating like a pig.” James took off his coat and gloves and scarf and dropped everything on the sofa.

“Pigs don’t sweat.”

“Seriously. Am I the only one who’s melting around here?” He struggled with his pullover, peeling it off with a crackle of static, and then eyed the culprit—a hissing radiator in the corner of the living room. He strode over and wrestled with the stuck knob.

“Careful, you’ll…”

“Ouch!”

“…burn yourself.”

James sucked on his finger and gave her a contrite look, while steam hissed into the room and the copper pipes clanged in the walls.

“Poor baby.” Kate walked over to him. “So overheated and everything.” She reached for his belt buckle, looped her finger through it and pulled him close. She rubbed her pelvis against his and kissed him passionately.

He scooped her up in his arms, swung her around, and she laughed from deep in her throat as he carried her into their bedroom, nearly scuffing the walls with her winter boots. “Watch it!” she giggled. He dropped her on the bed and removed her boots one at a time. He pinched off her thick socks and unzipped her jeans.

“God, you’re gorgeous.” He unbuttoned her blouse and bent to kiss the tiny, nearly invisible scars that peppered her skin. Kate had been a cutter once. Razor blades, paperclips, thumbtacks, scissors. What had begun as an extreme response to her sister’s death had devolved into a crippling anxiety disorder. She had left little dimple-like scars on her stomach, thighs, and arms, and wore long sleeves to hide them from the world, mostly so her father wouldn’t catch on. Cutting herself felt like payback for his neglect. It also relieved some of the pressure she felt as a high school honors student trying to get into a prestigious college. It had lasted for several years, until she got into therapy and learned how to cope. Her mentor, Ira Lippencott, had saved her life. He’d stopped the self-destructive behavior in its tracks and put her on the path to wellness.

The phone rang again.

“Oh God,” she groaned. “We need to set some guidelines for your mother. Like no calling before noon or after eight o’clock.”

“Just ignore her,” James said, sliding his hands under her blouse, an urgency to his breathing. “I always do.”

“Oh please.” She stopped him. “The last thing I want to hear is Vanessa’s voice in the background while we’re making love.” She could picture his mother tapping her long polished nails on her marble kitchen island, gazing at the clock, and wondering why they weren’t picking up. At least she was a good hour’s drive away on the other side of the city.

He collapsed on top of her.

“Answer it, James,” she pleaded.

The machine picked up. They both turned their heads to listen.

“Kate?” Ira Lippencott’s voice came floating through the doorway. “I’ve got bad news. Nikki McCormack is dead. Call me as soon as you get this.”

3

NIKKI MCCORMACK WAS FOUND hanging from the center beam of her parents’ living room. A chair had been kicked out from under her. She’d hanged herself with an old clothesline from the garage, although how she’d gotten it up there, nobody knew. Her parents had discovered the body after attending a charity reception at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. Her stepfather grabbed her around the middle, while her mother called 911. Together they lifted the body onto the floor. Ten minutes later, the paramedics pronounced her dead. Nikki was clad in full Goth regalia. Her skin had swelled around her neck and face, and her eyes were black and shiny as olives.

Dealing with the family—their sorrow, their vulnerability— as well as her own shock and grief all night long and into the following morning had given Kate a raging headache no amount of Tylenol could alleviate. The police were polite but thorough. The interview was mercifully short. The rest of the hospital staff was saddened but too busy to talk about it for very long. Nikki had been admitted into Acute Care eight months ago, and some of them remembered her and spoke well of her, and that was about it. Suicides weren’t terribly uncommon, but it had never happened to Kate before.

She moved from meeting to meeting all morning until around 10:30 AM, when Ira Lippencott cornered her in the break room. By then Kate was shaking so badly she couldn’t keep the coffee pot steady.

“Sheesh. You look like a ghost,” he said. “Where’s James?”

“Dealing with his own crisis. Agatha’s in full meltdown-mode.”

He nodded. The reputation of James’s most troubled patient was well known in the hospital. “Come with me.” He ushered her into his office and made her sit down, while he poured her a cup of coffee from his Breville espresso machine.

Ira’s office was full of modular furniture, decorated in a neutral palette. The plants had long outgrown their pots, and now they jammed their leaves against the glass as if they were clamoring to escape.

Ira had been her senior attending and knew all about the tragedies that had shaped her life. As an undergraduate, she’d undergone psychoanalysis with him as her therapist. It was a prerequisite. “You need to know what it’s like to sit in the other chair, before you can sit in my chair,” he’d explained. This man knew everything about her.

“Here,” he said, handing her an espresso. “Now talk.”

Kate’s shaky hands threatened to spill her coffee all over her lap, so she took a sip and set it aside. “What’s there to talk about,” she said flatly. “I failed her.”

“You did your very best, Kate. You realize that, don’t you?”

“I’m her psychiatrist, and I didn’t see it coming. And so… I failed her.”

“Now’s not the time to feel sorry for yourself.”

“Sorry for…?” she repeated.

“Self-pity doesn’t suit you.” Her mentor didn’t suffer fools gladly. “Listen to me, Kate. You aren’t alone in this. I wake up every day with a few more gray hairs.”

“I know, but…”

“But nothing.”

That did the trick. All morning long she’d managed to hold it together, but now she was flattened by Nikki’s suicide. She plucked a tissue out of the floral-patterned box, pressed it to her eyes, and let herself cry.

“I know, I know,” Ira said soothingly. “Look, it happens. We’ve all had patients commit suicide. It’s devastating. But believe it or not, you’ll learn to live with it.”

She nodded. She pulled herself together.

“So. Let’s review what you could’ve done differently,” he said. “Tell me, how was Nikki’s therapy going?”

“We were making good progress. She was responding well to the new meds.”

“And what about the family sessions?”

“Her parents were opening up to the possibility they may have contributed to some of Nikki’s issues.”

“And her addictive behaviors?”

“She’d stopped drinking and taking drugs, as far as I know. She was slowly pulling her life together.”

“Excellent. So? What more could you have done? Canceled your vacation? These things happen, Kate. It comes with the territory.”

“Well, I’m canceling my vacation now.” Last night, her dreams had crackled with tension—monsters chasing little girls who snapped in half like twigs. “Elizabeth McCormack wants me to come to the funeral.”

“Good. It’s advisable to stay in close contact with the family, at least through the funeral, certainly until the autopsy results are available.”

Autopsy. That cold word brought it home to her.

“I’ve been wracking my brains trying to figure out how this could’ve happened.”

“Kate. Please.” Ira sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know better than that. None of this was your fault. Sometimes the darkness takes over.”

She gave him a skeptical look. They’d known each other for a very long time. “Seriously? Sometimes the darkness takes over? That’s supposed to reassure me?”

“I’m not in the business of reassuring anyone.”

“Right, we aren’t supposed to comfort and reassure our patients, we’re supposed to redirect them toward the path of self-recovery… blah blah blah.”

“Exactly.”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“I know you were.”

She felt the old reproach like the hum of an oncoming electrical storm. The events that had shaped her life would never go away, but at least she’d managed to set them aside for a period of time… to place them in a box and mentally tape the lid shut, put the box inside a closet and lock the door. But Nikki McCormack’s death had just blown the closet door off its hinges.

“Look, you can handle this, Kate. You’ve suffered more hardships than most people encounter in a lifetime.” He folded his hands on the desktop. “But here’s the deal. Nikki’s death reflects on me as well. It reflects on the entire department. And I know what you’re thinking. So I want you to know: what happened last night had absolutely nothing to do with your sister. Do you accept that?”

“Intellectually, yes.”

“Well, I need you to accept it here.” Ira tapped his chest. “Completely.”

Savannah Wolfe, with her wavy golden hair, her delicate sea-green eyes and excitable laugh had been such a happy, trusting twelve-year-old, that any predator in the neighborhood could have taken advantage of her. She was the kind of enterprising kid who rescued ants from the driveway and raised baby birds with broken wings. Even the smarmiest dog food commercials made her cry. She was willing to help anyone—friends, neighbors, strangers—even a grown man with bloodshot eyes. All he had to do was ask. “Hey, little girl… couldja help me out a second?”

Kate felt a painful throbbing behind her eyes. “Look, I understand these shaky old feelings about my sister don’t apply, but…”

“Push aside your emotions.” Ira crossed his arms. “I need you to handle this like a professional.”

“Of course I can handle it,” she said defensively.

“The only thing that counts is that you provided standard care for her symptoms. That’s all the hospital wants to know. Did you provide standard care?”

There was a lull before the impact struck. “Standard care?”

“Legally, that’s all the hospital requires. Did you use the proper quantifiers to make an accurate diagnosis?”

She nodded with dull recognition.

“The hospital doesn’t want to hear what you could’ve done differently, Kate. You have to quit second-guessing yourself. It doesn’t help anyone. You’re a brilliant psychiatrist, extremely well qualified, with excellent references. You were treating Nikki for bipolar disorder. You were monitoring her medication and redirecting her behavior in talk therapy. The patient appeared to be stabilized and you were documenting her improvement. Nothing else matters. Now,” he said, leaning forward, “can you handle it?”

“Yes,” Kate responded, not entirely sure. She’d never lost a patient before. It was brand new territory for her. And Ira wasn’t acting like himself. She’d never seen this Ira before. This covering-his-ass Ira.

“When you talk to Risk Management, I want you to give them your clinical observations—period. Don’t get emotional. Do you need an attorney?”

“An attorney?” Kate repeated, her heart beginning to race. Getting sued for malpractice was every doctor’s worst nightmare.

“The hospital is going to have the hospital’s best interests at heart. Just in case a tort action should arise. It’s only natural. You need to take care of yourself.”

Tort action? Lawsuit?

“Here. I’ll give you the name of my attorney. I’d highly recommend him.” He opened his desk drawer and handed her a business card. “Tell him I referred you.”

“Thanks.”

“And don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine. We’ve all been through it before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve had a rough night and I’ve still got a mountain of paperwork to do. Sorry to kvetch. I’m going to file my progress reports and head home. I’d advise you to do the same.”

Kate noticed the shift of light in his eyes. “Ira,” she said. “Did you leave those peanuts in my office?”

He gave her a quizzical look. “What peanuts?”

“There’s a jar of Planters Peanuts on my bookshelf.”

“No. Maybe James?”

“I already asked. He didn’t do it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t give it too much significance. Probably someone’s playing a little joke. Anyway, let’s talk again in the morning, shall we?”

She stood up and clasped his hand. “Thanks, Ira.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get through it. Just think of this as a rite of passage.”

Kate hurried down the corridor, ducked into her office, grabbed her coat, knotted her scarf and put on her winter gloves. She took the elevator down to the first floor, where she crossed the busy hospital lobby and pushed on the automatic glass doors like they were two giant pillows. She went outside and bummed a cigarette from one of the residents. She breathed nicotine deep into her lungs and recalled her sister’s final words to her.

“How long do I have to wait?”

“Just a few minutes. I’ll be right back,” Kate promised.

“Where are you going?”

“Right over there. See those trees? Don’t be scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“I know, you’re my brave little bud.”

“I’m not scared of anything, Katie.”

She suppressed a hiccupy sob, and the other smokers turned to stare at her. She coughed a few times, masking her anguish, and they politely looked away. She stood there coughing and smoking and watching her breath fogging the winter air.

4

KATE DIDN’T WANT TO go home, not when there was so much work to be done. She took the elevator back up to Admissions to talk to Yvette Rosales about Nikki McCormack’s state of mind eight months ago, since Yvette was the nurse who’d admitted her. The Psych Unit staff was always busy. The phones were constantly ringing. A nurse’s job was never done.

Kate walked past the orderlies and RNs in their colorful scrubs on her way to the nurses’ station, a sort of bureaucratic port in a brain-chemical storm. Tamara Johnson was a beefy middle-aged woman who knew where all the bodies were buried. Head nurse and chief bottle-washer.

“Morning, Tamara. Have you seen Yvette around?”

Tamara wagged her heavy head. “She’s due any minute. Probably wanted her Dunkin’s and missed her bus again. I swear she takes that bus as an excuse to be late all the time. How’re you holding up, Doc?”

“Not great.”

“Yeah, I know. I remember when we admitted Nikki. Scrawny little thing. Bold as could be. She took one look around the place and pronounced everybody else insane.” Tamara laughed. “Not her. Just ‘every other crazy-assed mofo’ in the room.”

“That’s our Nikki,” Kate said with a pained smile.

“Would you like coffee? I just made a pot.”

“No, thanks. I’ll wait over there.”

Kate had brought some paperwork with her and found a seat. The admitting room was an ode to mediocrity— corduroy sofas, imitation-leather chairs, watercolor prints on the exposed brick walls. There were glossy brochures on display at every table.

She opened a manila folder and reviewed her notes. At the time of her admission last June, Nikki was becoming uncontrollable at home. She fought constantly with her parents, took drugs, and drank alcohol. Her stepfather was a strict disciplinarian, and the rebellious teenager missed her dad. The divorce had been especially hard on her.

Somebody shouted, “Get your hands off me, you stinky motherfucker!”

Kate glanced up. Several dozen people were waiting to be evaluated, and she knew most of them from a brief stint of training on the adult ward. She suspected from the way they angled their baseball caps at the security camera that two men she hadn’t seen before were drug addicts faking symptoms in order to get a shot of Demerol. There were also a couple of mood disorders; an anorexic; a young mother with postpartum depression; an elderly male who kept cleaning his hands with alcohol wipes; and a pre-teen girl she didn’t know sitting prim and apart from the others.