The Patient Page 10

  A figure across the street caught my attention.

  A woman, my height, in a long summer dress, hair in a braid, walked opposite me. She looked a lot like Ella from the back.

  “Ella,” I called out, loudly enough for those around me to stare.

  She didn’t stop, look around, or even act as if she’d heard me. And yet I knew it was her.

  Why would she be so close to my house and not come by for her session?

  I called out her name again, louder this time, and jogged across the street when it cleared.

  “Ella,” I said again once I’d reached her.

  She gasped and turned at the sound of my voice.

  “Dr. Rycroft, you scared me.” Her eyes were wide with fright.

  “I called your name a few times. Everything okay?” I was shocked by her appearance as I took in her stained dress, oily hair, and dirt-crusted fingernails. “You missed our appointment this morning.”

  She blinked rapidly. She reminded me of someone who’d just woken up from a long, hard nap, disoriented and not quite focused.

  “I did? But today’s . . .” Her voice cracked as she looked around. “Today’s Tuesday?”

  I placed my hand on the small of her back and led her to a park bench just up ahead.

  A couple of teenagers sat there, smacking gum and sharing headphones.

  “Sorry, guys, would you mind if we sat here? My friend isn’t feeling too well.”

  “It’s okay, Dr. Rycroft, we can find another bench. I’m okay.” Ella stared at the pavement, her cheeks bright red.

  All the other benches were occupied by older couples or mothers with small children. I honestly didn’t think the teens would mind giving up their seat.

  Apparently, I was wrong. The looks on their faces were incredulous. They glanced at each other, then to me, and snickered before getting up.

  “Yeah, sure. Whatever,” one muttered.

  “Crazy lady,” the other said over her shoulder as they walked away.

  “Excuse me?” What the hell?

  “It’s okay,” Ella mumbled. “It’s okay.” She reached for my arm, stopping me from following the teens and asking what their problem was.

  “I’m sorry, Ella. That was uncalled for.” I was part horrified and part embarrassed that she would be treated that way in public.

  “It’s not the first. Won’t be the last.” She glanced down at her dress. “God, I’m a mess. I look like I’m homeless or just came back from an all-night binge.”

  “Did you?” I’d never seen her look quite like this before.

  She shook her head while she attempted to scrub at a stain on her hem.

  “Where were you this morning, Ella?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m sorry?” I leaned my head closer to her.

  “I don’t know where I was. I . . .” She wrinkled her nose before she cleared her throat. “Maybe I was gardening or . . .” Her voice trailed off as she looked around, her eyes searching for a visual to spark her memory.

  An odd odor drifted my way.

  “Oh God, and I smell too.” Ella jumped up from the bench and pulled her arms tight across her chest.

  “Listen, come with me to the house. I have some spare clothes, and you can wash up. Then together we’ll see if we can figure out where you were, okay?”

  We took our time as we walked back to the house. I chattered about nothing and everything just to keep her mind off where she’d been, why she looked the way she did, and her memory loss of it all.

  I ignored the funny looks pointed our way or how people moved away from us as we walked past. I ignored everything but Ella.

  At home, we bypassed the office, and I led her to my bathroom. I loaned her a summer dress I rarely wore and waited while she washed up.

  When she asked if we could drink our sweet tea out on the porch, I didn’t think anything of it. Today was all about helping Ella in any way possible.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked after we’d settled in.

  Rather than respond, Ella watched a bumblebee meander its way among my flowerpots.

  I didn’t press. Instead, I closed my eyes for a brief moment and let the sounds of summer soak in, from the gentle sway of the leaves as a warm breeze blew through to the distant sounds of children’s laughter from the playground in the park across the street.

  “I think I was dumpster diving,” Ella eventually said. Her voice carried a note of surprise and laughter to it. Something I didn’t expect at all.

  “Dumpster diving, eh? Did you find anything?” I opened my eyes and was going to smile, but she wasn’t looking at me. Instead, she looked down at her fingernails.

  “I used to do that with my dad,” she said. “Except we would drive down old farm roads and see what sort of things people would leave at the ends of their driveways. That’s how we got our first couch. Dad noticed an older man lifting it out of his truck to put on the side of the road, so he pulled over and took it. Even gave him money for it, although the man didn’t want any.”

  I could picture it in my mind because I’d done my fair share of picking throughout the years.

  “We used to do that when I was a child too,” I shared. “But we would drive through towns, and my dad would find busted-up lawn mowers, radios, and lamps and fix them up, give them a new coat of paint or a good cleaning, and then sell them.”

  The smile on Ella’s face was full of nostalgia. “I don’t have a lot of good memories from my childhood, but that is one I’ll never forget.”

  “Sometimes all we need are a few good ones.”

  “I prefer to pretend there aren’t any memories at all. It’s easier that way.” She played with the moisture drops on her glass before she took a sip of her sweet tea.

  “Why’s that?” I was glad we were talking about her past.

  “It’s like I can’t stop there, you know? I can’t just stop at the good memories. I have to push through them and get to the bad ones. Maybe it’s to justify what I did. I don’t know.” Her head dropped so her now-loose hair hung past her face, making it difficult to see her emotions.

  But I heard them.

  “Ella, it’s been a while since we’ve talked about this, but have you ever forgiven your parents for what they did? Or for what they didn’t do?” I wished I had my notebook with me.

  She shook her head, her long hair brushing against her legs.

  “If I forgive them, then I have to forgive myself, and I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t deserve it. Once a killer, always a killer. That sort of forgiveness, it only happens in the Bible or in fairy tales. Not real life.”

  It made me sad to hear that from her. To know that was her life, with that cloud of reality hanging over her day in and day out. No matter what she did to redeem herself, no matter how much work we did in therapy, she would always be seen as that.

  A killer.

  I didn’t want to think it, but her words lingered. Once a killer, always a killer. Was it possible she hadn’t changed?

  Chapter Seventeen

  WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 14

  PATIENT SESSION: SAVANNAH

  Tomorrow I’d be the one sitting on the therapy couch, voicing tough thoughts and worries. Today it was Savannah’s turn.

  The last time Savannah had sat on my couch, she’d admitted she wanted her parents dead.

  Her mother had arrived just afterward, stopping me from pursuing the conversation any further.

  Nothing Savannah had ever told me shocked me as much as those words.

  “Can we talk about what you said before you left?” I stared at the file in my hand, my eyes reading the words over and over and over again. My stomach knotted as I struggled to look beyond what she’d said and see the fear and pain inside the teenager on my couch.

  “That I want my parents dead? What about it?” The challenge was clear, and for the first time, I had a feeling I was going to lose whatever battle we
were about to have.

  It didn’t surprise me that she remembered our discussion.

  “I don’t believe you really want them to die.”

  “You don’t get to tell me what I believe.” If her tongue were a knife, she’d have sliced me in half.

  “True, I don’t. But I do get to call you out when I feel you’re not being honest with yourself.”

  Her facial expression said, Go to hell.

  “Tell me I’m wrong.” I had just sacrificed a pawn in our mental game of chess.

  “You’re wrong.” Her chin lifted as if daring me to betray the mortification I felt.

  I blinked once. Twice. Three times before I found my words.

  “You’re jealous of the kids whose parents are being murdered because they’re now orphans. I believe that’s what you said to me, wasn’t it?” Despite everything in me, I lowered my chin and relaxed my shoulders, the complete opposite of Savannah’s body response.

  I had her on guard now. She wasn’t sure how this would play out, so she did the one thing she loved to do most.

  She shrugged.

  “I guess I’m a horrible person?”

  I yawned.

  She frowned.

  I would have smiled at her reaction to my forced display if not for how serious the situation was.

  Did I really think she wanted her parents dead? No. But when it came to Savannah, I knew to never get comfortable in my assumptions.

  “So what if I want my parents dead. Isn’t that normal for most teenagers?”

  “Normal? Not really. Most teenagers can’t wait to move away. But they don’t generally wish for death.”

  She rolled her eyes like the seventeen-year-old she was.

  “I’m not normal. Sue me.”

  Savannah had come to me as a troubled teenager who fantasized about a better life. There had been times her parents were afraid of her. I admit I’d had those times too. I’d noticed a darkness inside Savannah that could be dangerous.

  In the past, her accusations of abuse, neglect, and the hatred she believed was directed toward her were delusions of her own making. After we’d gotten her on medication, those delusions weren’t as rampant. Or so I’d thought.

  Savannah was smart. She knew how to play those around her. In the beginning, she’d played me to perfection until I’d caught on to her delusions. Now her parents voluntarily took drug tests and had someone enter their home for random checks. A lot of parents I knew wouldn’t have gone to these extremes.

  “You have less than a year until you’re done with school, Savannah. This is only temporary.”

  “So I should put up with the abuse because it’s only temporary? That’s kind of a screwed-up way of thinking, isn’t it?” She leaned back against the couch, a satisfied grin on her face.

  “Savannah.” I wasn’t going to play this game with her. A war of words was not worth fighting during our sessions.

  “Fine. Whatever.” She played with a twist of hair, twirling it in her fingers until it was a tight curl. “I’ve spent a lot of time at the library, in case you’re interested. I’ve read every article I could find online and in the papers about the recent murders. I am probably the only one who knows why they’re only killing parents and leaving the children behind.” Her words tumbled out, her excitement building the more she spoke. I looked directly into her eyes and didn’t like the spark of fire I saw.

  Playing with fire was dangerous. All it took was one small flame, one puff of wind against a burning ember, and the flare of heat would take on a life of its own.

  Stoking the fire of obsession with someone who lived with delusions was like adding fuel to that flame. If I wasn’t careful, I’d be the proverbial moth, getting sucked into the vortex of her delusional obsession.

  “You should be happy that I’m focusing on something other than myself,” she taunted.

  “By researching serial killers?”

  Again with the shrug.

  “I don’t see the connection, sorry.”

  “Why can’t I be happy for once in my life? Nothing I do is good enough for my parents. They don’t love me like they should. They focus”—she spat the word—“on themselves all the time. So why can’t I?”

  Focus. I wrote the word down and underlined it a few times.

  “There’s nothing wrong with placing yourself first or focusing on your happiness.” This was something we’d discussed in the past. “I just don’t see how you focusing on research is a sign you’re placing yourself first. But since you brought it up, I think we could work on healthier options, don’t you?”

  “As long as they are alive, I will never be healthy.” She stared at me while her hands fisted at her sides, daring me to contradict her.

  “So they need to be dead for you to be happy?” I clarified.

  “And free.”

  “So only when they are dead will you be happy and free?”

  Her eyes rolled. “That’s what I said.”

  “I just wanted to make sure I heard you properly. Do you have a plan on making this happen?” If I believed for one second she would intentionally harm her parents, I would contact the authorities. On a scale from one to one hundred, I placed the chance that she would at twenty-five. Which, considering her history, was pretty good.

  She didn’t respond.

  “Savannah.” I placed my notepad facedown on the table. “Do you have a plan? Remember, this is a safe place for you.”

  Now I started to worry.

  She leaned back hard against the couch, her shoulders pushing against the fabric, adding as much distance between us as she could. “Like I’d tell you.” She mocked my words. “You don’t even believe me when I tell you how bad the abuse is.”

  Were her parents abusive? No. She was right about that. What I did believe was her conviction in how bad her life was. So I listened, and I tried to help her create a life she could handle.

  “It’s easy to focus on the negative and never see the positive. That’s what we’re trying to do here, to help you see the positive aspects of your life.”

  “Whatever,” she mumbled like a small child as she sipped her tea. “Tell me the truth, though. Don’t you find the mind of a serial killer fascinating?”

  “Fascinating? I’m not sure that’s a word I would use. Complex would fit better.”

  “Complex. You’re right. It would be like a puzzle almost. Right? Do you think this is nature versus nurture or . . .” Her voice trailed off, and I wasn’t sure if she was egging me on or not.

  I decided to give in, to play the game with her.

  “The idea of nature versus nurture has always fascinated me,” I admitted. Were people born with bad genes, or were these characteristics developed? Could a person change their predisposition, or was fate just an ill-treated spouse in this journey called life?

  “Life is about choices, Savannah. It’s what we do with those choices that define us.”

  “But those choices, is it destiny that leads us, or is there really free will? Take God, for example.” That spark of fire was back. “Daddy dearest says God is all knowing and all powerful. If that were true, then how could there be free will if he knows the choices we’re going to make ahead of time?”

  How God had come into the discussion I wasn’t sure, but I wasn’t surprised either. Savannah liked to jump topics just for a reaction.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think my father is full of shit.”

  I let that sit between us for a second longer than necessary.

  “It’s possible,” I said. “But why?”

  “All he does is spout religious nonsense about the love of God and other crap. Words mean nothing. He doesn’t live what he believes, so why should I believe what he says?”

  And there, in her voice, was the petulant teenager who only wanted the love of her father but was too afraid to admit it.

  “Parents will always disappoint, Savannah. They’re not perfect.”

  “What
does that have to do with anything?” She pulled her gaze from mine before standing. “I know they aren’t perfect.” She pushed the window curtain to the side and looked out. “I tell you that every time I come in.” She traced something on the glass, leaving a slight smear from the oil on her fingers. I couldn’t make out what she drew. “They sure as hell aren’t bloody angels in disguise.”

  The imagery of her words flashed in my mind. A beautiful, grotesque angel, wings flared out, every feather dipped in blood.

  I shuddered. The sight of blood transferred from the angel in my mind to the angel standing at the window. The sun created a halo around her head through the window, the glow casting a red haze along her skin. She flashed me an I-know-I’m-evil type of smile, and I swallowed.

  Hard.

  That number on the scale, of whether I was worried or not, jumped higher. I’d place her at a forty or forty-five.

  “What—” I cleared my throat. “What are your plans for the day?” I picked up my notepad from the table.

  “My plans?” She turned around, the questioning look on her face telling me she had no idea where I was going with this.

  “Your plans. After you leave here, what will you do? Do you want to discuss methods and strategies to . . .” I dropped my voice, not finishing the words, hoping she would fill in the blanks.

  “I’m going to the library.” Her chin dipped to her chest. “I’m going to research murderers, to get a look into their mind-set, to figure out what makes them tick. What makes them able to do what they do.”

  While I was thrilled she was headed to the library for research, her choice in subjects was less than ideal.

  “Do you think this would be an area of study you’d like to pursue at college?” I wasn’t that naive, but hopefully I was planting a seed and perhaps changing the direction she was headed.

  She shrugged.

  “Savannah. I allow three shrugs per session. You know this.” She’d used up her quota. “Words, please.”

  Her eyes rolled wider than a Ferris wheel at an amusement park.

  “Fine. Maybe. Who knows?” She came to sit back down on the couch. “I thought you’d be happy that I was learning something.”

  Happy wasn’t the word I would have used.