The Patient Page 6

  I just smiled. Not a one-day-you’ll-learn kind of smile. More like a I-know-that-you-know-you-don’t-mean-that kind of smile.

  “I hate her. You know that, right? That hasn’t changed. That will never change. We can talk for the rest of my life, and I will always hate my mother. I’ll sit on your fucking bloodred couch and spill my guts until you and everyone else is satisfied I’m okay, but I promise you one thing. You will never convince me to feel anything but hate for them.” With the speed of a police chase on Highway 101, the words rushed out of her mouth as she stood there, statue still, as if daring me to tell her any different. “God, I wish I could kill them,” she mumbled.

  “You’re right,” I said, my voice calm, as if I weren’t concerned about the words she’d uttered. The shock, surprise, and suspicion on her face said that was the last thing she’d expected me to admit.

  “What do you mean, I’m right?” Her left hand trailed along the top of my bloodred couch before she sat back down.

  Sometimes I forgot she was only seventeen years old. She was a hormonal, emotionally immature young adult who struggled to find her identity in a messed-up world. When I looked at her, I didn’t see the face of a teen but rather the mind of a woman who had been through too much. Her eyes were the first thing that caught my attention. Always. She was an old soul.

  “I’m not going to argue with you. Your feelings are your feelings,” I said. “You’re the only one who can change how you feel toward your parents, and then it’s only if you want to.” I kept my tone conversational, like a friend. “If you’d rather spend your life hating them, by all means, do that. Let all that negative energy that swirls around you suck you dry.” I dropped my voice an octave, crossed my legs, and leaned myself toward her. “Personally, I’d rather use my energy for something else, but hey, this is your life, and you’ll make your own decisions and mistakes as you see fit.”

  She was off guard—I saw it. Inside, I smiled like the Cheshire Cat from the Wonderland books on my shelf.

  “What do you know about hating someone?” The challenge in her voice made my grin even wider.

  There was a tenacity within this girl, a spirit that couldn’t be quenched no matter how hard life tried.

  “I know what it’s like to go through life wishing things were different, that you were different.” An image of a girl—alone in a room, wishing for someone who could help her understand what was happening—flashed in my mind.

  I squashed that image, that memory. Squashed it like a piece of paper in my hand until it was a tight wad, and tossed it into a box with no bottom.

  “Different? I’m beyond that. I don’t just want things to be different—I want change.”

  I grabbed my notepad and wrote that word down. Change. It wasn’t a topic we’d often discussed in the past.

  “What would you like changed, Savannah?”

  If this were a staring contest, she’d walk away with the gold trophy.

  Blame it on my headache or her youth or . . . gah, it didn’t matter how she won, she just did. Her eyes were made of ice.

  The look sent shivers along my arms, and the muscles along my shoulders and neck tensed.

  I wasn’t going to like her next words.

  “Have you heard about the murders?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  She nodded, as if my answer said more than I’d intended.

  “I’m jealous of those kids.” She sounded like a little girl who not only asked for a pony but expected to get one too.

  “Jealous? Why is that?”

  She fiddled with her hands. Her thumbs twirled round and round.

  I gave her the time and space to answer.

  “I know that’s wrong to say, that I should feel sorry for them. I mean, they just lost their parents and are orphaned, but . . .” She pulled her lip inward and bit hard.

  “But . . .” I urged her on.

  The truth, no matter how hard to admit, was best said out loud. Once you spoke it, there was no turning back—those words gave birth to the feelings and beliefs harbored inside your heart.

  No matter how much it hurt, the truth was always worth it.

  “This is a safe place, Savannah. Your truth is safe with me. I promise.”

  I should have known better than to make a promise I couldn’t keep.

  “They are better off now. Those kids. I wish . . .” She puffed a breath of air from her lips, unclenched her fingers, and rested her hands in her lap.

  “I wish,” she said again, this time with less hesitation and more determination, “that I was strong enough to kill mine.”

  Chapter Eight

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 8

  I bolted upright from the couch.

  The sound of a closing door had woken me.

  It hadn’t been a hard slam or even a soft click but more of a thud.

  I threw the light blanket off my body, and the cobwebs in my head slowly fell to the ground, but it was a sluggish process.

  “Hello?” I called out. “Tami? Are you here?”

  If she was, it was with coffee, because the scent was strong and called to me. Maybe that’s what had woken me, that she came in, saw I was asleep, and left.

  I uncurled my legs and winced at the throbbing pain that shot up my ankle when I tried to stand.

  I collapsed back on the couch. My ankle was swollen, with slight purplish marks formed around it and an ache that increased each time I touched it. I must have slept on it wrong or twisted it earlier in the day and not realized it. Unless it was a spider bite.

  The thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump pain in my ankle beat a steady rhythm, similar to my heartbeat but not in sync. It pulsed and throbbed and hurt more than I wanted to admit.

  What the hell had bitten me while I slept?

  It was too swollen and discolored for me to notice any marks. It was lumpy to the touch like a balloon full of soft, wet gel capsules. If Tami were here, she’d tell me to see a doctor.

  If Tami were here, I’d tell her to go to hell.

  I had enough Benadryl in the kitchen to fight whatever bug had bitten me, if indeed that was the issue. I didn’t need to see a doctor to tell me the same thing.

  I hobbled into the kitchen, where the relaxing whiff of fresh beans was strong.

  I tried to recall if I’d started the coffee before dozing off or not. It wouldn’t have surprised me if I had and forgot about it. It wouldn’t be the first time. Especially with the headache that had my stomach rolling like a bowling ball. I’d hoped sleep would have tamed the migraine, but it was still there, just muted.

  I rooted around the cupboard for a bottle of aspirin to dull the pain and help the headache.

  Things felt off. They had since the moment I’d woken up and smelled the coffee I couldn’t remember making.

  When I was younger, I used to sleepwalk. My parents would find me out in the driveway or in the field behind our house in the middle of the night. Or on the toilet holding a toothbrush.

  After a plethora of doctor visits, blood tests, and sleep tests, I was told it was all stress related. Stress, lack of sleep, and simple exhaustion—my three familiars.

  The last time this happened was before I moved to Cheshire. I’d been found in the middle of a street carrying a bag full of groceries I’d taken out of my own cupboards.

  I grabbed the cup I’d left on the counter and noticed a folded note beneath it.

  A part of me hesitated to open it.

  You know a killer.

  My hands shook as I reread the note.

  Someone had been in my house. They had gotten past my locked door and alarm and left me a note while I slept. My privacy was destroyed, security demolished, safety defeated. Chills ran along my skin. The sensation of being watched crept up my back like a slithering snake, and I shuddered.

  Was I being watched? How had someone broken into my house without my knowing? The idea that I had slept through the invasion had panic skidding down my spine, the feeling coiled ar
ound each vertebra until it hacked through my stomach like a Japanese star blade.

  The note in my hand wobbled while I reminded myself to breathe. I reread the words, and the panic lodged in my heart like a boulder blocking a stream, bumped it into a staggered run.

  I did know a killer. But no one knew that. Not Tami. Not Sabrina. Not anyone. Who would have sent this? Who would know?

  How had they found out about Ella? I’d been so careful when it came to her, and I knew she’d been as well. What connection could they have discovered between her alias and her prison record?

  My chest shook, and I gasped as a single thought boomed in my head.

  This was bad. Really bad. Ella’s deepest fear was that her past would be discovered. It would destroy her.

  My mind raced with thoughts, questions, and realizations.

  Ella’s life as she knew it was over. It was why she’d moved here, to Cheshire. To escape the whispered gossip, to break from her past, to run from the judgment of others once word got out.

  I felt sick inside.

  None of this made sense. I wanted to call Tami. I needed to talk to her.

  My hands shook like a swing in a storm when the realization hit that I couldn’t.

  I had promised to protect Ella, and I couldn’t break that promise. I couldn’t do that to Ella, not even when that wasn’t the reason why I needed Tami.

  I no longer felt safe in my own home.

  Chapter Nine

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 8

  KILLER

  The minutes before death are my favorite.

  Everything is right.

  Everything is still.

  So still the huff of my breath sounds louder than the thwack a gavel makes as it strikes a judge’s desk.

  I stand before the wall of family photos, sneering at the fake smiles.

  You’d think this family perfect. But it doesn’t take much to peel away the thin veneer of lies, to notice the cracks, the jagged edges, the potholes of pain.

  A fever of hatred spreads through me faster than fire in a forest.

  Seeing the parents’ fake smiles staring back at me almost destroys my resolve. I want to heave each frame off that wall to the floor, erasing those picture-perfect, smothering smiles until all that remains is the innocent—the child I came to protect.

  But I don’t.

  I can’t make any noise.

  I climb the stairs, my hand on the knife. I rub the pad of my thumb along the blade. Not enough to cut. Just enough to remind me of what is to come.

  I’ve spent countless evenings outside this house, preparing for this night, watching the family, learning which room is little Robin’s.

  She’ll be adopted. Loved. Treasured.

  I make sure she’s fast asleep, one hand tucked beneath her cheek.

  This is how I’ll always remember her.

  Sweet. Innocent. And now, for the first time in her life, protected.

  That’s who I am.

  The protector.

  The avenger.

  I avenge the children. Protect them when their own parents fail.

  Her parents don’t deserve her.

  They deserve to die.

  The condemned are drugged, asleep in their beds, with no idea their sentence is about to be delivered.

  Tonight there is no courtroom, no judge, no jury.

  Tonight there is only me. And I offer no mercy.

  Children are always so innocent when they’re asleep.

  Angelic.

  Like a Precious Moments figurine, her porcelain skin, light-brown hair, little button nose, and heart-shaped lips.

  Right here, right now, I am calm.

  Calm and full of peace and a sense of rightness.

  Children are the real and true victims in this world. They have no choices, no opportunities, no way to discern who they are meant for and who to avoid. If there is a God, they’re ignorant of the value God has placed on their small heads.

  The Bible says something like, Let the little children come unto me, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to them.

  If there were a God, those who are unable to love would never be gifted with a child who needs love.

  If there were a God, those who are unable to think of others would never be given a child who needs to be thought of.

  If there were a God, those who are unable to put themselves last would never be given a child who needs to come first.

  I have learned that there is no God. Not one who loves unconditionally.

  There is also no such thing as unconditional love. It’s a lie, a facade, a tale told to romantics so they believe they have hope.

  I look around her room, and sadness leaks out of me. There’s not much here. A few dolls scattered about and family drawings tacked to the wall.

  The rooms downstairs are magazine worthy. Cold, characterless, and clutter free. There should be toys and books and crayons lying around. This house should be screaming A child lives in me, but it doesn’t.

  How sad this little one must feel. How alone. How unloved.

  There is one thing that brings me hope.

  Tucked beneath her hand is a fairy-tale book. Is she dreaming of glass slippers and talking candlesticks? I hope so.

  Very gently, I pull the book from beneath her hand and replace it with another. One that has been gift-wrapped with a note inside especially for her. One that will get her through the next few nights, the next few weeks, the next few years, as she learns what it’s like to truly be loved.

  I have one more task to complete before I leave this home. One more act of love toward little Robin.

  I look in on her parents and smile.

  After, their slashed throats remind me of the deep-red smile on a clown’s painted face.

  Chapter Ten

  MEMORY

  A wood fire crackles with sparks like red fireworks around the burned bricks. Smoke dances with the wind, swaying one way, then the next, searching for a partner but never finding any.

  I pretend it’s calling to me, but I say no.

  I’m not allowed too close to the fire.

  My fingers, my lips, and my cheeks are sticky with marshmallow goo, my smile wider than the mouth of Niagara Falls, something Daddy always says to me. I laugh because I’m happy.

  The fire whispers to me, shows me pictures that seem magical. I know not to touch it. My palm still bears the pink imprint of fire from when I was three. It still hurts sometimes too.

  The sky is lit up with diamonds, and the moon is so bright, I can see the man’s face, thanks to Mommy pointing him out.

  Mommy and Daddy are whispering to each other. They smile at me, but I know something is wrong.

  Sometimes I like to play a game. See how long I can be as quiet as my teddy bears. Sometimes I can be quiet for hours, and everyone forgets me. Other times, there’s a tickling feeling inside me, and I can’t keep the giggles in.

  I want another marshmallow. I’ve had three so far. I was only allowed two, but no one said anything when I toasted the third one with the long stick Daddy gave me.

  The fire crackles more and more, and the whispering stops.

  Daddy leans over and adds another piece of wood to the flames.

  “Doing okay there, princess?” The smile on his face lies, but I nod and am a good girl.

  I notice a lot of things. Things they say I’m too young to see and hear. But I’m a smart whippersnapper, as Daddy says, and I’m starting school soon. I notice more than they think.

  Like how often Mommy cries.

  Like when Daddy fists his hands in anger, then hides them behind his back when he sees me looking.

  Like when they slam the cupboard doors. I’m not allowed to do that when I’m angry, so why are they?

  Like the yelling when I’m supposed to be asleep.

  I don’t like when Mommy and Daddy are mad at each other. Or when Mommy is extra sad and the tears fall out.

  I always make sure I give Mommy extra hugs when Daddy’s
not around. I tell her I love her and that she’s the best mommy in the whole wide world.

  She always gives me a kiss on the head and says thank you. Sometimes she says she tries as hard as she can. Other times she says she doesn’t deserve a little girl like me.

  Mommy lets out a really long sigh and gets up from her chair.

  “I’m just going into the house for a minute, love. Are you cold yet? Do you need a sweater?” She rubs her hands down my arms, her touch tickling me.

  I shake my head. The fire is warm on my skin, and I pretend it’s giving me a suntan.

  “What do you think, should we see how high we can make this fire?” Daddy leans forward, really close to the flames, and pokes at them with his stick. “I think we can add more wood, don’t you?” He turns to look at me, but his eyes are looking over my head, watching Mommy.

  Bright lights sweep across our grass.

  A truck is turning into our driveway.

  Black dots swim in my eyes from looking at the truck. When I close them, the lights dance, moving around like a disco ball.

  “Who would come out here at this time of night?” Daddy mutters.

  He stands to see.

  The truck door slams.

  Daddy swears.

  He leaves me there, sitting by the fire, alone.

  I’m all alone now. I’m never allowed to be alone at the fire.

  I pull my legs up under me to get as far away from the fire as I can.

  If Mommy were here, she’d be upset and yell at Daddy.

  I want to get up and run to him, but I don’t know who is here.

  I don’t like strangers.

  I sit here, all by myself, and I’m scared.

  Daddy talks with someone, their voices low but not friendly.

  Our house door slams, and Mommy comes rushing out. I think she’s running to me because she knows I’m here by myself in front of the fire and that I’m scared.

  When she runs past me, my eyes hurt like there’s sand in them. I had sand in them last week when we went to the beach. I want to cry, but I’m a big girl now, and big girls don’t cry.