Authors: August McLaughlin
The largest drawer on the bottom holds files—mainly bills, order forms, receipts. He’s taken much of his work with him, she notes. Gaps between the files show that many are missing. And the large manila envelope of photographs he’s been reviewing is gone.
At the back of the drawer, behind the files, her hand finds a metal box. The moment she touches it, she’s certain it holds clues. She feels him watching, senses his steamy breath on her neck.
“Ah, what do we have here?”
his voice echoes in her head, spouting words she’s heard countless times before, each time she’s done something wrong.
“Breaking the rules, I see. You know you’re asking for punishment.”
She imagines lifting the metal box and bashing it against his face, blood gushing from the wound on his forehead.
The lock on the box disheartens her, until she recognizes it. He’d used a similar lock to keep her from the poison, pills and the scale. She’d mastered opening it months ago. She opens the lock with ease, peers inside the box.
In the dim light she spots a plastic bag filled with soft material—perhaps silk?
She gasps, drops it. Blond hair, much like her own after he lightened it, but different enough to frighten her. Whose is it?
There’s a thick envelope, stuffed with photos. As though watching a film, she flips through them, observing the life of a pretty, happy young girl. The little girl splashing in a swimming pool, then a bit older, in a frilly dress, holding a basket of painted eggs. Photos of the girl as a teenager, wearing makeup, her hair styled in curls.
Then, the same girl, naked, splayed out on a bed in a sexy pose. She sits on a bed, her legs spread apart, one of her hands clutching her small breast. The girl is too young for such poses—but then again, so was she. She flips through these more quickly.
In the next photos the girl is pregnant, her belly protruding as though she had a beach ball stuffed under her sweatshirt. It’s the last image of the girl.
She hears a sound and stops. Holding her breath, she listens—nothing. Sensing the need to hurry, she rushes through additional photos. The last she views depicts a grown woman. It is recent, judging from the image quality and glossy paper. The woman from the images she spotted on his computer—the woman he’s been watching...
She glances at the two beds standing side by side and prays with all of her might, hoping a God exists who will hear her
. PLEASE...let him bring her here alive.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Thanks for seeing me today,” Claire says, taking a seat in Dr. Marsha’s office.
“My pleasure. It sounded important.”
“I know you counseled my mother.”
The blunt statement gives her strength. She sits up straighter while Dr. Marsha’s face drains of color.
Ah, caught you!
“You must’ve guessed I’d figure that out.”
“The thought did cross my mind. I suppose I hoped you hadn’t.”
Claire nods, appreciating her honesty.
“I hope you can understand that patient confidentiality applies. I’m not able to discuss—”
“Of course I understand that. But you might have information that could help fill in the gaps, not just for me, but for my grandpa. He had a stroke.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thank you. He seems to be improving. He can’t talk yet but when he looks at me he seems anxious to tell me something. And this morning, I was asking him questions. He squeezed my hand to answer yes or no. I believe he’s worried about me. It’s something to do with my parents. I was looking through my grandfather’s things when I found records of your sessions with my mother. Why was she seeing you? Was it because of my father?”
The mention of her father peaks Dr. Swenson’s attention; her eyes lock with Claire’s. “My grandfather told me about him,” Claire says.
“He..
.did
?” Dr. Swenson sounds shocked.
“I know about his
mental problems.
I’m assuming that’s why Mom met with you—it had to be difficult to deal with his illness. Was it schizophrenia? Depression?”
“To be honest, I don’t know. I never counseled him.”
“Did anyone?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know.”
“What about my mother, then? What can you tell me about her?”
“Claire, I wasn’t even sure it was appropriate at the time for me to treat you after your mother’s death, but your grandfather insisted. I suppose he thought that since Dawn and I worked well together, you and I might, too. But I must uphold patient confidentiality—”
“Stop!” Claire places her head in her hands. She pauses, takes a breath, continues. “Look...I’m sorry to put this on you. And trust me, I can imagine the situation you’re in. But my parents are
gone
. And I only learned recently that the accident was their fault—”
“It wasn’t.”
“Excuse me?”
Dr. Marsha winces. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“But you did. Please, I’m begging you! I won’t tell anyone what you share with me. My grandfather is troubled by this and...something is very wrong in my life right now. I’m not sure I can help him or myself if you don’t help me. Please!”
Dr. Swenson sighs. “I last saw your mother a few days before she died. She told me she’d received a letter, that someone she hadn’t seen in years wished to see her. He had information to share—something he wasn’t willing to reveal beforehand—and demanded that she see him alone.”
“Well, who? She must have told you.”
“I wish I knew more.” The therapist looks down. “She seemed quite anxious about the ordeal, so I encouraged her to talk to her parents, your grandparents, about it. She refused. I suggested she decline the meeting, if she could, or at the very least, bring your father.
“Now I don’t have any proof as to what happened the day of her accident. But I do know she planned to see him on your birthday. That’s really all I know.”
“You think that my parents went to see some old friend and… he killed them?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m just saying that the timing was...coincidental. By the end of our session, she’d decided she wouldn’t go. But she was very emotional. I wouldn’t be surprised if she changed her mind, saw him, became upset...”
“The report said they’d taken Valium. Did she have a drug or alcohol problem? Was she on medications?”
Dr. Swenson shakes her head. “Not to my knowledge. But I’m not a psychiatrist. If she was on medications, she never told me about them.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone about the letter?”
“I did. I spoke to the Hastings police. When I followed up later I was told that the case was closed and the records showed no one’s involvement, other than your parents.”
“But you still suspect—”
“
Suspect
is the appropriate word. I have no proof, just...feelings.”
Which are often proof enough, Claire thinks. “If not to discuss my dad’s emotional state, can you tell me why she was seeing you in the first place?”
She smiles. “Your mother was a woman with strong feelings. She felt happiness more than most people are capable, but sadness, despair, too.”
“Bipolar?”
“No, I never thought so. From my perspective she was a woman with a tremendous heart who’d been through a lot, starting a family at such a young age...and who loved her daughter deeply. She needed a place to discuss her feelings.”
Claire glances at her notes. “Did my mom have an eating disorder?”
“Dawn? Heavens no. She adored food and seemed comfortable in her body. She would’ve told me otherwise. To be honest, she was a breath of fresh air after the many teenagers on diets I’ve seen…especially nowadays. Is that why you’re here? Are you struggling with—?”
“No!” Claire snaps. “Sorry. It’s just...some of my memories and nightmares involve food. They also involve... Was I ever molested?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Do you believe you were?”
“I’m not sure—I mean, no. I don’t think so. It’s a foggy memory, more like a dream—or dreams, I should say. Mom is in some of them, a lot of pain...and blood.”
Dr. Marsha nods. “It sounds like many of the feelings you experienced surrounding the accident are resurfacing. It’s understandable, considering the timing—near a prominent anniversary of the occurrence and your grandfather’s health crisis.”
“I’ve considered stress as the trigger.”
“Perhaps it’s time that you and your grandfather had a good talk…once he’s recovered, of course. Are you certain he fears for your well-being?”
“I guess I can’t be sure... He’s only mumbled and squeezed my arm. It’s more of a strong hunch, I suppose.”
“Do you have any other reason to believe you’re in danger?”
Did she?
She considers mentioning the man in the SUV she feared was watching her, but decides against it. “I suppose not.”
“Good. I wonder if your grandfather might be concerned that you learned more details of the accident—the drugs and so forth. That would cause him a great deal of distress, no?”
She nods. “It would.”
“Perhaps you should put your investigating on hold for now. Tell your grandfather you did so, and when he’s closer to his usual self, you can discuss everything. It might serve as a powerful healing experience for both of you. I’ll even see the two of you together if you’d like. In the meantime, stay close to your family. It’s an important time for that.”
A phone rings. Dr. Marsha retrieves her cell from her desk and glances at the caller ID. “I apologize. Would you mind? This may be a patient emergency.”
“Not at all.”
Dr. Marsha steps out and closes the door. Claire ponders the therapist’s advice, finding it offsetting. Had the therapist actually told her what to do? That’s not the way therapists are taught to operate. Why would she suggest that Claire stop investigating? There must be something to find.
She glances around the room. Her eyes land on the file cabinets—three tall units, standing side by side against the far wall. It’s worth a shot.
Moving quickly and quietly, she begins opening drawers. The files are organized alphabetically. She thumbs through the second drawer, her pulse accelerating when she spots the label, “Fiksen.”
Her hopes deflate. It’s her own file. Nothing useful there.
She jumps to the first drawer and spots it: Adolfsson, Dawn. Her mother’s maiden name.
Dr. Marsha’s voice and footsteps echo from the hall. “All right then. Next week sounds fine. Let me just grab my schedule.”
Claire closes the drawer and sits down moments before the door swings open.
“Be right back,” Dr. Marsha whispers then takes her calendar into the hall, leaving the door a crack open behind her.
Now’s her chance. In a swift move, Claire retrieves the folder. She grabs her coat from the wall hook and tucks it inside.
“You don’t need to leave,” Dr. Marsha says, stepping into the room. “We have a few more minutes, longer if you’d like to make up for what I took just now.”
“Actually, I do. I have an emergency of my own to tend to.”
“I see. I hope everything’s all right.”
“Thanks. I’m sure it will be.” She smiles at Dr. Marsha, feeling as though a neon sign hangs over her head:
Thief!
For a greater good, she thinks to herself, hoping she’s right.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Marsha Swenson records session notes in Claire Fiksen’s file then moves to her desk in the adjacent room. Are you sure you want to know? she asks herself. Regardless, she feels she need. She logs onto her computer and opens the web browser. With trembling fingers, she types the name she hoped never to deal with or come across again in her lifetime.
She finds him quickly. A list of websites featuring his work appear—too long, and too current.
Damn it to hell!
Clicking the top link, his name appears on the screen, along with his photo. The therapist stares at the face, enraged. “You better stay away from her!”
Judging from the address at the bottom of the page, he’s moved his practice even closer. She closes her eyes and does something she hasn’t done in years:—she prays.
Please God, keep Claire safe from harm
. If it turns out she hasn’t done the right thing, she might never forgive herself.
There is one more step she can take, one she should have taken repeatedly over the years. She can report him. He hasn’t threatened her in years... What harm could one phone call to the police do? She lifts the telephone receiver from her desk and takes a breath.
Darkness falls over her like a black curtain before she senses the presence behind her chair. “Please, don’t hurt her!” The final words spills from her, a primordial plea. She feels the pain of the needle a moment before the world goes black.
“Don’t worry, doctor. She’s in very good hands.”
He waits—watching and listening until the therapist breathes her last breath, pleased that his work went smoothly.
Poor Dr. Marsha
. She has no idea how much her advice to Claire will assist him, make his plan even easier.
He takes the clump of keys from Dr. Marsha’s purse, digs around for any useful information he might have missed and makes the office appear ransacked. A file cabinet on its side, a stolen wallet, papers strewn about the floor. And for now, a dead servant in the middle. For the fun of it, he snaps a few pictures. It really is...artwork.
Once it’s dark, he’ll return to do away with the body. Simple. A piece of cake.
No more searching, indeed, Claire-belle. Best you sit back and wait.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Claire drives toward Peterson. Unable to wait until she reaches the clinic to read the file, she pulls to the side of the road. The folder is thinner than she would’ve expected considering her mother met with Dr. Marsha for a year or more.
She opens it and realizes why. It contains not routine therapy notes, but intake materials—a three-page packet of details reaped from her mother’s initial session and, most likely, Grandpa’s input.