“Sure, why would he lie?”
“To get twenty bucks.”
“Nah. Maurice is good people. He’s never steered me wrong.”
“You’ve gotten information from him before?”
“Yep, he told me about the restoration of Kerry Manor. He knew the history of the house, heard about it during his asylum days. He knew of Delila; that’s how I found her. I cross-checked his stories with newspapers when the house originally burned, and it was spot-on. He’s an odd one, but not a liar.”
“Do you think he knows an exorcist?”
Will gazed at her. She expected him to laugh. He didn’t.
“If not, I can find someone who does. One thing at a time, though. Let’s meet Doctor Evil.”
CORRIE
“CORRIE, I’M SO SORRY.”
Jillian grabbed me and pulled me close. I smelled perfume mixed with almond lotion. Her heavy black hair pressed into my cheek and reminded me of an animal pelt, a black bear perhaps.
I had not spoken with Jillian since I took a leave of absence from my therapy practice. We shared an office space, but rarely socialized outside of occasional encounters between clients.
“Thank you,” I said, echoing the words I’d become so accustomed to offering.
“Are you coming back?” Jillian gestured at the two doors that opened from our little waiting room.
She meant was I coming back to practice.
I nodded.
“Do you have a few minutes?”
Jillian wrinkled her brow, and then understood.
“Oh my, yes. I’m not seeing another patient for two hours. I’d love for you – not love. I’d be honored. Yes.”
She opened the door, and I followed her into her office.
Like our waiting room, which she’d decorated, a small, bubbling fountain stood on a table near her desk. Two soft club chairs, patterned in black suede, faced her desk. She sat in an ergonomic rolling chair decorated with a brightly colored afghan.
On the floor next to her desk, I saw a dog bed and a small basket of chew toys for her Welsh corgi, Sigmund, who we called Siggy. He often joined her on therapy days, but today his bed lay empty.
“No Siggy?” I asked, wishing he’d been there. It would have been nice to run my hands over Siggy’s amber fur to avoid fiddling with them as I talked.
“Jackson and Cherie are taking him to the groomer,” she explained. Jackson was Jillian’s husband and Cherie their eight-year-old daughter. Sammy used to jokingly ask me ‘when are Jillian and Jackson starting their stand-up comedy routine?’ Jackson was, in fact, a dry, humorless man who talked about nothing but politics and the trouble with youth today. The one time we’d all gone to dinner together, Sammy had feigned an allergic reaction to his dessert to end the meal early. I smiled, remembering him scratching his face and saying, ‘Huh, there must be nuts in the pecan pie.’
Under normal circumstances I would seek a therapist who didn’t know me, but the events of the day propelled me to the first person who came to mind.
Jillian sat back in her chair and waited.
“I, umm, I’d just like your thoughts, I guess.” I smiled awkwardly. “I didn’t realize how hard it was to sit in the other chair.”
She smiled and nodded.
“Forget that we know each other, Corrie. I’m just a mirror to reflect back answers already within you.”
I swallowed and looked at my lap, frowning and trying to find the right words.
“Since Sammy died, I’ve been… lost. I always knew we were connected. I mean really connected, soul-level connected. I’m sure that sounds ridiculous.”
“Not at all.”
“It’s almost like his death has proved it. I feel him everywhere, I see him, I hear his voice, and it’s not just in my head. Sometimes it is.” I laughed and pulled a string loose from my sweater, wrapping it around my index finger. “I’m trying to be strong for Isis, but…” My lip quivered, and the flood of tears would soon follow. If I focused on this tiny red string wrapped around my finger, I wouldn’t cry.
“It’s okay to let it out, Corrie. It’s more than okay. Grief is energy stuck in your body. You have to release it somehow. Grief is a wave of energy. Let it roll through you, so you can rest in the space between the waves. Don’t hold it in.”
I took a long, shuddering breath and allowed my tears to rush over my cheeks. They snaked along my chin and beneath the collar of my sweater.
Jillian handed me a box of tissue.
“Other things are happening,” I continued, returning to the string, winding it so tight the flesh of my finger bulged between the tiny strand. “I keep… blacking out or something.”
I glanced up at Jillian, who watched me impassively.
“Describe blacking out.”
I bit my lip.
“I’m not sure I can. I’ll fall asleep in my bed and wake up in the great room or the study. I have no recollection of moving and time has passed, sometimes hours, when I feel like I’ve only just laid down.”
Jillian nodded.
“Is anyone around? Has anyone seen you sleepwalking?”
I shook my head, thinking of the conversation I’d overheard between Sammy and Sarah. I didn’t want to share it.
“No, only me. The other night I put furniture in front of my bedroom door and a hung a bell from the doorknob. I figured I would at least wake up if I tried to get out.”
“And?”
“And I woke up in the study. When I went upstairs, the bell was gone. I haven’t found it, and the furniture was all put back in place.”
“You’re still living in the house? Kerry Manor?”
I nodded.
“Have you considered the trauma of what happened to Sammy is causing these spells? The house is a stranger to you. Maybe you’re trying to get out of the house and away from the place where you lost him.”
“Then shouldn’t I be waking up in my car with the engine running?”
Jillian smiled.
“The subconscious mind is mysterious. It has its own ideas about where freedom lies. Have you considered leaving the house, Corrie?”
I stared at her hard. It wasn’t the first time someone had asked, and the familiar flicker of rage arose within me at her words.
“No.”
“Can I ask why not?”
“Because we belong there. Because it’s my home now, and…”
Jillian held up her hand.
“But it’s not your home, Corrie. You and Sammy rented it for the winter. You’re moving out in May.”
I shook my head and wound the string tighter. The irrational anger bubbled like a steam kettle, ready to blow.
“Corrie,” Jillian’s voice dropped and she leaned toward me. “Are you hurting yourself?”
I followed her gaze to my exposed hand, where blood showed through the white gauze.
“I have to go,” I said, jumping to my feet. “Thanks, Jillian.”
I hurried from the office and let the door swing shut a little too hard behind me.
CHAPTER 28
Now
Sarah
“Wait, where are you going?”
Sarah looked up at the sound of her receptionist Lorna’s voice.
“Out,” she said, turning away.
“You’re meeting with Paul Hudson in twenty minutes. The New York developer.”
“Fuck.” Sarah looked at her watch. How did she forget? She’d set the meeting months ago.
“At Top of the Park?”
“Yep, so he can check out the gorgeous views of Traverse City,” Lorna reminded her, grinning.