“Thank you, Heidi.” Another tap of the speaker phone cut off the call.
“My impression is that Julia had many other friends besides Ramona,” Ellie said. “I’ll need to speak to them.”
“And, again, I’m saying you’ll need to speak to them outside of school property, and with the consent of their parents.” Carter did not even bother waiting for her response before shuffling documents scattered across her desk, obvious busywork.
“Do you know anything about Adderall abuse at Casden?”
Carter stopped fiddling with her papers and shot Ellie a look as if she’d just spit on the floor. “I don’t know what kind of children you’re used to, but the Casden School prides itself on the creation of future leaders. We have alumni in every branch of government, including the Supreme Court, and on the boards of forty-eight Fortune 500 companies. We produce more Rhodes Scholars per capita than any other day school in the country. All of our faculty have graduate degrees in their respective fields.”
“Perhaps that’s exactly why you might have kids selling each other Adderall. I just heard one of the other parents say something about this being ‘the second time this semester’? Was there another suicide?”
“I’m sure you can get whatever information you need elsewhere, Detective. I have an institution to run here. We all regret what happened to Julia, but I have other young people whose educations require my attention. If we are finished?”
Ellie didn’t budge, so the woman led the way to the office door for Ellie’s anticipated exit. “The mayor is an alumnus of this school, and he fully understands the situation here today. I suggest you call him, if necessary. You’re on private property, Detective, which means you need a warrant to be here.”
This was definitely not what Ellie expected of a school that had just lost one of its own.
Chapter Seventeen
Heinz. H-E-I-N-Z. Like the ketchup.”
Casey had been saying “like the ketchup” since before he’d even learned how to write the actual letters. It was the same phrase his mother had used every time she introduced herself or gave her name over the phone—at least, back when her last name had still been Heinz. For a whisper of a moment in grade school he had abandoned the family line, as a symbol of protest against the oozy red condiment that every other child seemed to consider culinary heaven. Instead, he invoked a new twist, telling people to spell the name like Teresa Heinz Kerry. He was only eleven years old at the time, but quickly learned that he already knew more about current political events than most adults.
The woman behind the counter gave him a polite smile and promised to be back “in a jiff.”
More than a jiff passed—at least by Casey’s definition—so he took a seat in one of the fancy modern chairs in the lobby area. He remembered Ramona spinning around in one of these at the Design Within Reach studio one day. It was the kind of store that Casey would get rushed out of if he ever walked in alone, but Ramona and her friends looked like they belonged. Ramona loved walking into that store the way some people love to roam museums. She was into the whole mid-century modern vibe. More than once she said she felt like she was meant to be born earlier, back when pregnant women smoked and men drank three martinis at lunch.
What had she called this chair? A butterfly? Camel? No, it was a swan. Casey hadn’t seen the resemblance, but Ramona showed him how the lines at the edge of the seat arched backward like the angle of a swan’s neck. He reached behind him and ran both hands across the slope of the cushion, remembering Ramona spinning like a child, staring up at the ceiling to make herself dizzy.
Casey liked to pretend that he was comfortable in his own skin, able to waltz into this doctor’s office and give his name at the reception desk like he belonged, but he was relieved when he heard the door to the lobby open, followed by the entrance of his friend Brandon.
“Hey, man. You said you’d be here by eleven.” Casey had intentionally arrived five minutes late so Brandon would already be there first.
“Sorry,” Brandon said. “Subways were fucked.”
“Which line did you take?”
“The A.”
Casey had sailed to the Upper West Side without problems, but he’d taken the 1.
Brandon was offended by the cross-examination. “Damn, were you checking to see if I was lying to you?”
“No. Just, you know, wondering.” Casey had indeed been testing Brandon, but immediately let it drop. He needed to be careful not to scare Brandon away. He liked having at least one male friend on the street.
“Whatever, dude. We’re both here now. She get you hooked up yet or what?”
This office was unlike any of Casey’s previous, limited exposures to doctors. At the clinics he was used to, the lobbies were standing-room-only, for pregnant teenagers, colicky babies, and old bums two quarts shy of liver failure, all battling for a second’s attention from the gum-chewing fat ladies juggling phones behind the desk. This place felt more like a living room, with its designer chairs, fireplace, and piped-in classical music.
Casey would live here if given the chance.
“All right, Casey. The doctor’s ready for you now.”
Casey looked at Brandon, who had already settled into the next chair with a copy of Sports Illustrated like a waiting father. This was their sixth visit to this office, but Casey still wasn’t comfortable with the entire setup. “You sure you can’t come with me? Maybe it’s, like, more efficient or something for him to meet with us together.”
“No way, dude. The doctor will just kick me out if we try that. Just do like I said. Like you’ve been doing every time, man.” Brandon lowered his voice and held the magazine up to hide his lips from the receptionist’s view. “Answer all his questions with half the truth, but really exaggerated—like you’re totally bummed out or majorly psyched. And maybe remember to add the thing about touching the phone booths. Every single one. And if you try to pass one, you wind up circling back. Try to get that in there somehow. But, with each visit, tone it down a little. Not as much today as last time.”
As Casey followed the receptionist to the heavy oak door at the end of the hallway, he felt a little guilty that he allowed Brandon to believe he was still playing games with the doctor. Brandon had his own agenda and was the one to first bring Casey here, nearly two months ago, but Casey hadn’t been able to go along with it. Maybe they’d wind up messing up this doctor by pretending to be something they weren’t. Or maybe there were side effects or something that could screw his brain up.
But Casey hadn’t been able to bring himself to leave, either. Even now, he was still excited to be here. Sure, he’d been sent to “counselors” before, but that had been in Iowa. And they’d all been hell-bent on fixing his supposed delusions. There was usually a lot of prayer involved. They weren’t real doctors like this guy, let alone successful city psychiatrists. As much as Casey liked to tell himself he was fine—it was other people in the world who had a problem—he had to wonder if maybe a nineteen-year-old living on the streets for the last two years might be in legitimate need of some fine-tuning in the head department.
He glimpsed back one more time at Brandon, who mouthed an urgent command to “go on.”
As he let the doctor’s office door close behind him, Casey reminded himself of the vow he’d taken on that first visit, a promise not to waste this opportunity. The chance to have a real, honest one-on-one with a legit top-notch shrink was more important than the plan that had originally brought him here. When the doctor had begun asking him the usual questions, Casey had answered them—not as Brandon had coached, but in his own way. He answered truthfully. He told the doctor everything.