Empire of Lies - Whitney G. Page 0,42

confirmed dead. She’s still missing.”

“Yes, well…” He shakes his head. “I’m holding out as much hope as I can, but I’ve always been a bit of a pessimist, I’m afraid.”

“It’s true,” her aunt chimes in. “I’m the one who is trying to keep the hope alive.”

“She really loved you, you know?” He smiled. “Even though we were just now getting closer, you were the first thing she brought up every day we met. With any luck, they’ll find her—dead or alive, I just want closure.”

“I’m sure you do…” I can’t hold a straight face anymore, so I stand to my feet. “Can you two excuse me? I have somewhere I need to be.”

“Absolutely,” they say in unison, and I get the hell out of there.

The moment I make it to the parking lot, I pull out my phone and check on Meredith. She’s no longer in the living room, and all of the other cameras are showing an empty house.

Confused, I rewind the video until I can see her writing a note at the dining room table. She leaves the sheet in perfect view for the cameras to see it, and then she ventures upstairs and into the one place where I don’t have any cameras. Her bedroom.

I zoom in on the note to catch a better view.

I’m running the cameras on a loop. Get ready to find me.

I smile. There are secondary cameras in the ceiling. She isn’t going anywhere.

Putting on my black leather gloves, I speed onto the road and command my car to text Trevor.

Me: Off to handle the therapist. I’ll call when I’m done.

His response is immediate.

Trevor: Thank you. (9 more to go.)

Michael

Now

Every child therapy office that I’ve ever visited is designed in the exact same way. There are open windows in the lobby, bright and cheery colors on the walls, and toys that clutter every corner in the waiting room. There’s also a Mickey Mouse printed on at least half of the tables, as if a fucking Disney character is capable of helping to soothe someone’s pain.

Dr. Holden McAllister’s office, the top child therapy center in New York City, is the complete opposite of those places. Situated on the top floor of a gleaming grey building on Billionaire’s Row, the rooms are all painted in dreary shades of pale beige. There are no bright and cheery colors on the wall, no toys to keep patients calm while they wait, and the only Disney Characters in sight are the ones that you may catch a glimpse of on a Times Square billboard.

Every time that I’ve managed to step inside this building to handle him, I’ve turned away at the last minute. I’ve always pushed his name further down my personal list since I don’t want to relive any of the things I used to tell him. The things he refused to believe, but knew damn well were the truth.

Today won’t be a turnaround day.

I’ve let him live enough of his life.

I slide a pair of black shades over my face and make sure my leather gloves are secure before taking the elevator up to the fifty-first floor.

“I’m sorry, sir, our office is closed,” the receptionist says as I step off the car. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow. If you’d like, I can take down your name and email address.’

I stand still and make out what type of person she is in five seconds.

Too eager to communicate. Wired on something other than coffee. Stupid.

She’ll definitely remember my face when the police find Dr. McAllister dead and ask for potential suspects, so the front entrance is out of the question.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Looks like I’m on the wrong floor. Where’s the gym?”

“Ah, I figured. This happens all the time.” She smiles. “Right below on the fiftieth floor.”

I give her a fake smile in return and take the elevator a few floors down. I find my way to the emergency stairwell and wait for half an hour before heading back up to Dr. McAllister’s office.

I move from room to room and disable every camera and security feature. I double-check to make sure that no other employees are here, and then I stop dead in my tracks when I reach the patients’ waiting room.

Everything in his office is exactly how I remember it in my nightmares. The hard-plastic chairs that surround a shaky metal table, the rug that serves as an inkblot test, and the “Wall of Forgiveness” where each patient gets the “honor” of letting go of