The Lost (Celestial Blues, Book 2) - By Vicki Pettersson Page 0,21
intersection only one block from an affluent residential enclave that included a country club and guarded gates . . . not quite what Grif had expected. Other than the nurses’ station and the white-tiled halls, the interior wasn’t what he expected, either, and skewed toward homey rather than institutional, or at least like an exclusive private school. As Grif and Kit followed a nurse to the head administrator’s office, he wondered how many of his preconceived notions were taken from the cinema, black-and-white flickers where wild-eyed patients were wheeled from room to room by stoic attendants, their straitjackets crisp, gazes empty, mouths slack.
He saw no such examples now, though they hadn’t been allowed into the patients’ ward, and were instead being led to the administrator’s offices, presumably for last-minute instructions on how to interact with the patients in general, or at least with Mary Margaret. It wasn’t until they were seated across from Ms. Lucinda Howard, with a wide, glossy desk looming between them, and her certificates and diplomas splayed across the wall behind her, that he realized something was wrong.
“How did you say you knew Ms. DiMartino again?”
Kit and Grif looked at each other. They hadn’t, though Ms. Howard had their visitor’s request form squared in front of her. They’d submitted it five weeks before, but had obviously left out the part about Grif’s having known Mary Margaret fifty years earlier.
“We’re old friends of the family,” Grif said instead. “Mary Margaret’s nephew, Ray DiMartino, told us where to find her.”
Ms. Howard dismissed the familial bond with a sniff. “You understand this is highly unusual. It’s rare that people outside of immediate family are allowed to interact with the patients. At least while they’re under direct care.”
“Mary Margaret doesn’t live here full-time then?” Kit posed it as a question, but she, too, already knew the answer. She was just reminding Ms. Howard that they could, and would, eventually talk to the woman. Within these walls, however, the outcome of that meeting could be observed and controlled.
“No,” Ms. Howard answered, with a tight smile. “Mary Margaret is a high-functioning patient. She had great results with our psychosocial rehabilitation program and had been living independently for over twenty months before this latest . . . incident. Your paperwork indicates you’re already aware of this, which raises the question: why?”
“Why what?” asked Grif.
“Why disturb her with questions about her past? You’re aware of her history. Yet you’re not doctors, so you can’t deal with the feelings and possible fallout that raising these issues outside of therapy might cause. Is there any particularly good reason that you might disturb the mental health of an individual who is already teetering on the brink of yet another breakdown?”
“We certainly don’t want to cause Ms. DiMartino any distress,” Kit said, leaning forward. “But we’re looking for someone who disappeared a long time ago, and she might be able to help us locate their whereabouts.”
Ms. Howard’s lips tightened like a string, and she glanced back down at the paperwork, but the top sheet gave explicit familial permission for their visit. Mary Margaret had been consulted, and accepted the appointment when Kit called the facility five days earlier, so no matter what Ms. Howard’s reservations were, there was little she could do about it now.
“Very well,” she said, standing so that Kit could see straight up her narrow nose. “I’ll see that she’s ready. You’ll be visiting in the atrium, our common area. There will be nurses there to assist you, and her, if needed.”
And she strode from the room, spine ramrod-straight, without a backward glance.
“Was that a warning?” Grif muttered, when she’d gone.
“Do we look that threatening?” Kit replied, glancing down. Grif didn’t bother looking at himself—he’d been stuck in the same clothing for more than fifty years—but since they were waiting anyway, he took the opportunity to give his partner a good once-over. They’d stopped at home after leaving the abandoned tract house, and she was now wearing a navy Japanese kimono dress that wrapped tightly across her chest and flared into an A-line skirt trimmed in red. Her bag and hoop earrings, both bamboo, matched the wedges on her feet, and the crimson flower behind her ear contrasted boldly with her onyx hair, currently tucked into a black snood pinned behind her bumper bangs.
She’s like living, breathing origami, Grif thought, studying her from toe to head. She took a new delicate shape every day.
“Well?” Kit said, when his gaze finally reached her eyes.